They Sent The Ravens Part 2

Chapter 4

Elizabeth Marie Fisher was born in St Mary’s Hospital at 3:26am on Tuesday 18th of March 1979 and weighed 6 pounds 3 ounces. Her mother cradled her in her arms and waited for the love to come. Most of her friends had married and had children in the last few years and had told her over many cups of coffee what it was like to give birth and all about the sleepless years that come after it. But what Maggie Lee Fisher was most looking forward to was the ‘rush of love’ you get the second you see your own little newborn. She couldn’t wait for that. Maggie had wanted a baby more than anything. She never finished high school, she wasn’t particularly pretty and only had a handful of friends. A baby would make everything better, she thought. Something new and pure, something she hadn’t messed up yet, like she did everything else. A baby of her own would give her a meaning for her pointless existence of eating potato chips while watching Dallas every goddamn night.

She had messed things up with all her family and her friends had their own lives now as well, so she was on her own. A baby can’t leave me like they all did, she had thought. So it was settled. A baby was her solution. The only problem was, she had never had a proper, official boyfriend. She had always either been the ‘bit on the side’ or ‘for tonight only’. She put up with that because, to her, it was better than nothing and maybe, some day, they’d eventually love her.

At first, she had wanted a nuclear family, a real, happy family, but she soon went against that. A mother, a father and two children (one boy, one girl) was the perfect family, wasn’t it? No. Not to her, it wasn’t. Her brother had never bothered with her, to him, she was just some kid that happened to have the same parents and live in the same house as him. He didn’t hate her, he just didn’t really acknowledge her, and he was too busy with his sports and friends to say more than two words to her. She often thought he was embarrassed of her thus denied all relation to her. He had a huge group of friends, went to parties every Friday night and had a string of gorgeous girlfriends. Maggie, on the other hand, had two close friends and drifted pitifully through others. Despite their surname, not a lot of people knew they were related because of their looks. Maggie was plain. She had mousy brown hair that hung limply around her sallow hued face. She was bony and always looked in pain because of her ‘bad leg’. The only thing of beauty about her was her misty blue eyes yet they also made her uglier as her face was even worse in contrast.

Her younger brother by a year and a half; Oliver, on the other hand, was 6ft with dark hair and sparkling green eyes. He also had inherited his mother’s Italian olive skin, whereas Maggie had her father’s mid-western flesh tone. Maggie was often jealous of her mother, she was slim, but not bony and had long, glossy hair which she combed and maintained religiously. She cared more about her hair than her kids, Maggie thought.

Isabella Fisher was 1/3 Italian but had never actually set foot on Italian soil, regardless of the fact she boasted about being born in Florence at dinner parties. She wasn’t. She was born in Connecticut. It makes me sound interesting, is what she said to her husband as he asked her why she kept lying about it. And it did. She was popular and loved, like Oliver. Everyone was in awe of her, but no more so than her husband. He completely adored her and that was why she married him, Maggie thought. Her mother liked to be admired and she hadn’t married her biggest fan by accident. Maggie’s father, Archie Fisher was plain, like Maggie. He had fallen in love with Isabella from the moment he’d met her and vowed to make her his wife, despite the shock he had felt when she finally had said ‘yes’. They only had one thing in common, their love of Isabella. They had children out of love for each other, but not love of the children. This didn’t seem to affect Oliver; he had his life as well and didn’t need the love and attention from his parents. But, Maggie did. Maggie didn’t really have anyone else; the few friends that she had had their own lives with their own big, happy families and her family had their own friends. She was alone. She waited and waited for a change to come, but it didn’t, Maggie was always alone.

One day, when her family were all in the house together, she told them exactly how she felt. She was harsh about it and screamed at them all, eighteen years of rage and emotion came out in one huge rant. After that, she shoved all her possessions into one bag and stormed out of the door, slamming it violently behind her. That was the last time she would set foot in that house.

She finally thought she was on to having her own life. She rented a tiny apartment above a butchers shop and excitedly invited her friends to live with her. They didn’t share her excitement. They went off to colleges all around the country and bettered themselves while Maggie sat on her own yet again, watching her soap operas and hating herself and everyone in her life. It was on one of the lonely nights that she finally decided she was going to have a baby.

She began going to bars dressed in little more than underwear with the sole intention to get pregnant. She didn’t care who it was with, that was irrelevant. The baby would be hers and no-one else’s; they would only have each other. The baby wouldn’t know anyone else so it would have to be with her. Eventually, the little white stick revealed two blue lines and she finally thought she was doing something with her life. She called up her friends and they suddenly seemed interested in her when she told them the big news. She told them she was engaged to the little bump’s father, though, just to skip past the ‘Are you sure you wanna do this? Why don’t wait till you’ve found someone, then have a baby’ speech. But they didn’t understand. If their baby decided it was going to move on and leave them, it wouldn’t matter as much; they had their family, friends, careers, money and educations to fall back on. If her baby left her, she would be back having nothing. Besides, Maggie had grown up in a middle-class suburb; her friends could be quite snobby about such a situation, so it was easier just to lie.

