voices

It’s an unfortunate fact of life that all good things must come to an end. At least that’s what my Aunt Elma said, the night before she killed me.

Oh, it had been coming for a long time. It’s not like it was unexpected or anything. But what goes around comes around. Or what goes up must come down. Or something like that.

“Emma,” she had said, with an absent-minded smile, “we need to talk.”

Obliging, I was, of course. Ever-obliging. It was my own damn fault.

“Yes, Aunt Elma?”

“It’s about Terry. You know Terry? That… boy down the street?”

The silence was uncomfortable, crackling, like a static radio that wouldn’t shut up. I hoped my silence would procure the remedy I wanted. For her to leave me alone.

“Oh, you know him. With that soft brown hair, and those soft brown eyes…”

By this time, I’d blocked my ears, not physically of course, but subconsciously. It was something I’d learnt to do a while back, when I was younger.

She was persistent, though.

“You know how he looked at you the other day… all longing and soft puppy-love…?” I turned away so she would know I wasn’t interested. In hearing about things that could be, would be, should be.

“Well…I was thinking, maybe you should go talk with him? Give him a chance?”

I hated the way her sentences inflected upwards at the end. I say, if you want to say something, say it with definition. A definitive command. An imperative.

By this time, I’d closed my eyes. My head was on the table with my hands folded over. I liked to think of it as my state of repose. A natural life-like slumber.

She came over, this time. Put her hands on my shoulders. I’m sure she could feel the tension, all coiled up inside me, ready to spring at any moment.

“Oh, Emma, dear… it’s okay… you don’t need to be frightened…”

Why would I be frightened of Terry? He was harmless as a fly. Except when the flies laid on your food and rubbed their hands in that delighted way of their and laid eggs in your delicious pie that Mama had made and…

She lifted her hands away. And my shoulders relaxed again.

Oh, I realise now, why she had said that.

I’d been frightened of her. Before. But not then, I’m sure.

The footsteps walked away, slowly, echoing in the distance. I lifted my head, cautiously. No one there. Good.

I laughed to myself quietly.

The next morning, the cops came again. Something about a child, some boy.

I wasn’t there of course.

I was inside the closet.

Nice and cosy, that little closet is.

Nice and comfy, and quiet.

Just the way I like it.

Sometimes the noise is overwhelming.

The voices get too much.

But it was good that morning.

When the cops left, I got out. I made myself a little cup of tea. Earl grey, the best.

Then I quietly made my way around the kitchen, methodically. I measured out the cups of flour, cracked and beat the eggs, whisked it all together. Pinches of salt and sugar and butter.

Aunt Elma hadn’t visited that day, but I was sure she would come again.

She always did.

I always enjoyed the quiet spaces, the recesses in the day when she wasn’t around. I sank into the chair and picked up the crossword.

Now where was Timmy? He said he would visit, at 5:00 p.m. precisely. The clock hand was ticking its way to 5:03 p.m. and I was getting impatient.

I enjoyed his visits – he was so happy and innocent and excited and he made me feel like a child.

Today he was late, though.

I frowned and continued on with the crossword. I made my way through the words, methodically.

Suddenly the door knocked. I started, knocking over the cup of tea.

Who would it be? At this time? It was never like Timmy to be late.

I opened the door, and there she stood.

“Aunt Elma? What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you needn’t be frightened, Emma,” she started, taking off her coat and putting it by the door.

I hurried back to the dining table, finding the cloth and mopping up the hot mess, dripping to the floor.

“What’s the matter? What happened to Timmy?”

“Oh, nothing dear, he’s alright – he’s playing at home somewhere.”

I furrowed my brow, sure that would indicate to her my displeasure.

“Oh, that smells delicious! What is it? Apple pie?”

I frowned harder, and whisked around to pull the tray out of the oven before it burnt.

“Mmmm… that smells heavenly. Give me a try?”

How could I deny the request? I gave her a bit, and she gobbled it down. Soon the whole pie was gone.

That was rude, I thought.

Aunt Elma was now face to face with me. She looked intently into my eyes with those wizened grey pupils of hers.

“Now, Emma. I have a request to make of you. You mightn’t like the sound of it at first, but I promise you, you will be alright.”

I squirmed, as usual.

“It’s okay. Here, take this.” With that, she opened her hand, my hand, dropped a little vial into it.

My hands closed over it, involuntarily.

“Good.” She smiled, here, benevolently.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

And with that, she left.

I turned the vial over in my hand. It was pure, crystal-clear, light, amniotic. I don’t know why but I felt like crying.

My tongue wanted to taste it. So I did.

That was how they found me, in the morning. Lying on the floor, vial open in hand, just like the movies.

Only this was real life.

Or so I thought.

Timmy, where are you? I miss you.

It’s okay, dear. You’ll be alright.

Aunt Elma, why does your voice sound so like mine?

All good things must come to an end.

All good things must come to an end.