“Did the applesauce wrong you somehow?” she asks, the wrinkles on her face crinkling as she speaks.
She’s an ancient woman. Apparently has been here since she was sixteen years old. There are rumors that she murdered her family with an axe because she believed they were all possessed by the devil. Chopped their heads off and then burned the bodies. I’ve never heard Glenda admit nor deny it. She doesn’t speak about it at all.
For whatever reason, she’s content in this place. It’s safe for her, and it’s all she’s known for at least sixty years. I guess they’ve tried to release her several times, stating she’s been rehabilitated and is no longer a danger to society. But every time, Glenda would attack a nurse, biting them until their flesh is ripped away. Just so she can stay in her home.
My brows furrow. “Why would you ask something so stupid?” I snap, before scooping another mouthful of applesauce into my mouth.
She didn’t deserve that. I deflate.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
Glenda has an odd smell to her. I’ve never smelt poison berries on anyone before, but I’m thinking she’s like Zade—like me. Another one of those people who have blackness residing in their souls, but not completely consumed by it.
I wish someone else could sniff out evil the way I could, just so they would tell me what I smell like. Daddy would say I smell like a demon. That was his favorite thing to call me.
“You reek of sin and evil, Sibel. I don’t know how I created such an abomination.”
Glenda leans away, a smile on her face. “That’s okay, child. We all have bad days.”
“You say that as if good days exist,” I murmur, my anger bleeding into sadness.
I’m really sad.
“They seem far away right now, but you’ll see them again.”
I don’t answer. I don’t believe a word coming out of her mouth. What does she know anyway? She’s content spending the rest of her life in this hellhole. She’s content being locked up, away from society because it’s easier that way.
It’s easier to give up on life. To have no will to live. To have no desire for freedom.
I want all those things and more.
I want my henchmen back. I want to go back to my life’s mission. Executing the demons, all across the country. I want to feel my pretty knife plunging into flesh, tearing away at the sinewy muscles and hitting bone. To feel the warm blood spraying across my face and chest, coating my skin like oil. And then I want my henchmen to fuck me afterwards. Just like they always used to do.
Satan’s Affair provided me a luxury unlike anything else, and I’ll never have that again. They’re the only travelling haunted fair that I know of, and just like I’ve suspected, they are now taking serious precautions to make sure another person doesn’t slip under their radar.
“I’m never going to get out,” I whisper, my heart breaking as I say it.
I spent a couple months in the hospital first, healing from a severe concussion, several broken bones, a punctured lung and nasty lacerations across my body. I was chained to the fucking hospital bed, scared and alone. I pleaded to see my henchmen, but they would just tell me to rest, refusing to let me see any of them.
They don’t visit me here either, and after I asked Dr. Rosie if they could, she told me that we’d talk about it when I start healing. Always that stupid word. Healing. I am healed.
I was healed when I got to jail. And even more so when I saw the opportunity to kill another demon there.
My trial still isn’t for quite a while, but they threw me in the mental institute after a month in jail. After that, they gave me a psych test and ultimately determined me as insane and delusional. What can I say? The demon smelt of rot and decay, and they looked so cute with a shank sticking out of their eye.
“Is that what your lawyer is saying?” Glenda asks, just as quietly.
I nod, a lone tear slipping down my pale cheek.
Another sad part—I don’t have any make up in here to hide behind. In here, my face is bared to the world. It feels like walking into war without any armor. Without a sword and shield, and heavy metal to protect my body.
I just feel… vulnerable.
Every day, I look in the mirror—the kind that doesn’t break, much to my dismay—and stare at the girl I’ve become. Pale face, round cheeks, plain brown eyes and a crooked nose. Dark circles rim my eyes, and my lips have become painfully chapped. My dark brown hair falls limply past my breasts, and every day, I’m tempted to cut it all off.
I stare at the mirror every day, and Mommy stares back at me.
“You look just like your mother. Are you even mine, Sibel?”