Author: Zoe Belew
Genevieve Belle Mary Curry could recall so little of that night all those years ago, or so the people believe. They try to force the words from her being. Everyone from the town preacher to the resident hypnotist, with his odd charms and unnerving mannerisms, have tried all they know to make her speak of the past events. Yet, she refuses. Instead, she sits in a creaking and wilting rocking chair before the largest window on the top floor of the infamous Watkins and Abernathy Psyche Ward. The building itself is not a tall structure. Standing with a measly five levels and locked to the earth by thick concrete, the warehouse-like shelter rests atop the highest hill overlooking the tiny city of Nothing and Nowhere, Kansas.
Genevieve, or Belle as she prefers, enjoys her time spent gazing over the quiet town. As a child, her favorite insects were ants; she liked their tenacity and ingenuity. She compares the townspeople to those spastic little creatures with the way they weave and swerve and crawl speedily through the streets, disappearing and reappearing. One might say that love is the only reason she humors the poor therapist and curious visitor who come lurking around her windowed haven throughout the year. In a blurred mass of wasted days over five years, Belle has met many from the town below the hill and others from towns miles away. She never speaks – surely they know this – but they come anyway. Regardless, she sits and stares beyond the spider web-covered glass as they spout their nonsense and go through their incessant questioning.
They think her mute or she simply does not remember Christmas Eve from five years ago. Humorful, she remembers every detail.
#
Sarah Curry was a loving mother of three and happily married to William Curry, the only lawyer to grace Agenda, Kansas, since his father before him. With a population of barely 75, the miniscule town sees the Curry family as utterly perfect. William handles all disputes among the residents, and Sarah is Teacher of the Year at Agenda elementary, five years running. Their daughters are no less dignified. Belle is the oldest at the hormonal age of sixteen; Gwen Bailey May is the unlucky thirteen; and Gem Bae Mayabelle is a curious six. Each girl favors their mother in appearance, but their personalities are entirely their father’s. They stand a mere four foot eight by the age of nine and never an inch taller. Their pale faces are curtained by unruly mahogany locks and vibrant brunette lashes wrap around peridotite irises. Together, they are calm, studious, and organized, just like their father, and unlike Sarah, their greatest enemy is anything involving the kitchen. However, there is one daughter more curious than the others.
Belle avoided the granite infested area of their two-story home for a proper twelve years before being forced to participate after Gwen’s arrival. Luckily, she was never given anything too difficult, but her brief experience with the polished, freshly sharpened knives and the warmth of the preheating oven were enough to catch her eye. To Sarah’s surprise, her oldest went through a metamorphosis around the birth of her second child and retained that change through to the final bundle of joy. In the years that followed, Belle shadowed her mother every evening, learning recipe after recipe and utilizing many of the supplies hidden away in the aged cabinets. It wasn’t until Gem’s sixth birthday came and went around the holiday season that Belle wanted to help with her mother’s biggest meal of the year.
Christmas time in Agenda is a grand event. Strings of lights spiral up and down fence posts, and glistening trees glow from beyond the main windows in every home and every business. Mother Nature grants the many wishes for snow to fall, and the pot holed streets and winter frozen gardens disappear beneath a thick blanket of pure white crystals. Fires roar and families huddle around the warmth as old carols flow from static filled speakers. For the Curry family, the holidays are a time of peace and joy. The home is lively as all members are present, and there is a pile of freshly wrapped gifts stacked beneath the saddened fir shoved into a distant living room corner. William rests in his comfy recliner, sleepily oblivious to the world around him, and his two youngest children sit reading in the flares of the twinkling bulbs.
