Alternate timelines collide.
Only one will steal the jewels.
Only one will find a happy ending.
a moment in time
In this one moment, I decide killing her is my only way out, the only way to find freedom. For any life, even wearing uniformed clothes and living in a cell, will be better.
I stand, freezing, the wind whipping about me, tearing through my state-issued nightgown. The night sky bears down, offering no mercy, surrounding me, suffocating me. The moon offers little light and zero warmth.
A metal shard lies on the ground, forgotten.
Murderous thoughts kindle from coals to a giant flame, burning through me.
In this one moment, I know my freedom will never come. For her, there will always be one more job, one more piece of art she must add to her collection. She must have a place-a room in her grand house, or a hired storage unit, possibly even an abandoned warehouse-where she stores her treasures, their worth immeasurable.
I've never seen this place, yet I know it exists.
A place where all my sins are kept, the muted colors of my crimes hidden under drop clothes; the gleaming glint of my daring missions collecting dust, slowly losing their shine. Somewhere, this place exists, if not in the hidden corners of my heart.
Yet, not for one second, did she ever forget that I am her greatest conquest, her most prized possession, one to be nurtured, taught, and cherished. At one point she did those things and more until it wasn't enough. Her evolution from kind and caring to controlling and cruel happened slowly, one decision after another. My education dwindled to nothing, humanity seeping from my life like a dripping faucet, drop by drop.
Plink.
Plink.
Plink.
Soon nothing will be left. Maybe nothing is left now. Maybe I'm just a shell of a human, arteries and veins crisscrossing my body, blood pumping through my heart, but inside, there is nothing.
Nothing left.
Not a shred of a person.
Shaking, I bend over and grasp the shard between my fingers.
In this one moment, I have to act on that which still makes me human, or soon I will be nothing, a vapor, a mere thought, a blink of time. I let out the demons that live in my soul. All it takes is the flicker of doubt, the dangerous idea that I can't live this way anymore. That anything-even prison-will be better than a life shackled to her whims and fancies. These unnamed demons burst through screaming and yelling, their eyes flashing red; they lust for blood and death; they take control of me. In a reversal of power, they are now in control. They stomp their feet and trample over my soul-the part that is everything kind and good. They whip their tails, like an angry cat, letting the sharp points tear and shred any lingering conviction on my part.
And I let them.
I close my eyes, welcoming the familiar dizziness, and leave this place. The art still hangs on the walls in the museum a few streets over as I head back to the home for troubled teens where she keeps me locked away, like I'm crazy or something.
I tear the threads of time and space and burst into the room, my hand lifted, my skin burning against the ice-cold metal. I rush forward, my cry shattering the stillness. She turns, the shock and surprise flitting across her features. I stare into the blackest pits of her soul and find fear. I relish it. She underestimated me. I spent so much of my life a cowering, shuddering, shivering minion she never once thought I would rebel.
That I would say no.
That I would strike back.
With a surge of hatred for every cruel word she's spoken, for every vile deed I've done for her, I plunge the rusted metal shard into her breast.
AFTER
the gooey soft center
I stare at the blood, the river streaming from her chest, soaking into her clothes, and pooling on the floor. I can't tear my eyes away from hers. They glitter, at first, the pain possibly sparking regret, then slowly the sparkle fades, the stare turns vacant.
Her ragged breath comes in sharp, staccato bursts, then stumbles, wheezing out like an old furnace about to die. Her fingers curl, like she's trying to grasp onto something, anything that will keep her alive. Maybe she's trying to reach me, to whisper her words of regret, that she's sorry. Or maybe, in her last moments, she's regretting the day she stole me from my dad, from a life of love and happiness; or worse, she's imagining her fingers curled around my throat, tightening every few seconds.
I gasp and my fingers flutter to my neck, leaving behind the warm, wet stain of blood.
Slowly, her fingers relax, uncurl, then lay limp.
Memories flood. I remember falling off my bike, skidding out, and the ground rushing up to meet me. It happened so fast. One moment, I was experiencing the freedom of the wind on my face, riding along-humming a happy tune-when a patch of sand played with my wheel. I lost control and landed in a heap, skimming across the street, a skipping stone across a still pond.