Suddenly, her friends had begun visiting her again with the exciting promise of a new life and a new playmate for their own children. They brought little, overpriced stuffed toys and baby clothes with them, wrapped up pointlessly in fiddly bows and ribbons as they shrieked and felt her tummy. When they’d come over, she’d tell them the baby’s father was out at work or at some business trip, she never really found out if they knew she was lying. They’d come over, have coffee and talk about nothing but babies, babies, babies. She was a part of it though. Before, they’d sit around and moan about their husband’s on the rare occasions they met with her and she’d sit there silently and awkwardly. This time, she could join in. They told her everything she needed to know and more and with each visit, her excitement and her bump grew equally. By the time she was a week shy of her due date, she was bursting with anticipation.

Her excitement, like everything else, turned into bitter disappointment. She held her newborn in her arms and waited patiently, almost contently for the love to come rushing through her. After her friends had been and gone, she steadily realized, if the love for this red faced, screaming pile of limbs  was to come, it would have come by now. She didn’t feel anything towards it. Why me, she thought, why does everyone else have it so good except me? That frustration and envy grew into hatred for her daughter, and that hatred plunged into dark insanity. She found the fantasy wheeling the gurgling baby down the sidewalk in the plush, pink stroller a little far from reality. What really happened was being woken up at every hour of the night by a screeching infant who she didn’t even love, who probably didn’t love her, either.

Maggie was an unnatural mother; she shouted and screamed at baby Lizzie every time she cried, picking her up and screaming ‘what do you want from me? Shut the hell up! What is it you want?!’ in the infants face. On one of these occasions, a deadly thought gripped the deteriorating mind of Maggie Fisher, she was in charge of this little person and, if she wanted to, she could quite easily kill her. I brought you into this world, I can take you out of it too, she’d scream at Lizzie every time she dared to cry. One night, it was all too much. She dumped Lizzie on the carpet, grabbed an axe from the garage and smashed her little wooden cot into a million pieces. Afterwards, she let out a maddening laugh and whispered in Lizzie’s tiny ear ‘Happy now?’ From then on, Lizzie slept on a pile of blankets on the floor, and, even at just nine months old, she knew not to cry.

Maggie’s friends visited her with worried expressions etched on their faces; they asked if she was coping with the baby and if she needed any help, be it money or babysitting. She said she didn’t, she was fine. If Maggie had anything, it was her pride. Eventually, though, one by one, her friends stopped visiting. Maggie would accuse them of stealing her purse and scream at them to get out, or sit in the dark, rocking herself back and forth, mumbling ‘intruder’ into her breath, getting louder and louder until they left. She was quickly going mad, but with the ounce of sanity she had left in her, she realized that before the baby, she was sane and normal. So it was Lizzie’s fault, she concluded.

“It’s all your fault, you sent me crazy!” she’d slur at Lizzie as she stood helplessly in her hand-me-downs.

“Sorry, mommy.” She’d whimper, biting the insides of her cheeks to stop the tears.

“You aren’t crying, are you? Ha! You are! Always crying, aren’t you? Little crybaby, crybaby, crybaby…” She’d respond through crazed eyes as she rocked herself back and forth.

“S-sorry.”

“S-sorry!” Maggie would always mock before letting out a wild laugh, and then her tone would change instantly “You should be sorry! You’re the biggest mistake I made, you made me like this, you know that, Lizzie? I’m crazy, aren’t I? You know I am, the neighbours know I am and sure as hell, your goddamn teachers know I am! But look, look what you see Lizzie, you did this to me.”

That conversation would repeat itself almost daily in the Fisher household. Everyone knew about poor little Lizzie in her damp clothes and mad as a hatter mother, and yet, no-one dared to say anything. Lizzie would stare out of her bedroom window and watch the world go by; she’d imagine a wonderful life outside of this isolated apartment and that was the only thing that kept her from reaching for the razor, rope or pill box. Although, it was not that simple, Elizabeth didn’t know if she could ever bring herself to leave her mother and the apartment that imprisoned her. Maggie would slur hateful comments at Elizabeth, then grab her ankles and plead for her not to leave, telling her she was the only thing she had left. Elizabeth’s mind was scrambled and she wasn’t sure of anything, she had only ever spoke to her mother for the first 5 years of her life, she had never met any of her other family members and didn’t even know her father’s name. Everything her mother said, she believed, because, well, she had to. Her mother said little Elizabeth was sent from the depths of Hell to come and torment her into an early grave.