From the kitchen, wonderfully delicious scents are swirling through the air and filling each nook and cranny of the home. Sarah buzzes around swiftly, barely pausing to chop, stir, mix, or breathe. Belle watches her mother from the other side of the speckled island, and she mindlessly kneads the sugar cookie dough over a thick bed of flour. Just as Belle reaches for the wooden pin, her mother pauses near the hot stove to rake some fresh carrots into the stewing pot. She listens to the blade scrape across the cutting board with interest, and her gaze follows the careful swing of the metal. The spell breaks as the bubbling water spills over the pot and fizzes against the reddened ring below. Briefly, frighteningly, Belle wonders how to describe the metal’s forged color. She’s thought this way before, when cooking alone, but the hue has never been so sinfully distracting or exquisitely bright. Again, terrifyingly, she wonders how such a thing would feel beneath her silken palm. Would it burn? Would she really feel it after so long? Would…
“You better roll the dough, Darling,” Sarah berates, glancing over her shoulder at her eldest. “We have to set cookies out tonight.”
“With milk,” Belle adds quietly as she carefully flours the rolling pin.
“We’re making them for Santa!” Gem cries joyously as she rushes around the island, narrowly avoiding ramming her forehead into a granite corner. “Santa’s coming tonight, Mommy! Santa’s coming, Sissy! Can you believe it?”
Sarah’s cheeks lift with a gentle smile at her child’s exuberance. Rarely does she see such glorious emotion from her quiet one. “He is, Honey, and I’m sure you will get everything you asked for.”
The little girl’s eyes sparkle and widen as she gasps, hopping over to hug her mother’s leg. “Do you really think so?”
Sarah laughs delightedly and brushes the unruly strands out of her daughter’s eyes. “Mhm. You’ve been good this year, as always. We just have to make sure to get these cookies done, or Santa may take away a present.”
Belle rolls her eyes and shakes her head at her mother’s words. What a wonder it is they’ve ever gotten presents before. This wouldn’t be the first year the sweets were neglected in relation to a jolly, rosy cheeked man sliding down chimneys like some estranged burglar. Often, the dough goes forgotten and must be trashed after spoiling on the kitchen counter overnight. Still, they tempt success year after year. But Sarah’s words, unfortunately for Belle, have hit home, and the young sister’s fingers are soon digging into the disgruntled daughter’s thigh.
“You’ve got to make those cookies, Sissy! If you don’t, Santa won’t give me all my presents!” Gem orders in her high pitched voice.
Belle sighs heavily, completing a perfect circle of the sticky substance. She grabs a pile of metal cutters assorted of reindeer, trees, and stars. “I will finish these for Santa. You have my word. Now, go. I’m working, and you need to start getting ready for bed. The earlier you go to sleep, the sooner Santa will arrive.”
Sarah chuckles at the interaction and kisses her youngest on the head before softly pushing her towards the hallway. “Go on. I’ll be up soon to tuck you in. Tell Gwen to go, too.”
Little Gem rushes away with thudding footfalls, forcefully pulling the unwilling middle sister up the stairs and to their room. Belle slowly moves the freshly cut dough to a metal tray as Sarah begins cleaning up the messy counters.
“Thank you for humoring her, Darling,” she says, clawing at a particularly tough stain.
Belle shrugs away the appreciation, carefully storing the tray in the preheated oven. Once more, she sinks into the heat, just for a second, before slamming the loose door shut and careening away from the brimstone. You foolish Belle, she reprimands, stop getting distracted. Luckily, her mother remains oblivious to her inner turmoil, and Belle wonders if she should be worried, say something about her latest obsession. Her lips part as the final pan is stuffed into the overflowing fridge.
“There!” Sarah exclaims. “Everything is ready for tomorrow.” She turns to the stunned and glaze eyed Belle, barely registering her daughter’s slightly fearful expression. “I’m trusting you with the oven. I’m sure you’re going to sleep in the living room, as is tradition, so please do not forget to check the cookies every once in a while.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the girl breathes, biting her tongue at the onslaught of words waiting to tumble across her lips. Instead, her expression melts into a gentle smile. “I’ll be careful. Goodnight.”
