Aspic

Rue was slicing cheese for a sandwich when Mother came into the kitchen. Rue had never wanted anything more than to take the knife, not how you take it to slice cheese, but how you take it to properly gut a person, really grip it, and take it to Mother. That would have been fairly easy to do with Mother turned away, looking for Father. Rue did not want to gut Father. She was, however, unsure of his reaction if this occurrence was to take place. Would he take the blame, would he help her dispose of this situation? No, that only happens in movies, and not even in all movies. Real people rat on each other the first chance they get. But at that moment, she was willing to try and find out.

So that is what she did – she stuck that knife into Mother’s back. It was nothing like she imagined, or saw in the movies, she hated the sound, and the feeling of it scraping against the bone before landing where it was supposed to. And she was embarrassed, of herself, in front of herself, to have done it in the back. No guts. But also, Rue felt as if she had been holding her breath for years. But at that moment, her lungs filled up with something much better than air itself. She felt she could have finally fallen asleep, and that hundred-year-old cracked linoleum, drenched in blood, would have felt like one of those human-sized dog beds, made of clouds. And the silence was nice, of course.

And then she opened her eyes to the feeling of that knife slicing into her finger, which is what happens when you try and explore dreamland while slicing cheese, god damn it. Enjoy that sandwich, Rue.

***

Rue is quite happy to live without Mother. Even if her basement floods, or she loses her wallet, or it starts raining fire and she is being tortured by demons and their

pets, the need to stab people escapes her. She often reflects on her past, wondering if she was crazy. She always comes to the same conclusion – she was, perhaps, made so, but now everything is okay. She has a job, at the hospital, in fact. She has hobbies, and she even has friends. She is normal. More than normal. Yes, you are.

Today, Rue is ordering food at a restaurant with a new Friend from work. That is, until she gets a call from Father.

“Call her. Text her. I don’t know. She locked me out. Won’t let me in. I bang… I bang… I’m cold...” he muttered.

Rue drops the call without saying a word. The protocol for this situation is to drop the call and wait until the “we’re okay, sorry” call the following day. Rue can estimate he has had around two 50oz plastic bottles of cheap beer.

“Everything okay?” asked Friend.

“Yeah, you know, parents. One of those days that they get drunk, and someone ends up with a black eye. Then they call me to complain. I just ignore it. Let them fight it out, like dogs. They get tired and go to sleep, eventually,” says Rue, casually, even letting out a tiny laugh here and there.

“Oh…” exhales Friend, turning her eyes to the empty table, uncomfortable, then thinks for a second, as if debating which face to put on next. “Well, are they okay? Your mom, especially? Should you help?”

Great, she chose that concerned look of pity, thinks Rue. Rue hates that look, and as soon as she sees it, she knows she is talking to someone over-serious and overpretentious. Someone who has had a childhood filled with rainbows and butterflies and waterparks and spring breaks in Italy. Someone who thinks everyone can be straightened out by a therapy session in a big white building with big windows. It is quite an enormous conclusion to draw from one look. But her best friends do not have that look. Her friends would say “okay, makes sense”, maybe accompanied by an expressive grimace, and the conversation would move on. But now Rue must make it move on, and she has no idea how. She knows she cannot make another joke. She knows there is no point in explaining herself to this golden child and inevitably getting frustrated. Just go home and take a nap, Rue.

“Yeah, right.” scoffs Rue, and stops looking for words. Fortunately, or unfortunately,

her companion doesn’t add a single word. The food arrives, but this does not break the silence. The ringing of the phone does. Just when Rue is about to take the first bite of her sandwich. You can do this, Rue.

“What?!”

“She stabbed me.”

Rue has heard this line before. One summer, after a day of day-drinking in the backyard, Father came into the kitchen through the back door, bleeding, and said “she stabbed me, this is it”. As it turned out, there had been a slight misunderstanding concerning a bottle of beer. So, Mother took a pair of small gardening shears that have never ever been used for gardening and poked at his neck a little, just a little, because Rue was able to clean and bandage it all by herself. This is when Rue really became a professional at providing first aid, as he told her he did not want or need an ambulance. But this is not the time to go down memory lane, Rue.

“I called the… the ambulance. I don’t think I can wait, I…” he went on.

“Wait, what? Where? Doesn’t matter where, just put something on it, and hold, hold it the best you can…” finally goes off Rue, as she drops her food and dashes outside to the patio, then to the street, stopping only at the sight of cars driving right in front of her.

“Stomach. There’s… it’s too late… I… I love you, Rue. I think this is… this is it...” he is hyperventilating, and breaking off, but not because of bad phone signal.

“Stop! Just do what I say and wait! The ambulance is coming, you’ll be okay,” she says.

She is, in a way, annoyed. This is not the first time something like that happened. Usually “this is it” means he needs a band-aid. But Rue, you’re getting drenched, and you do not seem to see or feel it.

“She finally… did it… They won’t believe it. Tell them… I just… want to see you a…” he starts coughing, but not like he coughs every time he gets drunk and chokes on his beer.

“I will! I will! And you will! Just hang on, I’m coming! You hear me!?” she is yelling in the street.

Silence follows. Rue is finally able to hear and see the rain, which prompts her to run to her car, parked beside the building. Too late now, you’re all wet, Rue.

“Hello?! I’m coming, I’ll sort this out! Hello?! Answer me!” she is yelling while getting into her car and strapping herself in with her one free hand.

But he is not answering, or breathing, or hyperventilating, or coughing now.

***

Rue turns the key. With the rumbling engine, the rain pecking at the car, and the daunting silence at the other end of the line, the noise becomes unbearable. Suddenly, a greater part of Rue’s mind is back in that kitchen. Mother is yelling. She turns and confronts Rue with those blue, bloodshot, murderous eyes. Rue always knew that look was neither normal nor natural. Maybe for rabid dogs, but not humans. “Sinister” does not begin to describe it. And it used to send a million tiny needles down her spine, each more paralyzing than the last.

And in the last five years, she had only seen it in her nightmares, and in some photographs of Aileen Wuornos. But this time she does not freeze, because she already knows what it means. Her focus is on the mouth. Mother is yelling. Right in her face, ready to smack her, and yet, Rue cannot make it out.

What is she yelling? All Rue needs is to remember, to know if it was worth turning her into who she was, or is. And yes, she knows the answer, but she needs to remember. No, she knows, but she needs to remember. Hard. Do not beat yourself up, Rue. It was a long time ago. And Mother would yell all day. Sometimes all night, if the alcohol began leaving her system by sundown, turning her into Babadook. You do not have to remember, nor is it possible. Just go home and rest your eyes, Rue.

What is she saying?! All we know, and all Rue knows, is it is something obscene, something so obscene she would be embarrassed to tell someone that Mother is even capable of such thoughts, if anyone besides Father would even believe her. Something so obscene, you make yourself forget it, and yet, it forever provokes you to kill and want to die, provoked by something as simple as a dirty knife left on the kitchen table. Or something else, as, in this case, the knife is still in Rue’s hands. You know what to do with it, Rue. You’ve done this before. Well, not really. You just have to come back and drive now.

“I’m coming, dad. See you both soon.”