Shadowed Realms  REDBACK Issue 9

COLD

By Kirstyn McDermott


It was never about the children. Their straw-coloured hair and eyes green as envy and the briny sea. Little fingers scattered stiff and cold and white, breadcrumbs leading away from the house of the wicked witch, if only you knew how to look—or why.

Your children, your soft and golden twins. Do you think it was about them? Do you think I enjoyed it? I read the papers, watch the news on every channel. Sadistic, they say. Evil. And of course, monster. Uncomplicated, greyless words that give no quarter, allow neither room nor reason for further examination, and how well I hide behind them. But they do hurt. A fresh, unexpected slice into tissue already once scarred over and long suspected dead.

Sadistic? I wept more than they did. Wiped their snotty noses along with my own and gave them towels to bite on. Held them tight and sucked the screams from their mouths until they sagged limp and heavy in my arms, and then I dressed their wounds.

Evil? I threw up each and every time. Retched my throat raw and stripped the bile from my stomach, vomited so hard my muscles never stopped aching. Their tongues were the worst of it, so small, so pink. And so much blood. The tongues, and the burnings.

There was no pleasure to be found in that, believe me.

But now I’ve seen you on television. Both of you. Laura, with her pretty blonde hair creeping back to brown at the roots, her doe-eyes damp and reddened and hollowed dark with grief. I doubt she wears much lingerie these days; no bold black lace or garter belts show off her dancer’s legs. Those short summer dresses and stiletto boots are gathering dust in a closet, and her life will be all drab-knit jumpers and track-suit pants. Shapeless-soft cocoons to curl and hide within—when she can bring herself to dress at all.

And her smile? That radiant, straight-toothed grin that captivated you, captured you and made you feel so special and loved and more alive than mine ever did? That, oh my dear, may you never catch glimpse of again.

Did you ever suspect, even a little, all these long, bloodless weeks? No, stupid question; the police only once at my door and that visit merely routine. Stock-standard questions and sharp eyes roaming over the house, their observations scribbled down in a notebook along with my answers. No alibi for the day your children went missing, but then to have had one would have been strange in itself. A middle-aged woman like me, husbandless, childless, living alone with her ferns, and a Siamese fighting fish floating brightly in a jar on the windowsill. Harmless is what they saw. An ex-wife, yes, but not one nursing bitterness or petty hatred. An ex-wife who has Let Go, a woman who has Gotten On With Her Life. That’s what they saw. That’s why they left.

They never even asked to look in the bedroom.

I will send flowers tomorrow. Cool white lilies and half-closed roses in a mournful shade of pink. Light sprays of baby’s breath, although I think only Laura may understand those, and a note of condolence written in the florist’s indifferent hand. An uncommon choice of blooms at this time of year, solemn contrast to the tinsel and glitter-spun displays of the festive season, but isn’t that precisely the point? For yours are wounds which will never find chance to heal. The half-formed scab torn loose with each once-celebrated date, all the giftless birthdays yet to come. The hollow ache of that first September Sunday, followed by the inexorable march towards Christmas.

It seems to start earlier every year. Mid October when I took them, your darling daughters, and already the signs were out. Cards in racks with Santa Claus and candle flame, bright paper rolls and plastic trees in boxes, ready to assemble. Next year, I promise: you will feel all of this most keenly. You and Laura both, if you survive that long together. If the sight of the other’s face each morning, each sleep-starved night, doesn’t cut too deeply or too often. For the children did so resemble you—and her, of course.

Those green eyes, fresh-bright with tears. Their waxy skin.

Will you imagine their pain, their terror? Will you feel it? Yes, I think you shall. Each year as Christmas lurches closer, as the shops shout out their wares and advertise their sales on every billboard, radio station and television screen, as junk mail crowds your letterbox and men in red suits emerge on street corners with snow-curled beards, you will feel it. Each Advent calendar, each sign that counts the number of sleeps to go, will toll a different bell for you. Your children’s pain will be marked out by diminishing shopping days and the crimson urgency of red light sales.

Until the last day, this day. The day when other families rose early to yawn and hug and open their gifts, while your own waited unwrapped and broken in an empty park, to be snuffed out by a hound’s eager-wet muzzle and the shaken hands of the stranger who tugged on its leash.

No, it was never about the children. It was you, always you, my husband all those lost and wasted years, my husband whom she stole with her smiles and spike-heeled shoes and a womb that would—that did—bear the fruit you so craved.

No, not the children—but a dish far sweeter, far colder than any you have known.

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Author Biography:

Kirstyn McDermott was born on Halloween, but doesn’t believe this has anything to do with her life-long attraction to all things dark, mysterious and bumpy-in-the-night-ish. Well, okay, maybe just a little bit to do with it. She has published several short stories in various magazines and anthologies, three of which have received Honourable Mentions on the Datlow/Windling Year’s Best Horror and Fantasy list. Kirstyn lives in Melbourne with her partner Alex, two adorable felines and what might or might not turn out to be a rather pesky house-ghost. She is currently working on a novel-length manuscript.

"Cold" - © Copyright Kirstyn McDermott 2006

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