Bet you’re wondering, aren’t you, your eminence – how’d a broad like this even afford Tom Ford. Bespoke menswear. Real tailoring. You know, back in the glory days, when I still had my own body, it was this exact blend, this exact cut I had on when they swore me in. Hand to Gosh. I’ll be the first to admit, Mona’s a lot slimmer than I was, but you’re looking at a sixtyfive-year-old man in here. Have a heart, come on. I’m sorry she couldn’t be here to explain this herself. No respect for an exorcism.
Not a Catholic, that girl. And you’d think the thing with Gypsies is that a lotta them are. Catholic, I mean. But let me be clear, it wasn’t magic powers that brought me this second Earthly term. Father, it was love. Oh – Mona didn’t love Lillian. I’m compelled to admit that. If not for her integrity as his cousin, then for mine as his lover. Oh, yes – Lillian – we are talking about the same person – he prefers to be called that. Though he’d never admit it. Neither of us would. Sure, homosexuality’s legal now but it’s still a sin, isn’t it? Still wrong. But look, here we go now, I’m a woman here – he’s a man. We’re not related. It’s not homosexuality. Star-crossed is what it is. The heart wants what it wants, and what Lillian wants is me.
How do I know? Oh, I know. Kid keeps these journals, these archives, folders on folders on digitised folders of information about me so deep and dire I’m truly surprised that the Hendricks family museum hasn’t phoned in with a suit. Though, the number of clever tricks the kid employs to bypass those (whatever-you-call-’em) wi-fi satellites… unabated! I’d bet my bottom dollar, in more than the first way, he knows my dirty laundry better than the best of them. And that, blessed inquisitor, is how dear I am to my baby. He stakes his very life on us. Why, the spooks could pound down his door any minute, pouring out of unmarked vans, asking no questions. It’s an open secret. One wrong move with my people and you don’t even go missing. You’re just erased.
And – hear this – Mona didn’t even know the faun. His hunt for me sent him to university, history – and his mother, a fool, consigned Mona to watch over him, make sure he stayed on his studies. He isn’t well, you see, my boy. Not at all. Sins of the father, I’m afraid; delinquent, paranoiac. Everyone’s out to get him. So, he strikes first, wouldn’t you? I call that ingenuity, but sadly, a lot of folks see that sort of wild, ordinary behaviour from a young man in the blue-collar class as felony misdemeanour. Short story, he knocked the wrong kid out, kid pressed charges. Juvenile hall, I’m sorry to say, is what kept him out of education prior to this intervention – of course Mona was scared when she moved into that rattrap this country calls student accommodation, I expect waiting to see when the next crack he’d take at her for babying him would take a couple of teeth out right along. Oh, snivelling, saccharine, bleeding-heart Mona’s never-ending quest for respect… All the while treating my sick doll like a bad dog on death row. I would’ve knocked those teeth out myself if they were not supposed to be mine! Why, Lillian didn’t love her. Couldn’t stand her. That’s the bottom line of it. But I’ll tell you, he loves me just fine. And has there ever been a civilised nation without a war? Oh no, sir. And nothing is strong if it is not worth defending. A thing is made worthy by comparison to its lesser equivalents. Do you not, yourself, preach the imperative fact of one God and one God alone?
You don’t mind if I talk a little about Hell now, do you, father? I find it goes a long way in showing you how he’s saved me, God or Lillian, one through the other, I am sure. Imagine solitary confinement but with no sight, no sound, not even the innate sense of time. Just you. Your sins. Hyper-conscious of immutable guilt, forever – unless someone loves you enough to stop it. Oh, and he loves me, if anyone does. So then, the big-name suits, the look, the life – my friend! Lillian and I at the pictures, he and I to dinner, strolling by the beach. Lillian doe-eyed and delicate. Lighting my cigarettes as though stoking the sun. This is your delinquent, playfully nestling golden curls in the crook of my neck and at rest each night in silk slips and perfume. Leaving red-hot Chanel kisses up and down my neck. My word! Living, living, living, happily – might I add – not at the expense of Mona but for her benefit. We couldn’t very well have me carrying on at work, could we? Picture me taking tickets on the train with my Boston-proud accent. Nossir, if you’ll excuse me, I know where I’m needed. But for our waltzin’ and romancin’, ah – we needed the money. See, I by no means killed Mona, not at all. She got to work! She could have made friends there if she wanted. I thought it a happy balance.
Hum. Would we be here if so? Futile, isn’t it? I returned one blessed night, high-up in a fever from tucking my beau in to sleep, floating through twisting palls of vanished tickertape and stuttering fireworks through the narrow causeways of our upstairs haven to the stalwart private office of Mona and me, to the bed – the laptop thereupon. Like a Jack-O-Lantern, mocking me with Mona’s indolent questions:
Imaginary friend aggressive? What is a headmate? Is it possible to be addicted to acting? Life taken over help. Past life regression. Brain death. Ego death. Ego death without stimulants. Ego death toll per year. CPTSD fatalities. Bipolar? Brain death causes. Which fumes hazardous? CO2.
CO2 at home.
Hmm.
I took her by the ear and dragged her to the kitchen. The time for dialogue between us was long, long through. Sick of her threats, I marched her to the stovetop and lit the ignition. Heard the click and the hiss of gas and up flew the ring of fire. Ain’t that the way of it. Just sad, her. Just sad, oh! Martyr herself and she’s going to burn! And what a hullaballoo she made about it when she realised the – look at me, father. In the eye, now – when she realised where she was – what she was doing to us. Oh, how it broke my heart when dear Lillian burst through the door, phone already in hand, shaking too damn bad and choking too damn hard on sobs to make sense to his mother down the line – his eyes met ours and he just lost his lunch, like you about did when you came in the room, if I may say. Poor Lily, poor thing, such a horrible mess. The whole mess! I tried reassuring him it was all for us, but when I got up to shake his hand, there was all this liquid running loose over our face. Didn’t see any blood, though, wasn’t any blood. Damn it! Ah, we must have been hideous, poor boy. What a rush. Remarkable, really, how much it takes to keep one’s eyelids open against extreme heat, but we managed it in the end – didn’t we, doc?
Aw, come on, it’s not so bad! She left me no choice. Do you think, if I hadn’t acted, we’d even be here talking? She planned to kill us both; all I meant to do was scare her straight. Went a touch too far, is all, because it isn’t only her who’s scared now. It’s Lillian. And it’s you, doc. After they discharged me for the face, they sent me straight to the nuthouse. Well, that’s what this is, isn’t it? Psychiatric inpatient—sure, whatever—but I was headed this way anyway. You’ve got to believe me. I need you, doctor. I need you to listen. If you take pity and turn her loose, it’s only a matter of time. I’m the devil, I know, but it’s better if I stay. Damn it! Lillian lives; I live. Mona wants to die. Save us and I’ll be your pal for life. This fucking eye! Just one little thing, doc—exorcise her. Let me love him, and I’ll be yours forever.
Hypnotise me. Drug me. I don’t care. Whatever you do, kill the bitch. Tear her out. Have mercy on us and let me go home to my baby. Let us get married. White picket fence. Little shoes by the door. He’ll give me children, and we’ll start over clean.
Sacha F. Lees is an emerging horror author Romany illustrator from the UK writing from a night shift at the casino. Her work has been published in Guy Kojak, Oltre, HNDL horror and more. Nobody knows what Sacha does in the daytime yet, although it’s been speculated for years that their free time is spent in a cocoon, feasting on whatever remains of the host.