Chapter 6 - Rewriting the Past|
As Natalie spoke, the pristine, perfect memory of my childhood shattered into a million jagged fragments.
Like rapid-fire camera flashes, forgotten moments from my youth replayed in my mind, but now they were lit with a terrifying new understanding.
I remembered coming home from third grade and finding Natalie sitting alone on the dark basement stairs, her eyes red and swollen, refusing to look at me. I remembered Vivian gently pulling me away, whispering, "Don't bother your sister, sweetie. She's having one of her episodes again."
I remembered my father standing in the hallway, pulling his suitcase behind him, apologizing to our neighbors for "Natalie's outburst" before he even stepped out the door.
I had been seven years old. I had worshipped my mother. I had eaten the extra cookies she gave me, completely unaware that those cookies were a reward for being her silent, compliant golden child while my sister was being systematically tortured in the dark.
“I was her weapon,” I choked out, a wave of profound self-loathing washing over me. “She used me to isolate you.”
“You were a child, Daniel,” Natalie said softly, though the pain in her voice was still razor-sharp. “You didn't know. Nobody knew except her. She built a cage around me, and when I turned eighteen, I packed my bags and got out as fast as I could. That’s why I moved three states away for college. That’s why I never come home for the holidays.”
“Nat... I am so sorry,” I sobbed, resting my forehead against the cold steering wheel. “I am so, so sorry I didn't see it.”
“Don't apologize to me right now,” Natalie cut in, her voice suddenly snapping into sharp, lethal focus. “Look at your phone, Daniel. Look at what she’s doing to Emma right now.”
I snapped my eyes back to the live cellular feed on my dashboard.
My blood ran completely cold.
While Natalie and I had been talking, the situation inside the bedroom had taken a dark, sinister turn.
Emma was sitting slumped against the wall, utterly physically spent, her face ghost-white as she clutched her lower abdomen in obvious agony.
Vivian had finally set Oliver down inside his crib. But instead of leaving the room, she walked over to where Emma sat, leaned down, and grabbed my wife’s thin wrist in a tight, bruising grip.
She leaned her face inches from Emma’s ear and hissed something far too softly for the small microphone to catch.
Whatever Vivian whispered, it made Emma’s entire body freeze.
May you like
Emma slowly raised her head, staring at my mother with an expression that wasn't just fear.
It was pure, horrifying recognition.
