Mummy's Little Angel: Winner of The World's Best Story 2015

Chapter One: The Diary

Joanne

I have no idea what prompted me to start this diary. Why today, the 12th March 2034? Could it be that something external encouraged me to write? After all, I was cleaning the study earlier and decided to organize all my old paperbacks. I cleared out dozens of worn books, others that were simply dusty, some that were complete trash, and some that used to make me smile . . . back then, that is. Back before everything happened. Back before the murders.

Subconsciously I must have scanned most of them before I gathered the books and sorted them into clearly labelled cardboard boxes. Some were earmarked for charity shops, others for eBay, then the remaining few were placed into an anonymous box; a container that I couldn't work out what to do with but will someday. I must have noticed Bridget Jones's Diary there. Or maybe I didn't. I have missed so many obvious indicators and warning signs over the years; another one to add to the list doesn't surprise me in the least.

I put aside the very first baby book Jeff and I purchased. Inside it, I study the scan we had of our babies. A mass of cells, protected within the warm confines of my womb, which looks so innocent. One egg and one tiny sperm created my babies, our identical twins. So how was one born a psychopath?

I toss the book into the 'junk' pile and cry bitter tears. My once pretty brown eyes are swollen and red. They glare at my hideous reflection as I study myself in the compact mirror Jeff bought me for our first wedding anniversary. I'm tempted to slam it shut, hide what I see, and ignore the evidence that my hair is thin and going gray, that I now have wrinkles, that I'm lonely and, most of all, that one of my eighteen year old daughters is a serial killer.

I close my eyes and shake my head in an attempt to eliminate the horrors of that day. The excruciating pain; the blood-curdling screams; the death and total destruction of a precious life; the look on her face as she dropped the gun afterwards; her sister's screams; my screams . . . then darkness.

Just as Jeff's life faded away in moments, I know that these memories will too. I close the mirror, wipe my eyes, and take another pill. My mind becomes foggy and the nightmares disappear. Once again, I'm in denial. I like it this way. I always have.

So here I am, sitting in a dimly lit room, wearing a snug, fluffy pair of pyjamas, typing. I have a cold cup of tea resting on the beautiful antique desk that belonged to Jeff, along with a half-eaten sandwich. I can't bring myself to finish it. I have no appetite these days.

It's eerily quiet and I'm uncomfortable with the silence. All I can hear is the tapping of the keyboard and, if I stop and listen carefully, I can hear my breathing. It's shallow, yet my heart is racing. I'm sure there is a simple explanation for this, although, like so much else, I'm not an expert on physiological matters either. My husband used to train his heart to slow down when he tried to sleep. He would take long, deep breaths, and sometimes I would panic as his breathing had slowed so much that I feared he had passed away. I wish I could do that—pass away, that is. I'm so lonely now. Now that my girls have gone, life isn't worth living anymore. I have nobody other than my brother, Robert. I have nothing, yet I am still here typing this ridiculous diary that nobody will ever read.

My attention is wandering again . . . sorry. When I was tiny, my granny used to describe me as having a butterfly mind. I didn't understand what she meant at all, and I would simply imagine a butterfly, drenched in vibrant colors, fluttering through my head. I can vaguely understand now what she meant: thought processes washing through my mind, jumping from one thought to another like a butterfly flicks between flowers, gathering the sweet nectar. Here I go again! My thoughts are going off on a tangent and I need to begin my diary. As Mum used to say, I have so much to do and so little time.

How I miss her.

How I miss my girls.

And how I miss Jeff.

Why did you kill your daddy? Why did you hate him so much?

Maggie

They say that redheads have bad tempers.

Some of them do.

Annie

My shrink told me to start writing this journal months ago. I don't really want to, but I'm so very bored. There's nothing to do here; there's just the usual noise that comes with everyday life, the monotony of routine that involves the basics for survival. I eat, I drink, I breathe, I try to sleep, and I get on with my life as best as I can; that's a brief analysis of my existence.

The tap in my tiny room is dripping again. It irritates me enough to force me away from typing and I twist it with all of my strength. It stops and, for just a brief moment, I forget where I am. Who I am.

I retrieve one of my few personal possessions from beneath my thin, smelly pillow. I grip it firmly, wishing I could find something sharp enough to make this hairbrush a lethal weapon, a sharp tool that would allow me to end my torturous life. Instead I brush my hair; it's long and needs conditioning and a trim. That won't happen here. Nor will my request for a mirror. I miss my reflection, my bright green eyes, cute freckles, full lips and stunning smile. How I miss the old me—the beautiful Annie Stokes. Mummy's little angel.

The shrill of the alarm screaming across the corridor is a brutal reminder of where I am. I stand to attention, awaiting the jangling of the keys, the opening of my door. I smile as she leads me towards 'freedom' for the next hour. She doesn't reciprocate. Nor does he. Instead he nods in my direction, points to an old wooden chair, and opens my enormous file—the file that documents my life.

My life, as it is at present, allows me time to reflect on the past. I have hours to spare, and I often think deeply, but somehow, when I meet him for my evaluations, I don't want to talk. If I'm honest, I hardly listen to a word he is saying. My shrink is boring—not intentionally, but all he ever does is talk about them. I want to talk about me, but he feels I should discuss the others, in order to identify why things happened in the past. I'm not the psychologist, he is. Yet,again and again, like a long-playing record, he asks the same questions repetitively—the same old song with the same old lyrics.

When he finally asks me about my feelings, I can't be bothered.I just stare at him blankly, pretending to be some indignant and defiant woman who doesn't give a damn about anyone or anything. I am filled with apathy and clam up, just like Mum does. I don't like him at all. "Trust him as far as you can spit," my mum would say.

And that's how it will remain. I trust nobody, and never will.