Before She Could Speak

Before she could speak my sister could spell and the first word she spelled was ‘love,’ but that wasn’t why I killed her. I suppose I don’t know why I did it. I only know it wasn’t because she loved me. I’m a killer. I felt like one before I killed her and nothing changed afterward.

My father cleaned the mess. It was before dinner. From the hall I could hear the scrub brush swish rhythmically over the carpet of her bedroom. My mother brought me coffee and a blanket. I like cream but not sugar.

I thought my sister’s absence would make me sad. I loved her too, after all. I wasn’t sad though. I felt okay - relieved really.

Bleach smells wafted under the cracks of the door while I pulled the blanket around my shoulders a little tighter.

My mother leaned against the wall. She crossed her ankles and lit a cigarette. “Knives are personal,” she said.

I watched her. A ring of red lipstick appeared on her cigarette when she lowered it from her mouth.

“What do you think that means?” she asked with a cock of her head.

Our house was built in 1847. It didn’t belong to us at the first. We took it after a war - one of the many wars - and then we just kept it. The stairs curved upward, attached to the original black railing. The wood flooring was original too and so was the chandelier hanging heavy over the foyer.

I should have pushed her over the side. I thought about it, even still when she was already gone. I liked the idea because I’m a killer I suppose. I don’t know if other people thought about such things.

“Michael, do you hear me?”

My attention turned back to my mother even if my eyes lingered on the stairs. “He’s done,” I said. The brushing sound had stopped and I took another sip from the coffee.

She listened silently for a moment before pushing the bedroom door open. I followed behind her.

My sister had been moved and a sheet lay over her body, spotted with blood. The large rug that had been under her bed for years was rolled up and sat in the corner. The room looked odd now. The floorboards were darkened from being cleaned.

“There’s blood on the walls,” I said.

“I don’t know what to do about that,” my father said, shrugging his shoulders. “The wallpaper will be ruined if I use what we have. It’s a hundred years old.”

My mother’s heels clicked across the floor and I could hear her knees crack when she bent down to examine the wall more closely. Straightening up, she turned to us. “Clean up. Dinner is ready.”

My father nodded, rubbing his nose against his forearm since his hands were still wet with chemicals. He left first.

My mother stopped at my side. She stared hard at me for a moment then she left, too.

The blanket dropped from my shoulders but I gripped the coffee mug in my fist. I yanked the sheet off my sister. The black trash bags my father had laid her on crinkled as I walked over them to get a better look at her face.

She looked asleep.

I left footprints all over the newly cleaned floorboards when I walked to the wall. My coffee was cooling down. I set it down on her vanity. A small drip of blood on the wall slowly ran down the length until it disappeared in the little pool that had gathered at the top of the baseboard.

I know who you are, the wall whispered to me.

I leaned in closer. The blood clashed with the design but I could sense some kind of synchronicity.

I know who you are.

“I’m the killer,” I said.

No.

I shivered.

My sister sat up but I didn’t turn. Sweat collected under my hairline and my throat throbbed. Her hand landed on my shoulder. I spun around, gasping. But she wasn’t there. She lay in her place. Dead.

I know who you are.

At dinner I stared into my bowl. My mother spoke only with a tap, tap, tap of her toe against the leg of her chair. I knew she was looking at me.

My father cleared his throat several times but never said a word.

A small stream of steam rose up from my soup. I inhaled it deeply and rocked my head slowly back and forth, closing my eyes.

Are you here? Are you here? The walls seemed to bloat around us.

When I opened my eyes the room was dark and I sat alone.

A pale face flashed into my view. Saliva hung from a set of long teeth.

Jumping back I screamed as my chair collided with the floor, sending a cracking echo over the vaulted ceiling. All around me the walls pulsed closer and closer. We found you. We found you.

I scrambled to my feet. She was gone.

I know who you are, The walls told me.

“A killer,” I said.

No.

On my way to my room, I stopped at my sister’s door. I let my head lean against the white wood. “I’m the killer,” I whispered, my heart beating painfully in my throat.

No.

I clenched my jaw. How dare they say such a thing? They’d see. I could kill anyone for no reason at all. I didn’t care. “I am.”

You’re not, they whispered.

My fist pounded at the door. “I am! I’m the killer. I killed her.”

No. No. No. The walls rippled.

I moved my hand to the doorknob and threw the door so forcefully on its hinges that it slammed into the wall behind it. “Then what?” I shouted.

My sister stood ahead of me in the darkness. Blood stained her chest; soaked through her dress. Her jaw hung loose, just as it was when I ripped it after she had said, “I love you," for the first time. She’d never been able to speak before. She’d only ever written it to me and our parents for years.

She lunged at me, her nails digging into my throat.

The victim.