Splintered

Somehow I’d gotten into the line of fire, and the pruning shears sliced my skin—from my palms to my wrists. The doctor said I didn’t feel the pain because of shock. That was the last time Alison lived at home, and the last time I called her Mommy.

A clap of thunder snatches me back to the present. My heart hammers against my sternum. I’d forgotten about the moth. That bug was my secret pet as a child and the catalyst for my scars. No wonder its photograph seemed familiar to me. No wonder it made Alison so crazy to see it again.

She wails, holding my bare palms up to the dim light. “I’m so, so sorry! He used me, and I failed you. You’re meant for so much more than this. We all are.”

She rolls off me and digs up the carnations. Dirt crumbles from the stems as she stands. “He can’t have her! You tell him that …” Alison squeezes the petals into a clump between her fists, as if trying to strangle them. Then she tosses the tattered blossoms aside and stumbles over to the gazing globe, trying to shove it off its base. When it won’t budge, she pounds the ball with her fists.

I grab her elbows, worried she’ll hurt herself. “Please stop,” I plead.

“Do you hear me?” she shouts at the silver globe, jerking out of my hold. “You can’t have her!” Something moves in the reflection, a blur of a shadow. But on second glance, it’s only Alison’s image staring back, yelling so hard the veins in her neck bulge.

What happens next is like a dream. The clouds swirl overhead. Rain starts pounding down. I watch through the downpour as—in slow motion—the wind whips her braid around her neck.

A hacking cough shakes her throat and she doubles over, fingers clenched around the braid to loosen it.

“Alison!” I leap toward her. It barely registers that my ankle no longer hurts.

Alison falls to the muddying earth, gasping for breath. The rain falls harder, as if someone’s pelting pebbles at us. Her dirt-caked fingernails gouge at the platinum cord strangling her. In her desperation, she rips some skin from her neck. Blood rises along the welts. Her eyeballs bulge, snapping from side to side as she struggles to inhale. Her house shoes slap against the muddy ground.

“Alyssssss,” she hisses, unable to talk.

I’m crying so hard, I can’t see my fingers as I wrestle against the braid. Lightning strikes in the distance … once … twice … then the plaited cords tighten around my fingers and tangle me up, a pressure so intense, I fear my knuckles will snap. My fingers pop into place against my will and squeeze her neck.

Something is trying to make me kill my mom!

Nausea, hot and vicious, rips through my stomach.

“No …” The more I struggle to free both of us, the more deeply interlocked we become. My yarn dreadlocks cling to my neck like a wet mop. Rain and tears bleed into my eye shadow, and black droplets smudge Alison’s dirty apron. “Let go!” I shout at her hair.

“Stop … Allie …” Her plea is hollow and hissing, like air escaping a tire.

The braid squeezes my fingers again.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, sobbing. “I’m not trying to hurt you …”

Thunder rolls through my bones, the taunting laugh of some dark demon. No matter how hard I pull, the strands embed me deeper and tighten around her neck. Her hands go limp. She turns blue, eyes lolling up until the irises disappear.

“Somebody help!” The scream strains my lungs.

The gardeners come ru

Alison sucks in a deep, raspy breath, filling her lungs and coughing. I go limp as one of the gardeners holds me up.

Nurse Jenkins hovers into view, syringe in hand. Dad’s right behind and I slump into his arms.

“I d-d-didn’t,” I stutter. “I wouldn’t, not ever …”

“I know.” Dad hugs me. “You were trying to keep her from hurting herself.” His embrace makes my sopping clothes stick to my skin.

“But it wasn’t Alison,” I murmur.

“Of course not,” Dad whispers against my head. “It wasn’t her. Your mom hasn’t been herself for years.”

I suppress the urge to throw up. He doesn’t get it. She wasn’t trying to strangle herself; the wind controlled her braid. But what sane person would ever believe that?

Just before Alison’s eyes flutter closed, she mumbles something with a drunken stammer: “The daisies … are hiding treasure. Buried treasure.”

Then she’s oblivious—a drooling zombie.

And I’m left alone to face the storm.

It takes so long to get Alison settled at the asylum, Dad has to drive me straight to work. We pull up to the curb at the only vintage clothing shop in Pleasance. It’s nestled in a popular strip mall along the commerce side of downtown, a bistro on one side of the shop, a jewelry store on the other. Tom’s Sporting Goods is across the way.

“Remember. I’ll be at work. Just one quick call, and I’ll take you home.” Dad’s frown forms wrinkles at the edges of his mouth.

I’m numb, still wondering if I imagined it all. I stare past the pink brick storefront and black wrought-iron fence. My gaze focuses and unfocuses on the curvy black letters over the door: BUTTERFLY THREADS.

I hold the moth air freshener at my nose. The scent reminds me of spring, outdoor hikes, and happy families. But winter is all I feel inside, and my family is more screwed up than we’ve ever been. I want to tell Dad that Alison’s delusions are real, but without proof, he’ll just think my sanity is splintering, too.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says, taking my other hand. Even through my gloves his touch feels like ice.

“It’s only two hours,” I answer, hoarse from all my screaming in the courtyard. “Jen can’t get anyone to cover her shift on short notice, and Persephone’s out of town.”

Friday is our boss Persephone’s scavenger day, when she commutes to nearby towns to haunt estate and garage sales in search of merchandise. Contrary to what Dad thinks, I’m not being a martyr. From three o’clock to five is the dead zone at work; hardly any customers show up until after rush hour. I plan to use that time to search the store computer for the moth website.

“I should go.” I squeeze Dad’s hand.

He nods.

I open his glove box to put the air freshener inside, and an avalanche of papers hits my feet. A pamphlet on top catches my eye. The background is peaceful pink with a generic white font printed across the front: ECT—Why Electroconvulsive Therapy Is Right for You or Your Loved One.

I pick it up. “What is this?”

Dad bends across the seat to put away the other papers. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Dad, please.”

He stiffens and glances out his window. “They had to give her another dose of sedatives while you were in the lounge.”

The words punch me. I was too chicken to follow when they wheeled Alison to the padded cell. I cowered on a couch in the lounge, pulling out my ruined dreadlocks like a robot while I watched some stupid reality show on TV.

Reality … I don’t even know what that is anymore.

“Did you hear me, Allie? Two doses in less than an hour. All these years, they’ve been drugging her into oblivion.” He squeezes the steering wheel. “Yet she’s getting worse. She was screaming about rabbit holes and moths … and people losing their heads. The drugs aren’t working. So the doctors have offered this option.”

My tongue absorbs my saliva like a sponge.

“If you’ll look at the first paragraph”—he points at some numbers on the pamphlet—“the practice has been making a comeback since—”

“They used eels, you know,” I interrupt a little too loudly. “In the old days. Wrapped them around the patient’s head. An electric turban.”

The words are senseless—mirroring how I feel inside. All I can think of are my pets at home. I learned early on that I couldn’t have the traditional cat or dog. It’s not that animals talk to me; only insects and plants are on my frequency. But every time Jenara’s tabby caught a roach and gnawed it to death, I got nauseated listening to the bug’s screams. So I settled for eels. They’re elegant and mystical and use a shock organ to stun their prey. It’s a quiet and dignified death, similar to the bugs dying by asphyxiation in my traps. Still, I won’t touch their water without a pair of rubber gloves. I can’t imagine what they could do to someone’s brain.