Sarah cups Belle’s cheek with the lightest of touches before placing a soft kiss atop the downy flesh. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
She leaves her daughter standing among slowly cooling metal and a messy island. Belle flicks the bright kitchen light off so the dim ray of the stove lamp streaks across the vinyl tiles. Stepping closer to the no longer heat encapsulated ring, she cautiously presses a single fingertip to the outer edge. It burns – she feels it – but there is no pain, only warmth. Some seconds pass before she gasps and stumbles away, her back ramming into the granite edge. She gazes at her inflamed and abused skin with horror widened eyes, knowing she has never felt such a compulsion before. Why are you becoming this way? Why do you grow distracted by such things?
Stiltedly, she pushes away from the hard stone and makes a wide circle away from both the stove and oven to enter the abandoned living room. The tree lights cast out their life, and the dying embers of the fire slowly melt away. Ignoring the pain crawling along her spine and her wounded digit, she sinks into the thick cushions of the sofa before grasping the edge of the throw running along the back to drape it across her short legs. Glancing at the clock ticking away atop the mantle, she reminds herself to check the cookies in five minutes. She cannot forget. The reminder swirls around her conscious as she stares, unseeingly, at the leftover ash in the fireplace.
Fire…reddened ring…oven…warmth…
The voice intruding her mind is not her own; they sound nothing alike. The lulling hum of the words fades away as silence fills the wasted space, and she burrows into the pillow beneath her head, never blinking as the final spark dies.
“Fire. Reddened ring. Oven. Warmth,” Belle whispers into the dim. She repeats them and succumbs to the hypnotizing epitaph. The heightening ticking surrounds her, guiding her to rest, and each beat is highlighted by a syllable of the mantra. Slowly, blackness overcomes her, reminder long forgotten, and precious warmth spreads through her veins.
She lands in a dream ruled by heat released from a brilliant fire which sways with the breeze. Leaves perform a symphony of untamed, unidentifiable uttering as they brush and clash. Belle strides closer to the blaze and breathes in the natural perform of burning wood. She lowers to the ground, knees inches away from the pits’ edge, and she reaches a hand to feel the strokes of red and orange beneath her sweaty palm. She sighs at the caress and leans closer as the wind pivots. A monstrous cloud of black smoke attacks her pallor, and she gasps and chokes on the forbidden substance. She tries to crawl away from the evil infestation but it follows. Her ears strain beneath the shouting, cursing mantra which fills the hellish sky, and she forces her senses open until her form sags under the vicious onslaught. Vein colored, emerald eyes sting and mist as pure midnight pelts her sensitive skin and coats her lungs. She surrenders to the veil as the echoes continue.
The voice she hears is not her own.
#
Her lungs burn with every searing inhale and sluggish exhale. An annoying beeping resounds above her head as life reenters her veins, and the eldest child cringes at the sound while creaking fingers move atop a sheet covered bed of steel. Her body aches with every twitch, and the fire raging within is so unlike that of the once desired warmth. It dawdles through blood filled veins, across scarred flesh, and through miniscule pores. Yet, the surrounding room is icy; the walls are too white and clean. The tiles shimmer with wax beneath headache inducing fluorescents, and her eyelids tremble at the glare seeping through and attacking her sensitive irises.
Where can I be? Belle wonders internally as the medical lethargy creeps away. Am I alone?
Her heart soars and the raucous machine echoes its trembling, and the girl cautiously opens her eyes to reveal darkened and damaged vessels. She blinks swiftly and the world comes into focus, her gaze flickering erratically about the small room. The metal box roars when she takes in the black cloaked figure sitting in a worn chair against the far wall. The woman there smiles softly at the frightened and shaking girl, cautious of her tone as she quietly greets the scarred body before her.
“Hello, Genevieve,” the lady greets. “I am Caroline Bierson, and I work for the Kansas Adoption Services. It’s wonderful to see you awake.”
A flicker of perfected aggravation crosses the girl’s face as her first name escapes the female’s lips, but her horror overtakes it as reality claws its way to the surface. “W-where…” Belle practically gags as air licks up her smoke distressed throat, but she only swallows before trying again. “What h-happened?” she croaks.
Caroline’s smile falters with grief, and she creeps closer to the bed. Belle flinches at her proximity but greedily sips at the offered water, sighing with relief. “I’m afraid I have some bad news to give you.” She sets the glass aside. “But first, I’d like for you to tell me what you remember from Christmas Eve.”
