It's only two o'clock and there's already a dead body in the kitchen.
By three-thirty, I'm expecting about two more to appear. Two fresh cadavers lying flat and limp on the tile floor. One molted, rotted one from an hour and a half before.
Mary Catherine is on a rampage and there's no stopping her quick-pulsed trigger fingers. No siree, you can't stop her now.
It's okay. This is normal, I swear. You can be cool and calm about this, too. Anytime someone lets Mary Catherine out from her chains and tower, there's bound to be bloodshed, there's bound to be gunfire. I just hope the afternoon maid doesn't mind the mess.
You don't have to get your panties in a knot, really.
I am the picture of apathy, looking at this crime scene, this murder. I am numb. I crawled out of bed this afternoon, hunting for a cup of tea, and look what I find instead. A dead body, the bloody white uniform of a nurse sprawled on the polished black tiles. Cool and casual me, I brush past the guts and gore (or really, the three bullet holes in her chest) and me oh me, I'm more upset that we've ran out of Earl Grey. I hardly even noticed the body, I swear.
They say I'm a sociopath, if that explains anything to you.
This is a family of crazies. Mary Catherine with her trigger-itching fingers, the so-romantically named "schizophrenic" personality typing of her's. Me with my "schizoid" behaviors. The murderer and the witness, you'll never know who has it worse.
In the end, though, both of us will be competing for the spotlight.
In the here and now, I'm just sitting in the breakfast nook, eating a bowl of cereal, peering out at the dead and decaying thing on the floor, knowing I should be feeling something that I am not. It's a tugging feeling. This is one of the only feelings I know. In therapy, they tell me that the tugging feeling is an emotion I don't understand trying to come to surface. Here, staring at this lifeless force, this black hole in the center of the kitchen floor, my eyes are squinted 'cos I'm trying to remember what the emotion I should be feeling is called. I'm giving it all my concentration, but no words, no memories pop up in my brain. I'm empty, of course. This is to be expected. In my head, therapy doesn't do shit.
Clearly it didn't do shit to Mary Catherine's, either.
I'm still deep in thought when Suzie waltzes into the room.
"Oh God, oh God, oh God," she says, praising the Holy Lord when her blue eyes meet the very image of Mary Catherine's dead rag doll. She crosses herself what I suppose is a hundred or more times. Her eyes are wide like the moon, staring at that cadaver the very opposite of my squinting eyes.
It's now that I drop my cereal bowl. It's an accident, I swear. But swearing doesn't stop the bowl and spoon from clattering to the floor, the same floor that's soaked in a dead woman's blood.
Sickening. I can't eat that now.
And this is when Suzie turns to look at me, her eyes still saucer-big.
I shoot back to normal when I realize she sees me. My eyes open and I hold myself upright, posture is key. I could be Suzie's twin, if she weren't three years older and as normal as a peach.
"Lucy," she says softly, approaching me slowly,"You didn't-"
I quickly shake my head, "Of course not. You know I don't-Where would I get a gun anyway?"
Suzie ignores my question. But she relaxes, ever so slightly. I notice, of course, because that's what I do. Suzie has always babied me, she's always been ready to be protective. I believe this is because we look alike. Or maybe because next to her, I'm the most normal of our sisters.
It's a scary thought, I know.
Suzie takes a deep breath, closing her eyes (probably so as to avoid looking at the corpse decaying a few meter away from us) and says in a firm voice , "Where is Mary Catherine?"
I shrug. Then I realize her eyes are closed, so I speak, "I don't know. I just woke up and there was a body. I don't-I have no idea where she is. And we're out of tea."
Tea. Of course I have to mention it. Because in any moment of any day, everything is about me, me, me.
Suzie ignores my petty comment about the tea. Taking more deep breaths, she says in a a calm, firm voice, "We have to go find her."
A feeling I can't recall prickles inside my stomach. I gulp. Something inside of me drops deep, deep down into what I imagine is a dark pit in my body. My mouth tries to form words but none of them seem to hit the air.
Suzie's looking at me with the most impatient and scared look ever and I'm standing here with the dopiest look on my face, struggling to string two words together. I don't know how to tell her that I can't go outside, I won't go outside. Can't she just call the police? I never liked Mary Catherine anyway. She never took her medicine. She never tried to be normal. Why do we need her around?
Stuck in my inner monologue, I don't even notice Suzie tapping her feet.
"Lucy," she says, tugging on my sleeve. She's looking at the dead body on the floor but talking to me, "We have to go."
An emotion tears at me. It screams at me, inside my head. I gulp again and I try to move my feet. I know I need to go, I know, I know. There's a fire in my brain, driving me insane. There's a hole in my heart and it pulls me apart. I have to follow Suzie .
I close my eyes and take a step. I take a deep breath. I feel fine. I take another step. Another deep breath. Still fine. I roll my shoulders back, feeling confident, and continue to walk on out the kitchen. But then a liquid squelching noise fills my ears and I stop dead in my tracks.
"Lucy!" Suzie screams, her feet clicking loudly on the tile, "You stepped on the-"
My eyes fly open. I look down.
And there I am, standing with my feet firmly planted on the cadaver left by my darling dear sister. There I am, the picture of shock, standing on top of the snow-covered mountain range of a woman in white.
How can I not laugh.