Prose that may be too bland or too blue;
Random stories that may or may not be true;
All penned by Alice in her times of loneliness;
They shall aid the mind and heart of the restless.
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Aveline was three years younger than me. We had the same cleft chin, the same thin brows, and the same hair color we had inherited from our mother—burnt brown. Yet, at the same time, she was the complete opposite of me. With weak legs and thin arms, I looked as fragile as a stick. My gaunt cheeks and grim eyes often led my peers to look at me either with pity or disdain. Aveline was stronger. Not just physically. She had a myriad more guts than me. When we were kids, she would steal cookies from the pantry and sneak out of bed at midnight to go hunt fireflies in the meadow, while I was left to discourage her every attempt, too frightened to break the rules.
Last week, Mr. Gibbons, the family lawyer, came by the house. I was in the backyard that day, tending to the chickens. While Mr. Gibbons was talking to our mother in the kitchen, Aveline hid behind the door to eavesdrop. She told me all about what she had heard later that evening when we were in our room, lying in bed.
“And then Mr. Gibbons said to her—he said, ‘You’ve always known the condition of the inheritance.’ That means Mother knows. She knows. The bitch knows!”
“Don’t call her that,” I murmured.
“Why not? She deserves it. All she does is invite men over the house and sleep with them while she thinks we’re asleep. She doesn’t work. She starves us! Then she drinks and drinks and drinks and—I swear to God if she hurts you again when she’s drunk, I would—”
“She won’t do it again,” I said quickly, turning my back on Aveline. “She promised.”
She didn’t reply after that. And after long minutes of silence, she didn’t speak anymore, so I assumed she had fallen asleep. However, I was wrong on my claim. The promise wasn’t kept. Like clockwork, Mother got drunk, and she hurt me again.
You see, our mother had, as the four doctors that tended to her had found out, issues. She hadn’t been able to keep it all together ever since our father had passed away and we were left with nothing but his debts. Mother spent every single drop of penny paying them off. For months, we almost starved to death. The house was the only thing we owned, but then it also had to be sold. Two weeks from now, the buyer would be here to see the place. And when that happened, we would be left with nothing. Mother knew the only way out was the inheritance, but because she wasn’t on good terms with our grandparents, she couldn’t claim it. It belonged to us—Aveline and me. Our grandparents had made sure of that, and Mother resented us because of it.
She turned to alcohol, hoping it would grant her salvation. In moderation, it did, though. But in excess, it granted her blindness and the will to hurt her children.
That night, when Aveline was tending to my wounds, she whispered, “I hate her. She shouldn’t do this to you. I hate her.”
Maybe my mother hit me because she knew I was the weaker one. She knew Aveline was mightier and might probably defend herself, so she opted for me instead. An easier target, she must have thought.
Early the next morning, I woke up, and the other side of the bed felt cold. Aveline’s warmth was absent. I tiptoed downstairs, afraid to make too much noise in case Mother had still not recovered from the fit she threw yesterday. I looked in the living room and in the kitchen, but there was no one in sight. Finally, I decided to peer into the backyard.
The chickens were all over the place, their feathers scattered over the dried grass from too much hooting and stomping. It was as though they were attempting to fly and escape the fence. In the middle of the chaos was Aveline. Her hair was disheveled, and there was a look of pure malice on her face. Her white dress was drenched in blood. In her hands was a large rock that was probably heavier than her own weight. I couldn’t fathom how she had managed to carry it, but as I had said, Aveline was much stronger than me. She was kneeling before a bloody figure that was dressed in silk robes. Its face was unrecognizable from being gruesomely destroyed. Bits and pieces of flesh were strewn around the skull that had been caved in, blood pooling out. But I could recognize the burnt brown hair.
Breathlessly, Aveline asked, “D’you remember what Mr. Gibbons said about the inheritance?”
My throat was dry. “Y-You told me that Grandma and Grandpa left us an inheritance.”
“And?”
Tears pooled from my eyes. “And . . . we would only get it once Mother died.”
“Exactly.” Aveline raised the rock above her head and plunged it into our mother’s skull one last time. There was a sickening crunch. Blood splattered my sister’s face like paint on canvas. “She wouldn’t be able to hurt you anymore, sister. No more.”
No more Mother. No more drunken slaps to watch out for. No more nights spent cowering in fear. No more starving stomachs.
Two weeks later, the buyer arrived, expecting to purchase the house. But the property was now under our name, and because of the wealth we inherited, there was no need to sell it.
