The human upstairs was silent. Not a single breath was heard and not a sound was made. Elsie could almost believe that the human upstairs was dead. The voices of the soap downstairs were a muffled argument against the bellowing winds outside. Elsie rose from her chair in the living area and wandered to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, her thoughts consumed by the human upstairs.
Not a human, a child.
Not a child, a monster.
The monster was upstairs.
She was in the kitchen now, the kettle boiling the water. The steam rose innocently in the air, oblivious to everything around it. Her eyes followed the steam upward, and sitting on the shelf was a photo. It was a picture of three people, a man and two women.
One was pregnant.
The pregnant woman gave birth to the monster.
She gave birth to the murderer upstairs.
Tears pricked at Elsie’s eyes as she looked at the photo, memories of the trio playing a movie behind her eyelids, before the murderer killed her.
The kettle screamed, causing Elsie’s tears to evaporate and her memories to shatter as she made her cup of tea.
Once her tea brewed, she headed back to the chair in the lounge. The voices of the soap became apparent to her, and she almost covered her ears from the harsh sounds of the characters’ words.
“You’re such a dear.”
“You make me so happy.”
“Why are you so good to me?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Lies. That’s all they were. Lies.
It was all an act for Elsie. The murderer upstairs caused Elsie to put on a caring masquerade, when all she wanted to do was bring back her sister from the dead. If that murderer wasn’t born, she would have her sister back and things would be notably restored. No one loved anyone in the house she lived in. She didn’t love the monster upstairs. Neither did the monster’s father.
She did feel guilty some days. When the monster was hurt and bloodied, a motherly instinct overpowered her being and she helped him, or when the monster was battered, beaten and bruised, she tended to his wounds. She even sometimes tried to prevent the monster being hurt because he had school the next day.
Then Elsie would remember that she was dead because of him. He was her murderer and Elsie could never shake that thought from her mind, no matter how hard she tried to forget.
She sat down in her chair, with her tea in her left hand.
The dog curled up against her feet, providing warmth against the sickening, chilling and mocking laughter of the voices in the soap.
A burning sensation overpowered Elsie behind her eyelids and she fought the urge to cry.
To sob.
To lament.
This was her sisters’ favourite show, before he killed her.
She couldn’t cry, couldn’t sob, couldn’t lament, for the monster upstairs would hear her and think poorly and weakly of Elsie. She couldn’t have that. She couldn’t have that monster seeing her as a weak, feeble and fragile human.
“You’re such a dear.”
“You make me so happy.”
“Why are you so good to me?”
