your fault
turned itselfon
she did nothing wrong she did nothing wrong she loves him she loves him
The saw roars up his chest, the blade spinning as it chews right through shirt and buttons and up to his throat, slicing up as he lurches backward. Cloth and ribbons of skin catch in the metal teeth until it stalls with a garish, metallic clunk. It cuts across his face. There is a flash of cheekbone before all she can see is blood and all she can hear is the screaming, the endless, electric screaming, which comes not from the walls after all.
Her hands clap over her mouth and her knees buckle as he falls, his body folding in on the saw, the soft parts of him all opened up for ribbons of red to slither out. He is all over the floor. Soaking into the soiled, mildewy water. The house laps greedily, surprised and pleased by this unexpected offering.
It thought it was getting her.
She’s still screaming through her fingers as she looks at him. His face is in the water. He’ll drown.
Roll him over.
No, she can’t touch him, can’t look, she can’t—
The screaming cuts off abruptly and she stands there, poised in listless grace, a snapshot of a ballerina on pointe as the curtains close on the tragedy of the third act. Around them the walls pulse, thick and mucousy, heartbeat picked up to fervent speeds over the glory of this ravaged moment. The house contracts, narrowing the basement like aswollen throat, intestines stirring for digestion as liquid spouts from the walls and begins to pour onto the already saturated floor.
She didn’t want this. She never wanted this. The faulty switch— It was—
your fault
There is the smallest whimper.
She looks up.
Jude stands a few feet behind Bren, and she realizes with a detached sort of horror that he was there the whole time, creeping closer because he wanted Bren.
Blood freckles Jude’s small face, soaks the front of that colorful striped sweater, circles his mouth as if he, too, has gorged himself at the house’s bidding. His trembling hands flutter near his eyes as he stares down at Bren.
Then he starts screaming.
It’s angelic, almost, this high, plaintive wail piercing the stillness that had fast settled over the basement. It is a knife, slid into her ribs, rooting around for the softest meat to shred before it pulls out. Her baby is scared. She must do something.
Pick him up.
Movement snaps back into Elodie with a rush of oxygen to her dizzy brain and she moves, wild and wolfish. She lunges around Bren and snatches Jude into her shaking arms. At first, she thinks he’ll fight, but he is a malleable thing, his legs knotting around her waist without hesitation. She pushes his face to her shoulder, though it’s a pointless gesture by now.
He has already seen everything.
And he saw who did it.
She runs up the slick concrete stairs, her heart a torn-up, liquid beat in her mouth, and she explodes out of the pantry. Red prints follow inher wake. A crazed, hot fear lives in her now, and she cannot think past the need to get out, get out, get out—
With Jude still clutched to her chest, she bolts for the front door, snatching at the knob and letting out a muted snarl when it doesn’t open. Keys, she needs keys. Predictable in the comfort of his home, Bren has done as he always does and dropped his keys on the little hall table. She grabs them, but not a single key fits in the lock.
The house doesn’t want them to leave.
Dry, sick sobs rack her entire body as she stumbles, half trips, toward the stairs and then staggers up them, Jude’s weight suddenly mountainous in her arms. Everything is wet. The floor, the walls. They stream with water as if a faucet has been left on—or a maw yawns wide while saliva runs down jaws toward the morsels it means to swallow.
With one last push of frenetic energy, she runs into the master bedroom and slams the door. Locks it. She plunges into the en suite and climbs into the claw-foot tub, keeping Jude tight to her as she sinks down against the cold porcelain. His screaming has stopped, damp little hiccups escaping from his shuddering body.
She croons to him, kissing the top of his head and rocking gently as the bathroom encases them in a hollow quiet.Tend to Jude; that’s all that matters now.When she nuzzles his cheek again, she tastes the copper of Bren’s blood.
She rocks and rocks him, humming something that could be a lullaby if not for the unsteady lurch of her hoarse voice.
“Mama has you,” she whispers. “Nothing will get you.”
