Él no para aquí.”
As she continued to sing, she tugged and probed around her father’s abdominal cavity with her hands, feeling his intestines like giant, involuntary earthworms. There, she placed the final item destined for him. A matted, glassy-eyed, stiff squirrel, one that had already been dead for days.
One that hadn’t yet rotted, likely because it has been stored in the far back, bottom of the refrigerator. Camille must have moved it several times without thinking aboutopening the white grocery bag. “How can someone both exist and not exist at the same time?” she thought.
She placed the cold, dead animal above her father’s emptiness, almost too tenderly. The animal isn’t the squirrel; she’s just part of our ecosystem. A gentle living organism that keeps this world functioning, unlike humans, unlike Antonio and Camille. The real animals who only know how to consume without giving anything back.
Belinda continued to pose the small rodent with the intestines wrapped around it, curling them like vines around a nest, tangling them until the little desiccated pet sat upright as if perched.
By now, her dad was taking his last breaths. Eyes closed, not wanting to see his child turn into an artist. Blood dripping out of his mouth. Belinda adjusted the squirrel’s head so it “looks” at him, at his heart. Antonio’s warm body brought some heat to the cold animal, making it look more alive.
Taking a few steps back, Belinda looked at Pin and said, “What do you think? Beautiful, huh?”
From the end of the room, Belinda watched as her father sputtered his last bloody breath, making it look like mist in the forest, like grotesque woodlands turned into an artistic display of humanity.
“A living trunk sheltering real-world deserving inhabitants,” she thought.
Turning back to the bag, she grabbed the same pair of bent-nose pliers she used on her father, then walked around the bed to where her mother sat, still attached to Antonio.
“I should have drowned you when I had the chance, ungrateful little shit,” Camille growled out.
Pulling her head back, Belinda reached into her mouth and began to pull out teeth. The immense pain weakened Camille, she wanted to fight back, but like Antonio, she was paralyzed.
Belinda paid no attention to her mother’s words, her eyes still in that dark trance. After pulling several teeth out of their sockets, leaving deep holes inside, Belinda grabbed a pill bottle where some small, soft gel capsules were kept. With one hand, Belinda opened her mother’s mouth again, but this time, she inserted the pills into each empty socket of Camille’s gums.
Camille can only howl now, and some muffled words came out of her throat, nothing pleasant or worth listening to anymore. Her smile, adorned with tiny colorful soft gels, resembled her lifelong commitment to her addiction. Drool and blood spilled out of each corner of Camille’smouth, and Belinda felt nothing but repugnance at the sight.
With the same knife she used to de-gut Antonio, she buried it into Camille’s stomach. Slowly sliding the knife to the side, just enough to protrude the whole stomach sack. After holding the organ with one hand, she used the knife in her other hand to slit it open.
The organ bag opened and spilled pills in full display, along with stomach acid, blood, and glass. Like an avalanche of grotesque pharmaceuticals, the mixture pooled around Camille’s lap and onto the bed. With disgust, Belinda scooped as much of its contents as she could into her palms and quickly shoved it all back into her Camille’s mouth.
Belinda took a step back as she watched the woman choke on her own vomit, her gagging gradually coming to an end. Camille’s head tilted forward, betrayed by her own vice and resentment.
Now, with both parents dead on their shared bed, still attached to each other in death. Belinda gently scooped her doll into her arms and walked out the door, closing it softly behind her. Already feeling the emptiness of the house, cold and desolate, she headed downstairs.
Chapter Ten - The Call
Belinda, still in her trance, walked around her house. She wore a velvety black dress covered in her parents’ blood, still fresh and wet. She stopped by a window and blindly watched outside. She felt as if she was waiting for something but didn’t know what.
Pin was in her arms, her eyes blacked out just like Belinda’s; her darkened frown was now a smile. The doll’s pale porcelain skin had black veins running from the top of her head down to her toes. Like thorned vines in midwinter.
The air felt thick, like melted iron filling Belinda’s lungs. Her whole childhood had been wiped out; memories of her starting kindergarten and the first time she discovered her thirst for blood were all gone. She had become a vessel of revenge and discord; her life had served its purpose.
To avenge Savannah, a woman she’s never truly met but someone embedded in her DNA. It was all going back to when she was younger and discovered the old viscousblood in Pin’s necklace. Without giving it much thought, she felt drawn to its malignant power, and like a firefly to a lamp, she had poured its contents into her mouth.
The whispers in the air were no longer part of a dream; they were real now. They were loud and they were fierce, like the waves of the ocean crashing into each other. She was the foam that carried the power of vengeance.
“Come to me, child,” the whispers grew louder and stronger. “Come to me.”
Belinda tried to follow the voices, but she was unsure of where they were coming from. From behind her, the front door of her house opened on its own. A weak squeak drew her attention. She listened. She followed.
After stepping out her front door, a sudden sadness threatened to fill her heart. She looked back, trying to fight back the overwhelming power that had taken hold of her. But it was stronger than she was; she turned forward and began to walk down the dark, narrow street. The sky was darker than the silence between the stars, holding the secrets of what had long since turned into whispers.
She continued to follow the voices, like a worker bee returning to the beehive where the queen waited for her subordinates, the queen’s minions. Other noises alerted Belinda’s subconscious, trying to make out what else lurked in the dark night streets.
To her right, across the street, other kids like her walked in the same direction. To her left, another group of teens moved similarly. Lighting struck the cloudless sky, lighting up the street for a brief second. In that moment of light, all the kids who had been called appeared to walk the same street quietly, some far behind her, others ahead, each following the same dark path.
Like Belinda, every one of those teens also held dolls. Some looked different from the others; Belinda could see the blood trails everyone left behind. She also noticed the broken-neck crow flying among the kids, emphasizing the sinister path. The whispers demanded she keep going on her path.
Once she got closer to the street, she could see the other kids gathering at the mansion’s gates. It was now clear where she needed to go; the mansion’s darkness was so intense that it seemed to create light. Like a beacon, a lighthouse calling out to its castaways. As she drew nearer, the voices grew louder but fewer in number. When she reached the gates, she realized that there was only one voice behind the whispers. Savannah’s.
“Come, gather, my children,” the voice called out. Belinda’s ears rang, but she paid no attention. The tall gates, covered in vines and weeds, screeched loudly as theyopened. Rusted with old barriers that seemed to scream out the souls of the lost.
They were home at last.
