October Fires

“Alizon! Come over here.”

I entered the room to see my mother casually standing over a stiff body bag. Not shocked, just disappointed.

“Help me bring your step dad into the yard, would you?”

“Mom, I told you that I wasn’t going to be a part of this anymore. He’s your mess, you take care of him.”

As long as I could remember, my mom has always been a widow. My paternal dad died when I was two and I have had three step dads in the span of 18 years, including the body bag on the ground. I don’t think my mother intended to be this way but one thing has always been apparent, she sure wanted me to be this way. Or, maybe ‘wanted’ isn’t the right word. Groomed me to be this way.

My mother always poured to me about how no man could ever compare to my real dad. No other man was ever as loyal, as funny, as handsome. My parents were high school sweethearts; so I suppose that plays a big role in her attachment to him. Also, it isn’t every day that your husband gets maliciously murdered.

Pig tales swaying in the sunshine and sweet laughter playing around me. Out of the side of my eyes I can see my neighborhood crush, Enrique, stealing innocent glances at me, as I sway my hips to keep my hula-hoop off the ground. I smile at him, beckoning a rosy blush to his round cheeks.

“Ali! Come here sweetie!”

When I arrive at her side, she pushes past me, to promptly close the door behind me. I feel my insides twist together uncomfortably and my face begins to boil. Without a word, my mom looks me dead in the eye and.. Smiles? Smirks? Is there really enjoyment on her face?

“Now sweets, I know this is scary, but I need you to be a big girl and help mommy clean the floor. Steven was a bad man and he got caught doing something naughty. Mommy had no choice.”

She took a step toward me, a blood soaked, wooden bat in one hand. I was too stunned to move away.

She gave me a brief and swift squeeze with her free hand then motioned to the rag and bucket of cleaning supplies on the floor... aside the small pond of deep crimson water. Like a good girl I take the rag, drown it in the bucket and begin sopping up the essence of Steven. My mother goes to work cleaning up the body. I try not to stare but somewhere amidst my horror there is also a distant tinge of fascination, begging me to keep my eyes locked.

The sound of my mother’s voice brought me back to the present moment.

“Thomas was the biggest man yet! I can’t carry him by myself. Please, for mommy,” she threw an infuriating sad puppy look in my direction.

“I will help you, not for ‘mommy,’ but because the smell is starting to get to me.” I rolled my eyes and dropped into a squat formation, drew Tom’s legs close to my chest and straightened my own legs. He was a very solid man.

Together, mother and daughter, we drug him down to the basement. Unfortunately, neither of us were new to this process, so my mother already had a variety of tools laid out on the extensive oak table. These were not typical household tools however. A cauldron, a slew of baneful plants picked fresh from our garden, alongside some coal tar and various other ingredients to concoct our own carbolic acid..

I learned at a budding age that we were peculiar.