I remember skinned knees, blood dripping down my leg, and the stinging pain. Oh, how it hurt.
I remember leaving the mangled heap of metal and trudging home, afraid I'd be in trouble, but not so afraid that I didn't want someone to soothe my pain, tell me everything would be all right. Don't we all want that? Even when we're older?
My grandmother opened the front door as if she knew trouble and pain came my way; she waited there with comforting coos and soft words; she waited with a warm, wet cloth and Band-aids; she waited with cookies and a hug. Soft, gooey cookies that melt in your mouth and leave behind a chocolate smear.
Sitting in the kitchen, blood washed away, bandage on, nibbling on cookies, I couldn't fight off the rising thoughts. There's something about pain and blood and the lingering effects of being cared for that bring on memories. Maybe not full-fledged moments, in which every exact detail can be recalled, but more like snapshots: a warm smile, the soft vibrato of a voice, the lines on a hand, whispered words that I'd be taken care of forever.
"I forget." That's how I started the conversation, my voice trembling and weak, as if somehow I knew I shouldn't ask.
"Yes, Annabelle." She drew herself up, ready to bond, to answer my questions. She smiled, warm and motherly. "What is it?"
"What happened to my dad?"
The silence was deafening, the roar of one of those military planes that fly low over the neighborhood, the kind that rattles the teacups, and rumbles the floorboards. The cozy atmosphere was sapped from the room. In its place crept a cool chill, a restless anger, an annoyance, a fury.
The tiny hairs on my arms and legs rose. It had been a mistake to mention my dad. Just the thought of him niggled at my grandmother like the scratch of a thorn from a rose bush. She hated him. I never knew why, and after that experience, I could never ask.
With brisk, bold movements, she yanked the plate of cookies away and dumped the glass of milk down the sink. She paused there, her body trembling, her back turned as if she couldn't stand to look at me. Maybe I reminded her of him. Like a statue, she stayed that way. I waited for the reprimand, the disappointment, but I don't think she could say anything. After a few minutes, I slunk away. Then, in the dark of night, the moon not even peeking out from behind the clouds-it too, scared of her wrath-I remembered more.
I remembered my dad. His mop of gray curly hair. His promises.
I remembered the afternoon I was taken, the man who sidled up next to me on my walk home from school, acting like my friend.
I remembered the first time I met my grandmother and how she introduced herself.
I never saw my dad again. Like with a snap of her fingers, he was cleaned up like spilled milk, wiped away, all traces gone. And all traces of me-gone.
She didn't think I remembered, that I was too young, but some things a girl can't forget. A girl doesn't forget her daddy. From that point on, I kept those thoughts to myself. Ever since, I've been waiting, hoping he'll return and rescue me. Instead of running away, I choose to believe he
'll find me.
It was that moment, looking back, that life with my grandmother changed. I didn't recognize it, but something happened inside her. Something snapped. She branched from reality, let her own demons rear their ugly heads. I was only ten years old, two years later, when she sent me back through time to steal my first piece of art. I guess the skill runs through the family. She said we were heroes in the art world, saviors of modern culture. I would step into a crime before or after it happened and swipe the art and disappear, leaving behind shocked thieves.
As I grew older, she became less of my grandmother, and more like my boss. My payment was a place to live and food to eat and the praise and encouragement from the only parental figure I had. I craved the kind words, the love, the affection.
I rarely got it.
Every piece of culture I brought back to her, every time I returned, I left behind a piece of my soul, a piece of my humanity. Slowly, something inside me, the soft, vulnerable, little-girl part withered away, grew cold and distant. I became more like her, cunning and manipulative and greedy. Each year, memories of my father faded, my hope I'd see him again dwindling. She became my ever-present reality. As far as I knew, my life was normal.
It's these thoughts, my life on rewind, that flash through my mind as the door bursts open, and a flood of green scrubs rush into the room. I hear the gasps and screams and whimpers. I see the shock and horror and utter disbelief. I sense the control that steals over the panic as they do their jobs,