Insomniac Nightmares

(Missed the start? It’s right here!)

Mother was gone again. She did that sometimes. Tossed a box of jerky, a gallon jug of water, and a bible with certain passages bookmarked and covered in highlighter and with notes written in the margins.

She was to fast, eat only what was necessary, drink as little as possible, and brand those passages into her brain. Usually, they dealt with harlots and hellfire; Mother wasn’t a big believer in the New Testament. Leviticus was a favorite chapter, often used as a rationale for a beating or other punishment.

Rachel enjoyed those times. Not because of the studying, and certainly not for the extreme punishments that would be levied at her when Mother inevitably returned, but because they gave her a period of peace. She would ration out the jerky and water, not because Mother wanted her to, but because she was smart enough to know that she’d starve or dehydrate herself into a coma. The irony of dying of thirst when she was less than a quarter mile from the ocean and in the middle of a pine rainforest wasn’t lost on her.

She would ignore the Bible; she knew well enough what was in there and what lessons Mother wanted her to learn. Instead, she would draw, pulling up the floorboards in the corner where she’d managed to hide a few broken pencils and a battered art pad. They were relics of Celia’s, brought up to the window by a pulley system she’d rigged when she was younger. Before her sister started buying into Mother’s hysterics and shunned all contact with her.

The art pad’s first handful of pages were done with child’s crayon drawings, bright yellow suns and squiggly shapes that could only be described as people with a mother’s kindness and a toddler’s imagination. Rachel sometimes found herself wanting to cry when looking at them, because there were only two such people in the drawings; she was absent in all of them. Other times she was less touched by it. She was an outsider here and knew it.

Her own drawings were small, economical. Frequently four or five on a page, on both sides. She knew she had to make the artbook last. Even so, she was nearing the end. She wasn’t sure what she’d do when she hit that final page. Probably enter a final descent into madness. She’d asked Bertie to smuggle her in a fresh pad, but Bertie said it was something she couldn’t do. At least, not yet.

Her drawings had started simple, aping her sister’s, but with a natural talent the younger girl lacked. After a time, once she realized Mother was not going to give her the love she craved, they turned inward, self-portraits and fantastic creatures. Once Bertie had come, they were frequently sketches of the older girl, though some pages featured more disturbing imagery; Mother with her eyes gouged out, Celia drowning in the ocean, the birch rod leaning against a tree, blood dripping from the end, with a lifeless lump beside it.

Rachel knew drawings like that were exactly what Mother thought was inside her all the time, were the reason for the beatings and her captivity, but sometimes they bubbled up anyway, pouring out of her in a frenzied trance that left her panting and exhausted when they were finished.

Inevitably Mother would return, the sketch pad would go back under the floorboards, and Rachel would forget about it for a little while. It wasn’t safe when Mother was home, as she might pick any moment to come thundering up the stairs. Being caught with it would lead to punishments Rachel wasn’t able to imagine, the worst of which being the loss of the pad and pencils.

Today was different, though. Normally, she was alone when she drew. But today, Bertie was watching. She was hunkered down, staring as though hypnotized as Rachel’s fingers spilled out a series of lines and streaks that were resolving themselves into an image of Rachel standing above her Mother, the switch in one hand and the bible in the other; it was taking up the full page, one of the rare times she had done so. Though she didn’t know it, Rachel was smiling, her tongue tucked into the corner of her mouth.

Bertie spoke as Rachel put the final stroke.

“Maybe instead of drawing it,” she said, before pausing.

Rachel glanced up at her friend, raising her brows. When there seemed to be nothing more, she punched one fist into her thigh.

“What?” she demanded.

Bertie smiled, tapping her chin with one lacquered nail.

“Well. Maybe you should just do it, instead.”

The idea hung in the air for a full minute as Rachel considered the idea, both shock and simmering rage fighting for command of her body.

“Maybe I should,” she whispered after that moment. “Maybe I should.”

(The story continues here!)

(Missed Part 1? Find it here!)

Mother raised her left arm high, the birch switch quivering at the end and almost reaching to the ceiling. Rachel knew the moment where control would be lost was coming; when Mother was willing to swing from there, she had no intention of holding back. That meant that the ointments and splints would come next, and those were almost as bad as the beatings themselves.

Mother was not gentle in administering first aid. Rachel had often thought that Mother was somehow broken, incapable of gentleness; even in so thinking, though, she frequently corrected herself. Mother was perfectly capable of it… at least, around others.

When she was alone with her eldest daughter, however, all bets were off.

A single tear tracked down her rapidly swelling cheek, the cool saltiness of it burrowing into a fresh cut with a sting that was almost sweet; compared to her backside and her arms, the sting of the salt in a fresh cut was practically pleasant, a brief reprieve, something else to focus on.

At sight of that tear, Mother roared and started her swing. Rachel brought her arm – careful to use the left, as the right had already been thoroughly assaulted today – in front of her face, knowing it would earn her worse and not caring, only hoping today wasn’t the day she lost an eye.

Something louder than Mother’s hollering, something that seemed almost in answer to Rachel’s half-hearted prayer of a moment before, came from outside. A snarling sound, something snapping, then a high shriek. Celia, screaming.

Mother’s arm froze halfway down, her head jerking towards the window and thrusting at the air like an angry chicken’s. Her eyes narrowed and she glared down at her daughter for a moment, letting her tongue slick across her lips like a snake’s.

“I’ll finish with you later, whorelet.”

She spun on her heel, slamming the stout wooden door as hard as she could. Rachel knew better than to dive for it, try to stop her. Mother was fearsomely strong when she got like this, and the door was thick and heavy; she’d almost lost a finger trying that stunt before. A moment later she heard the hollow and somehow deadly thud of the bolt being shut, and the lighter click of the switch being laid beside the door.

Celia had stopped screaming, but Rachel knew that it wouldn’t stop Mother’s progress to go and check on her youngest. She watched her very carefully, after all. Wouldn’t want her to get the devil in her like Rachel had. Mother’s tread thumped down the stairwell, and only when the door at the base of the lighthouse gave it’s familiar shriek did Rachel remember to breathe.

She’d prayed, and something had answered. It wasn’t the first time. But it may have been the first time the thought that followed it had occurred to her:

Just what had she been praying to?

(Want more? The story continues here!)