Page 9 of Miserable Marionette

Ever.

“I don’t want you to get hurt. Audrey, I would rather die than let anything change you, or hurt you,” he answers, and the venom in his voice takes me aback, despite not really understanding. Some of my anger disappears entirely at that, and the very idea of being in that creepy haunted place, cutting someone’s grandma up, strips the rest of my fight from me. Though most of the indignation stays.

He captures a strand of my hair as I nod, swallowing past the stupid lump in my throat and the tears threatening to spill out over my eyes as he takes my hand tightly. After that, like always, I lose track of the minutes I spend talking to him.

It’s slow at first, a couple of words and offhanded comments about the trees, heat, and what color I want Krissy’s dress to be for my birthday present this year. That my pizza was cold at lunch today, but I ate it anyway cause Mom didn’t make breakfast. Just something to break the tension, the silence, and my stewing. Even when my feelings are hurt and I’m mad, it’s hard not to talk to Gideon. He’s like a giant stone in a rushing creek. It’s as annoying as it is comfortable. Safe. It’s the one thing I know with absolute certainty: I’m always safe with my best friend. If he says this is something I can’t do, he has his reasons for that. Even though I’m nearly sure those reasons are probably stupid.

Soon enough, those minutes bleed into hours until I’m gently shaken awake by warm hands that smell just like the woods around us, but better. Gideon helps me to my feet, back to his silent and stoic self, leading me out of the woods to my house. The absolute last place I want to be. My heart all but leaps from my chest, the smell of him filling my nose when he leans in, kissing my forehead goodnight.

But the moment my head hits my pillow, I’m back, trapped in my ugly thoughts, wondering how in the world a dead body could make him… happy. Wondering if I’ll ever compare to a corpse.

I cry.

Gideon, Present Day, 1994

My phone rings for the third time in the last twenty minutes, disrupting my focus as I blend the pigment together. Something profane escapes my lips as I pull at the latex gloves I’m wearing, the material ripping as I toss them onto the cart with my tools, stalking toward the landline on the far wood-paneled wall.

“Yes?!” I spit into the phone. I don’t really need to ask; it’s been the same thing for the past three weeks. Bell Funeral Home and the lack of Bell family members still topside. Ten years of promises, of misery and discipline, about to be washed down the proverbial drain because the current caretaker couldn’t scrap his pill habit. The wood of the paintbrush is stained with fleshy hues as I glare down at it with all the hatred I can muster, because the shade is never quite right.

Perhaps I’ll add more pink undertones next time.

“Mr. Bell, I understand you’re busy, but—"

“I’ve told you, just mail me the paperwork, and I’ll—"

“Sir, I mailed it off.” Bullshit. “If you haven’t gotten it yet, it’s safe to assume it’s been lost, and there’s still the matter of all the personal effects in the basement of the building.”

“Keep them, donate… burn them for all I care,” I offer, my tone bleak and empty.

“Mr. Bell…” she starts again, and the casing on the receiver cracks in my palm. It’s been weeks of this back and forth with Amber Gurly, Real Estate Agent, mayor’s daughter, and soon to be fucking de—

”It would be less trouble for you to simply make the drive down, sign the papers, and…” Here’s the catch. “… maybe even find a replacement for your father’s late cousin. As the only funeral home in town, I’m sure you can see where the issue lies here. It’s your family’s legacy. And your father was a good man. I’m asking you to come down and hold the tide until we can work something out.”

“My father left ten years before he died,” I state, as if making the point will somehow reach her.

She ignores me. “A few days is all I’m asking. Find a replacement… tidy up loose ends. My father would appreciate you taking the time, as a medical examiner yourself, and it being your family’s business, I can’t think of anyone better to ensure it’s passed to qualified hands. Our town has trusted the Bells with our loved ones for over two generations. Whether you want to be or not, Gideon, you’re still the third. The Bells are a pillar here. There is no one else.”

A soft sob comes from beside me.

My remaining gloved hand tightens on my canvas in warning, ignoring the rattling that follows. “Three days and I’m gone,” is all I say, keeping my tone even before slamming the receiver onto the base, dragging a deep breath through my lungs. Instead of cheap cherry-scented lotion, I’m met with urine, blood, and chemicals. When I squeeze my eyes shut, it’s the same thing as always behind them: a small girl, her pretty, round doll face smiling up at me.

It’s Audrey, the reason why I can’t return to Swindon, Michigan. Why I gave my word to my father ten years ago that I would never step foot in that town again. That I would never go near her again… my perfect girl that’s haunted me since the day I met her, the day I led her into the woods, and she followed like an attention-starved puppy. So sweet, with her round, trusting eyes glued to me like I was the answer to everything.

Whimpers against my palm force my eyes open, and when I turn toward the woman, my hand clasped over her mouth, it only serves as another bitter reminder of why these women, why my puppets, could never compare to the original. I grimace as I glare down at her, blood leaking from the bone pins I drilled into her wrists, stringing her up so pretty. Except she’s not pretty, only my craftsmanship is. Everything about her makes me want to vomit. It’s the pretty, wide hazel eyes of the girl in my dreams that keep my chest heaving. The muse of my depravity. The bane of my existence.

“Your lipstick is smeared. It’s unfortunate I won’t be able to work with you further. I find no joy in being wasteful.”

She whimpers, her freshly bleached blonde hair an off-putting tone of yellow. I hadn’t quite made it around to toning it yet.

“Your line, say it.”

I give her a moment, watching her squirm and blubber, snot and tremble, exhaustion, and no doubt a fair amount of agony, making her muscles quiver as they’re wrenched up at odd angles. I don’t bother repositioning the strings to fix her position. The illusion is already broken.

“Now,” I command.

The woman jerks despite me not raising my voice. Her arms hanging limp like a puppet begging to be directed by me. Her salmon-colored, smeared lips cracked and far from the soft ones they should be. There's no real time to fix that now. I just stare at her, waiting. I’m not too man enough to admit my head has only been half in the game this time.

“Gideon, do you love me?” she whimpers.