Chapter 49 #2
This is the game I play. Burn The Witch without raising a single plume of smoke. Every word is technically defensible. Every sentence properly cited.
I’m three pages in when I notice she’s stopped listening.
She’s staring at the door…waiting for a knock that isn’t coming.
Her guest isn’t coming.
The wine bottle is nearly empty.
And Evelyn’s composure is cracking.
I finish my paper with a flourish. “In conclusion, true gratitude cannot be manufactured through external pressure. It must arise organically from conditions of safety, security, and genuine care. Conditions which, regrettably, some individuals may never experience.”
Silence.
Evelyn’s eyes slowly drift back to me. Her top lip quivers.
Then she smiles.
I’ve never seen a more awful smile. Of course she was listening. She’s always listening. She’s always listening. Billy so desperately wants to believe in a God?
There’s one sitting right in front of me.
All knowing, all seeing, all powerful.
Evelyn drains her wine and empties the last inch of the bottle into her glass.
“Sybil,” she says flatly.
My sister’s hands are trembling as she unfolds her paper. She glances at me, defiance gleaming in her eyes.
No, Billy. I’m the one who burns The Witch…not you.
But it’s too late.
“A Time for Thanksgiving,” Sybil begins, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.
Evelyn’s head snaps toward her.
“I am grateful for the moon,” Sybil reads, “because it signals that the day is over. I am grateful for every night’s sleep because it is the only escape I have. I am grateful for hunger, because it reminds me I am still alive, even when I wish I was dead.”
“Sybil—” Evelyn rasps.
But my sister keeps reading.
“I am grateful for my thirteenth birthday, because it means I was strong enough to survive into my teens. I am grateful for books, because they show me that happiness still exists somewhere in the world.”
“That’s enough.”
“I am grateful for my brother, because he is the only person who has ever—”
“I said, enough!”
Evelyn slams her glass down so hard it shatters. Wine and blood splatter on the white tablecloth, but our mother doesn’t seem to notice.
“You want to know what I’m grateful for?” She’s on her feet now, swaying slightly, her voice rising to a shriek. “Nothing! I have two ungrateful, hateful children who have ruined my life! After everything I’ve sacrificed? My career, my freedom, my happiness! This is the thanks I get?”
She sweeps her arm across the table, sending dishes crashing to the floor.
“I could have been someone!” she shrieks. “I could have had a life! But instead, I’m trapped here in this house with a pair of parasites!”
Sybil is crying now, silent tears streaming down her face, but she doesn’t back down.
“I haven’t finished,” she says quietly.
Evelyn freezes. “What did you say?”
“I’m not finished.” Sybil’s murmur somehow fills the room.
For a moment, I think Evelyn is going to kill her right there.
I grab a knife from the table and hold it at my side where our mother can’t see.
“Don’t you dare,” Evelyn hisses.
Sybil looks down at her paper. Her hands are shaking so badly the words must be swimming.
“I am grateful,” she whimpers through a fresh set of tears, “that I b-believe in God. Because God promises us that all suffering will end. And G-God promises that there is something better waiting for those who endure it.”
She looks up, meeting Evelyn’s eyes.
I’ve never had more respect for my sister than at this moment. The courage it must take her to stare down our evil matriarch is awe-inspiring.
“But most of all, I’m grateful—“ her throat moves like she’s fighting back a sob “—that this life is temporary.”
The Witch cackles.
“You think someone cares about you?” She grabs the turkey in her hands, her polished fingernails sinking obscenely into the meat as she carries it over to the sink. “No one cares.”
The garbage disposal roars to life.
“No!” Sybil lunges forward, but Evelyn blocks her, cramming the turkey down into the drain. Meat and stuffing spray everywhere.
Sybil is hyperventilating, her body swaying as she staggers backward—low blood pressure, malnutrition, shock.
“Here.” I shove my glass of milk toward her. I’d only had half the glass, because I always leave some behind for Billy. “Drink this.”
Sybil takes it, flashing me a grateful look.
Evelyn knocks it out of her hand before she can drink a drop.
“Greedy pigs, the both of you,” she spits as the glass shatters on the floor, spilling milk everywhere. “Always wanting more and more and more! You think you deserve more?”
Hatred contorts my sister’s face.
“We deserve everything!” Billy yells. “We deserve to go outside and have friends and speak to people and—and—” She spins around, searching frantically until her scowling eyes spot the bowl of mashed potatoes.
“And we deserve food, you f-fucking bitch!”
She scoops a handful of mashed potatoes right out of the bowl and shoves it into her mouth.
Evelyn snatches the bowl out of Billy’s hands. I dart forward, grabbing Evelyn’s arm, sure she’s going to slam that bowl into my sister’s head or worse.
But Evelyn’s strong, and we are both so very, very weak.
She shoulders me so hard I sprawl on the floor.
What follows is a dance of destruction.
Sybil reaches for the stuffing—Evelyn smashes the dish on the floor.
Sybil grabs the cranberry sauce and tips it over her mouth—Evelyn snatches the porcelain gravy boat out of her hands and hurls it against the wall.
They circle the table like fighters in a ring, my sister laughing, her face smeared with food and her eyes bright with something I fear is far removed from sanity.
“Billy, stop!” I scramble to my feet and try to grab her arm, but she twists away.
“I can’t, Bash!” She’s giggling, stuffing a roll into her mouth even as Evelyn destroys the rest. Crumbs spray out between her lips. “I can’t!”
She turns those big green eyes on me, lashes studded with tears, a glob of cranberry sauce sliding down her cheek.
“I can’t stop,” she mumbles through a mouthful of bread as her giggling turns to sobs. “I don’t have a choice.”
She lunges for the table.
The fork is in her hand before I realize what’s happening.
The first jab catches her forearm. Blood wells up instantly in the neat row of puncture wounds.
“Billy, no!”
But she does it again, hitting her thigh this time. Then she drags the tines down her cheek, gouging four parallel lines into her face.
Evelyn has stopped destroying food.
She’s just standing there, watching, her expression one of morbid fascination. Like this truly was an experiment all along.
“Call 911, you fucking hag!” I scream, tackling my sister to the ground, wrestling the fork away from her. “Get an ambulance!”
Evelyn doesn’t move.
Billy’s sobs transform back into giggles. The fork falls out of her fingers, then she’s grabbing fistfuls of mashed potatoes off the floor. I’m so shocked, I don’t think to stop her…until I see the blood.
It mixes with the mashed potatoes slathered over her lips, turning the mess pink, then red. Only when I hear the crunch of glass between her teeth does my flailing mind realize what’s happened.
Billy doesn’t notice…or doesn’t care.
She keeps chewing, tears streaming as she stares desperately up at me.
…don’t have a choice…I don’t have a choice…
“Please,” I beg, looking up at Evelyn. “Please help her.”
But I should have known better than to seek sympathy from the demon who birthed us.
Evelyn snatches the broom from behind the kitchen door, teeth bared as she advances on us. “Five! Four!—”
I jump to my feet, dragging Billy up behind me.
“—Three! Two!—”
Evelyn follows us up the stairs. I haul Billy inside our room and slam the door in The Witch’s face, throwing my entire weight against it in case she tries to follow us in.
In the beat of silence between my haggard breaths, I hear the key turn in the lock.
Then Evelyn’s voice.
“I hope this experience was as illuminating for you two as it was for me.”