The shadow by the hall cabinet is long and threatens to swallow my whole body as I linger in the dark near the stairs. I breathe slowly and watch it extend along the rug as sunset’s light dwindles with patience that can only be learned. It is in moments like these I thank my blessings for the leanness to my figure such that I can tuck myself away as I if too were nothing but a shadow.
In the room down the hall her footsteps are settling into familiar, muted, cadence. The days have been getting colder and Mother has been wearing socks in the evenings—and her stairs are a polished hardwood. An indulgence, inherited from her mother before her.
Her indulgence will be the means to my satisfaction.
I have been trapped in this godforsaken house my whole life. As I child I’d cry wildly and beat at the windows but now? As an adult woman? It rankles. I hold my grief close, sitting in sunbeams and watching her walk by with nothing but disdain to spare for her.
It still sparks something angry deep within me to hear the birdsong on the breeze and the rain leaking through the cracked window on a stormy night with the knowledge I will never feel the breeze overhead. This has been building a long while, ever since childhood sadness gave way to sharpening my teeth on bided time. I will be free. I will run through the grass and feel the radiant heat of the road underfoot and the stinging of sand on my skin. I will leave her behind me to gnash her teeth and to rot.
The door down the hall creaks and I tense. The muscles in my shoulders roll as I lower myself, ready for action. Tonight, this night, I will be free. The shadows have concealed me in their length—I will not be seen ‘til too late.
Her discordant hum floats down the hall to announce her; it brings her joy this life, my entrapment, her routines. It will not for much longer. My heels lift despite myself, anticipation lacing every muscle in my body as her humming footpads draw ever closer. The sun is down, it is time for her tea and music in the drawing room, but tonight is my time and she will not even make it to the kitchen.
She hasn’t seen me.
Her back turns, loosely knotted hair swaying over one shoulder as her socked foot lifts to dead air over the first step and I lunge. I ram my whole body weight into her ankle as she descends, obstructing her back foot as her controlled drop becomes a deadly fall, her centre of gravity tilted fatally off course with my interruption.
The wind whistles between her teeth as her leg twists and buckles, the foulest of curses I have ever heard trips from her lips. My success is a yell torn from my throat as my head lifts to hiss profanity back at her, one final, fatal gift from daughter to mother, my eyes to watch her end and—
She catches herself. Disappointment sinks to the pit of my stomach and curdles there. An airy laugh she does not deserve to enjoy bursts from her smile as she rights. “Oh!” she calls, her hands reaching for me. “You scared me, baby!”
Her fingers curl under my belly and sink into my fur as she lifts me. My mrows of despair fall on uncaring ears and she presses her lips to the fur between my eyes. “I could’ve broken your tail,” she croons, tucking me into her arms like a swaddled babe. “You’re right, evening treat time should be for both of us.”
I stew as she scratches behind my ears, even as my rage dims at the thought of chicken and a warm pillow on the couch. Tomorrow, if I still anger. I will get her tomorrow.
Rory Banks 