“Can I help, Mom? I know what kind of cookies Daddy likes,” I offered, watching as she rolled lengths of dough into long, thin tubes and then cutting them with the large kitchen knife she kept in the drawer.
“No, Layna. Not this time. You can make some cookies next week.” Her promises meant nothing. They always fell apart.
She was a liar.
“Mommy, I want to help too!” Matty slapped his chubby, little boy hands on the cabinets. Banging. Clashing. Wanting attention.
Mom reached down, lifted my brother up, and balanced him on the counter. She handed him a spoon. “Why don’t you stir the eggs and sugar, sweetheart,” she cooed. Loving. Gentle. She ruffled his hair.
I was alone. Forgotten. Not even there.
I watched as my mother and my brother made cookies for my daddy.
My daddy.
I didn’t ask Mom why Matty was able to help and I couldn’t. What would be the point?
I already knew the answer.
My mother hated me.
She used to love me but not anymore.
Now I was Daddy’s and Daddy’s alone.
And that made me smile.
“The cookies are over there, Grandma.” Chloe pointed to a cooling rack.
“Let me get you a plate, Layna,” Mrs. Statham said, opening cabinets, rooting through dishes.
I watched Chloe as she purposefully kept her eyes fixed on the dough. I thought about the way she looked at Elian and I squeezed the dough in my hands. Oozing between my fingers.
“Can I help?” I asked, dropping the messy glob back onto the counter.
Chloe startled at the sound of my voice.
“That’s okay, I’m fine,” she answered, rejecting my offer.
Rejecting.
I felt cold inside. Frozen. Empty.
“Here you go, darling.” Mrs. Statham handed me a plate with four cookies. I picked one up and took a bite. It felt like sandpaper in my mouth. My throat constricted and I wished I could spit it out.
But I didn’t. I swallowed the lump and smiled. “These are great, Mrs. Statham. You and Chloe did a great job,” I cooed. Liar. Liar.
Mrs. Statham started talking about egg to flour ratios. Chocolate chips and baking powder.
I put the plate on the counter and leaned in towards Chloe. “Maybe I should bring some for Elian,” I said quietly. So quietly. Threat. Warning. Blank menace.
Chloe’s hands erupted in a flurry of agitated movement. Slicing, slicing.
“Let me do that,” I said, reaching for the knife.
“No, that’s fine,” Chloe squeaked, pulling back. I gripped the handle and gave it a twist. The sharp blade sliced through Chloe’s arm. The fleshy underside split open. Fine and true.
She gasped, her face gone white. I picked up the knife, the blood, bright red. Dripping. Slipping. Into the dough.
“What in the world?” Mrs. Statham exclaimed.
The blood came fast. It came thick. It fell onto the floor at my feet. I grabbed a towel and wrapped my hand around Chloe’s wrist. My fingers smeared with the blood, branding my skin.
“Hold still,” I murmured, pressing the towel to the wound. Giving myself permission to touch the mangled tissue.
Blood. Blood. Everywhere.
On walls.
On the floor.
I could smell it in the air. I could taste it in my mouth.
I should have stayed in the car…
“Let me have a look. Let go, Layna,” Mrs. Statham ordered. I reluctantly loosened my hand and backed away.
Feeling sick.
So, so sick.
“There should be some bandages in the bottom drawer over there. Layna, can you grab them?”
The room was dark. I couldn’t see much but for the moonlight shining through the open window. The wind carried the smell of blood and death to my nose.
I was scared.
I wanted my daddy. Where was my daddy?
And then like a phantom, he was there…
“Layna, are you all right? You look white as a sheet. Does blood make you squeamish?” Mrs. Statham asked and I wanted to laugh.
My earliest memories were of blood.
The blood was all I saw.
“Layna?”
I stared at the soiled floor. Red. Brilliant.
Beautiful.
I was going to be sick.
“I have to go,” I whispered. Unable to speak any louder.
I walked out of Mrs. Statham’s home. Numb.
My throat felt tight, and I couldn’t breathe.