Chapter Thirty-Nine The Performer
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The Performer
My fist was becoming numb from banging on the front door.
My hair stuck to my face, and so did my clothes.
It wasn’t raining in any considerable volume, but I was kept waiting so long, it had completely soaked me without the protection of a coat.
There was a light somewhere from deep within the heart of the home, so someone was present.
Though, the service staff wouldn’t keep only one light on, so they may have retired already.
I looked down at the intricate handle of the door. My aching hand wrapped around it, squeezing before a slow push.
It opened.
What had once been a richly lit abode of gold and marble was now a dark and tumultuous landscape of dull brass and plain rock. Without an audience, there was no need to posture, not even for the house.
Past the grand entry, a light flickered from beyond an archway.
The ballroom was larger than life or, at least, larger than any single family needed. It seemed bigger when empty. The tall windows allowed you to see almost as many stars as if you were standing outside. The night cover painted everything in an illusion of blue and purple shades.
One single source of light, the fireplace at the other end, and a silhouette feeding it little by little, pausing in between paper tossings.
The tapping of the raindrops on the grand windows nearly blended in harmony with the snapping and crackling of paper in the fire. Two opposites that seemed to have an understanding.
“Bold of you to come.” My mother’s voice was grave.
I approached slowly, each click of my heels more awkward and unsure than the last. My skirt was soaked, releasing moisture drop by drop to mark my trail.
My mother held up a photograph. The light of the flames flickered across her face, highlighting every crease at the corners of her eyes, the hollows beneath her cheekbones, and the tired skin of her neck.
She smiled briefly, like a glimmer of a memory presented itself to her through the photograph, before tossing it directly into the fire.
Beside her was a box full of papers and photographs. The one from my home.
“I heard you were going to disappear,” she said. “I thought I would give you a head start.”
“I’m not disappearing.”
“Then you would be unwise.” She tossed another paper into the fire, sparks puffing up into the chimney.
“You can’t erase me.”
“I should have. A long time ago.” She sighed. “This is what I get. No good deed goes unpunished, dearest Petre.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t.” She laughed, looking over at me in disbelief. “You know, I thought I did you a favor putting you in the spotlight. All you ever wanted was attention.”
“You didn’t have to put that in the papers.” My lip trembled. “I don’t even remember those photographs—”
“You loved to pose for them,” she interrupted. “The publicity is more than you deserve. Pity. I told your father it was a waste of resources.”
“What do you mean?” I closed the space between us.
She plucked another photo, her eyes flicking over it before turning it toward me. “Pretty thing, wasn’t she?”
I took the photo, my hand shaking.
The photo was of a blond maid, her face smudged, smock dirty, yet the linens she was hanging were clean.
“She really was a dear,” my mother said wistfully, plucking the photo back and tossed it into the fire, along with a couple more crumpled papers. “She was a good maid, almost as talented at pretending to be a friend. She was even better at opening her legs.”
I winced at her words. They felt personal, like I’d walked in at a bad time.
“I tried to keep you as my own, I really did, but there was just too much of her fire left over.”
“Is that why you neglected me?” I hissed, grabbing her wrist before she could toss another photo into the fire.
“You tortured me. And now you tell me about a mother I’ve never known?
I don’t know how else I should react to the fact you stole my childhood, my real family, my middle years, and you planned to take advantage of the rest too, didn’t you? ”
“I went above and beyond for you, you sickly harlot!” she shouted, spit flying as she snapped her wrist from my grip.
“You’ve cursed me with such an affliction, an unholy appetite I can’t control.” I took a deep, steady breath. “You made me sleep outside with the dogs!”
“You were constantly sick. I couldn’t let you sleep next to my children,” she scoffed. “One day, you will understand. You can’t let the cuckoo lay her brood with another. I would have thrown you out sooner if she hadn’t survived as long as she did.”
I shook my head, the tears in my eyes mixed with the rainwater dripping down my face. “I ate with the dogs too.”
“How spoiled. You’re lucky I fed you at all. It was good meat—”
“Was it?” I whispered. “Because I have a sneaking suspicion that I would not suffer from my affliction if you’d just helped me—”
“We did. We did help you. And how do you repay us? You should have listened and gone with Vincent. I suppose it is ironic to say he would have taken your secret to the grave.” She laughed.
“What a cruel thing to do to a child,” I scoffed, “all because you couldn’t bear that Father would stick it into anything but you?”
“You’re an ungrateful bastard child!”
“Is that what I did to deserve this curse? Punished for the sins of my father?”
“You deserve worse!” she said. “The curse of the flesh is to be consumed. Your mother was a slave to it, so it was only fitting you suffer the same.”
I stared at her for a while, configuring the odd words in my mind. “What did you do to her?”
She smiled, her hands resting in her lap. A pitiful expression. “Darling, I know Vincent has been dead for a moment, but not that long. Did you already forget why he was on our books?”
“The donations to his reelection?”
“Yes, the campaign.” She spoke pointedly, like she was leading a lecture. “Do you remember what his job was?”
“Coroner. He doesn’t file the paperwork,” I said slowly. “Then passes the evidence to me.”
My mother nodded, raising her brows knowingly.
“You said no meat is worth the waste,” I whispered, eyes burning with tears.
“I don’t mean to avoid your question, dear.” She sighed, standing from the chair and brushing off her skirts. Just before she passed, she leaned over, her hand on my shoulder. “Your mother wasn’t a waste of flesh, after all.”