“The raven is on you, Lizzie. They sent you, you know? The ravens sent you here to torment me, drive me crazy. The raven, it’s sitting on your shoulder, you can’t see it though, but it’s there, it is, it is. It’ll make you destroy everything in your path, just like you destroyed me…” She’d curse at Lizzie, raw and black hatred spilling from her sickly brown teeth. She always stood in the same posture when she told Lizzie these things, one hand on her hip, one imprisoning a cigarette between her spidery fingers, the smoke creating an even deeper border between the two women.

Elizabeth eventually plucked up the courage to leave that dismal apartment and her mother, she thought it was over. She told the people she met that her mother had died and it didn’t even feel like lying because she knew that her mother probably was dead in that seedy building, in at least some way. She moved on, paid her own way through college, became an English teacher at the local middle school, got married and had two wonderful children. She thought all relation to her mother had gone. Little did she know what was about to unfold…

Chapter 5-

She hated her. The dislike was instantaneous, automatic, even. From the second she opened that woodchip door and saw that patronizing smile, that notebook, that eagar pen. Hatred burned through her entire body. She hadn’t hated someone this much since…since, well, her mother. Mortimer sensed her hatred and squeezed her hand, silently telling her it was all going to be ok. It wasn’t. How could it be? How could a smug woman with a long couch really help them? Yes, she hated her.

“So, welcome to couples counselling, I’m Dr Peresh” She said in an official manner as she shook their hands and then seated them.

“Nice to meet you, Dr Peresh, interesting surname, I must say”

Oh shut up, Morty. We’re not here to invite her dinner parties and family vacations. Enough with the schmoozing. Elizabeth thought cruelly, angered and embarrassed at her husband’s blatant over-friendliness.

“Thank you, my husband has Arabic roots.” She explained smugly. Elizabeth hatred burned more intensely yet she slapped on a ‘good for you’ smile wide across her face.

“So, let’s get started, shall we?” Dr I’m-better-than-you-Peresh said as she tucked a loose strand of freshly dyed dark hair from her bun. “So, what do you think are the main problems in your marriage?”

Morty sighed, looked at Elizabeth, then to Dr Peresh, and then shrugged his shoulders.

“I understand it is difficult at first. I’m sure with a few more sessions you’ll be able to properly communicate with myself and each other.” She explained as through reading directly from a textbook. Her voice was patronizing and snobby. She spoke to them like two naughty schoolchildren but for Morty, her beauty overtook her irritating manner. Dr Peresh had ebony locks, a exotic glow and mesmerizing emerald eyes. She looked as though she was wearing no makeup, that she naturally looked like that, but Elizabeth knew better. Unfortunately for her, Morty didn’t.

I hate her. I think I actually hate this woman.

“Elizabeth” She announced “Could you go first? Just tell your husband what you see as being the main issues in your relationship” Little-miss-perfect said with her usual smug smile.

And as she said that, Elizabeth had a sudden sickly image of Dr and Mr Peresh’s marriage. Elizabeth imagined her coming home from work in her Ferrari, pulling up at her showhome-like house decorated like something out of a Habitat catalogue. Dr Peresh would call to her husband that she was home. He’d kiss her and carry her into the kitchen in his arms, his model-like face smiling down at her. A fresh apple pie would be waiting on the window sill and the three kids would run to greet her, all giving her drawings and telling her what they did at school that day. A harsh pang of envy bite at her and-

“Elizabeth?”

“Sorry. I was, uh…in my own little world, as they say” Elizabeth nervously laughed.

“That’s fine” She smiled back with forced humour “So, could you explain issue in your marriage, Elizabeth?”

“Uh… I don’t think I can do this, sorry ” She said as she tried to stand up and escape from that tiny, terrifying room. Only, Morty clasped her hand, forcing her to remain seated within those four watching walls.

“El-please? Please, just one session and if you still hate it, we’ll stop, all right?”

She couldn’t be bothered to fight back. The room had zapped all her energy, making her weak and disorientated. A hot flush of embarrassment spread across her cheeks as she was reminded of Dr Perfect Peresh. She wearily sat back down and swiftly apologized, feeling foolish. Still, she gave the door a longing stare and fantasized of leaving…of escaping.

“Could I begin? If that’s ok, Dr Peresh?” Morty asked almost mirroring her schoolteacher-like tone.

Elizabeth felt like a kid. She felt like Morty and Dr Peresh were the adults and they knew more about her than herself, that they had to speak to her quietly and understandingly for her not to get upset or confused.

“Of course, Mr Defloure, go ahead.” She smiled back.

“Thank you” he grinned.

Oh for god’s sake…

“Uhm…it’s a difficult topic but um…our daughter, she died four months ago and since then, we just haven’t been the same…”

“I see…” she nodded “Death obviously has a profound effect on the whole family. For a marriage it could either make or break you. Do you feel as though you communicate with each other as much as you should?”

They exchanged an unsure glance.

“So that’s a no...” she muttered as she jotted something down in her little book. Elizabeth rolled her eyes.