The young girl’s lids flutter as she recounts all she can from that night who knows how long ago. She remembers every detail. The cookie dough, the distraction, her sister, her mother, the lovely Christmas tree, the dying fire, the warmth, the harmed finger, the forest, the fire…
The fire.
Hesitantly, she controls her features to mask her growing terror as a shadow of reality slaps her across the face. I never checked the cookies, she realizes, which means I never turned off the oven. She breathes deeply and stares into the eyes of the woman.
“I remember nothing.”
Caroline leans back at the subtle breeze of those empty, lifeless words. The once scared gaze now simmers with indifference, or defiance, and she does not wholly know what to make of it. Her jaw clenches. “Do…Are you sure, Genevieve? Are you sure there isn’t anything you want to tell me?”
“No,” Belle states. “I am confused by who you are and what happened to me. My name is all I can recall.” The lies escape blissfully smooth, and Belle feels a horrific splendor at the tales she tells. It’s like warmth, her conscience whispers. One bad habit for another.
“W-well,” the lady stammers, “there was an accident this past Christmas Eve, and I am terribly sorry to say this, but your home was destroyed in a fire.” She pauses. “The rest of your family did not survive.”
True fear and sadness overtake Belle, and the world blurs through her tears as they begin to fall. I should amend. I should tell the truth. But the words do not come. They sit in the back of her throat, and she hastily swallows them down. Instead, she questions, “How?”
Caroline sighs softly. “The investigators said the fire started from an oven which had been forgotten. It was merely an unfortunate accident.”
Belle greets the hard edge of panic encasing her, and Caroline watches, almost fearfully, as the tearful gaze transitions into something far more sinister. The girl’s chapped lips tremble as her chest convulses. Thunderous, shock filled laughter spills into the air, and a quiet murmuring crowds the sick humor. The woman is aghast by the turn of events and shuffles away from the demonic child. The mumbling nonsense morphs into that mantra from Belle’s dream, and Caroline escapes the room, knowing, should the child’s emotions remained tarnished, she will be unable to save Belle’s bested, broken soul.
“Fire. Reddened ring. Oven. Warmth,” Belle says quietly, happily. Rejoicing. Then, she sobers, returning to herself. “I did it. I killed them. I killed them all.”
With no one around to hear, those are the last words she ever spoke, but her mind still hears them in her unconscious mumblings, as well as those words which marked the beginning of her end.
Dementedly, the voice she hears is not her own.
#
Belle’s gaze lifts over the town to the distant horizon. Painted streaks of luscious pinks, purples, blues, oranges, and yellows descend with the sun to end another day. Another day spent before the cracked window of the dilapidated fifth floor. Another day reminiscing of what she lost. Another day surrounded by those who mock her; those who wish to force her to speak the truth. Foolish creatures, the lot of them.
She waits for the final orange and yellow rays before she sighs, picturing those dying embers. Rising from her withered chair and standing on unfeeling, scarred legs, she pads across the vinyl floors, stepping over the skeleton of Ray Benson – the resident, crazy hypnotist – and to the speckled granite island where a fresh mound of dough awaits. Carefully, she kneads it, looking over at the red painted, metal ring jaggedly staked to the last standing countertop made of pieces torn from the abandoned asylum walls. Once again, she must repel the distraction as one reality braids with another.
“Go on, Gem,” Belle orders to the charred bone fragments piled beside her feet. “It’s time for bed. The earlier you go to sleep, the sooner Santa will arrive.”
A reply never comes, but she works until a perfect, sticky circle lays before her, and she slices away at it with an assortment of rusted cutters. The tray is filled, and she shuffles over to a faded cardboard box. That same memorable warmth fills her senses, and like always, she forces the thin door shut before stumbling away. She returns to her seat in front of the window in time to see the sky embers fade to nothing.
You foolish, Belle, she reprimands, slipping into a fire filled dream.
The hellish mantra circles.
The voice she hears is never her own.
