Lillian

They gripped at her skin, fingers sinking into mottled flesh. She shrieked, pushed and pushed, but back they came, grunting, made her stomach throw up on itself. She ran, stumbled, fell, came crashing down on a filthy carpet. Supine, naked, her fingers twined her hair, yanking clumps, paranoid eyes flitting, then staring at chimerical worlds.

Spittle tearing from between her teeth, she rose, turned, flung forward, her nails into eye-sockets, her hands locking around a throat, wringing. Her mind on fire, she hissed, a rictus-like smile spreading her thin lips over bleeding gums. Felt skin give way, then bone. Blood rushed up out of it’s mouth, eyes marbled. She cackled triumphantly and pitched the body aside, it’s limbs forging an aeronautical display, skull crushing as it thwopped against the wall, a repugnant smear trailing its passage. She felt her fingers close satisfyingly around a candlestick, a poker?
The other one is larger, isn’t it? Louder. Quicker.
Creeping, she searched her confines, ripping closet doors from their hinges, erratic eyes poring over their contents, bellowing viciously with each disappointment.

She liked school. The feel of her uniform’s skirt against her knees, the play of industrious scratching of pencil on paper, jam sandwiches and DIY orange juice. But, oh, Miss Olivia – towered above her, a demeaning stature, taunting, hurting, shouting…always shouting. Dad says she’ll be big next year, after Christmas, and then she’ll be in Miss Lila’s class! Miss Lila was always smiling and she brought cake to school for her kids and she never shouted, never.

Her gaze left the view outside and scanned her flat. Wasn’t particularly dirty, but disorderly, my God! She absentmindedly grabbed a broom and battled stubborn chip crumbs out of the rug. She cocked her head as a fine moan escaped the bedroom and then relaxed as she heard a soft giggle, a smile threatening to capture her lips. Offspring. If only he could see how swiftly they were growing…
Tears distorted her vision.

She hoped she’d see Bradley tomorrow! His mom said he had Chicken Pox. She wondered vaguely if he would resemble one when he got back. She liked him. He always let her win playing games and brought her sweets and those yellow flowers she liked so much. And she just knew that card on Valentine’s was from him! He had blushed a funny purple every time she had looked at him that day…

She lurched into the bathroom, looked up to see it’s body wriggling through the window. Tittering jeeringly, discarding the weapon, she used vindictive hands to grip hold of its feet, pulling back as it fell forward onto the toilet, head bouncing. An anguished cry. She viciously clasped it by the neck, turned it to face her.
Disorder.
Blurred recollection.

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Frigid blood in her veins. Thomas. She shuddered. Once. Twice. Stood impotent as her son issued a guttural whimper and crawled his broken body in under the basin.
Tongue chewed away, slivers of glistening flesh clutching her teeth, her tetanus jaws.

Minutes, hours later? She fell to her knees, reached for her son. Cold, so cold! Howling, she gathered him up in her arms, accusation screaming from his stiff pose.
Troy! Panicking, she moved to the sitting room, found her baby’s battered body. Traumatized wails racked deep inside, her babies against her chest, her tears and blood mingling with theirs.

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Granma was stroking her hair, her breath like strawberries, her leathery skin warm and dry against Lillian’s head. She stands with her, walks to nowhere, to everywhere, her sons chuckling, their chubby bodies comforting against hers. A man, his outstretched arms beckoning. Devon, my love. Light splinters into her mind.

A meaty thump on the pavement.
Someone screams.