|Subject:||The Return of Dolores "Dicey" Klinkscales|
|Author:||Billina (Authenticated as Billina)|
|Date:||October 21, 2012 at 11:54:08 AM|
|Reply to:||Horror Story Prompt Game by Billina|
A few kids came up to my window today, trying to get a picture of me. The little shits think they're being covert and clever. Little do they know I never draw the thick blinds that cover my windows, and that getting a decent picture of me is damn near impossible. For the past sixty years, I have gone through great lengths to avoid being seen. A group of twelve year old kids isn't going to draw me out... nothing will.
I have heard the stories they tell about me, the songs they sing. Lizzie Borden isn't the only alleged axe murderer who has been immortalized through children's song. I suppose that's something . When I was a kid, I dreamed of being immortalized by creating art, seeing the world, having adventures. Instead, my psychotic bitch of a mother made sure I was an accomplice to her butchery. Well, I suppose it couldn't have gone any other way, considering my disposition, my looks. I was never an attractive girl; there were never any titillating love affairs in my future. I wasn't particularly bright or artistic, either. Those girlish dreams of creating something, being something, were never going to be reality. Not for Dolores "Dicey" Klinkscales. Lord, what a life.
I remember Agnes. I never called her mother, not once. She was not a pretty woman- in fact, she had the slack mouth of an idiot, which she painted with garish red lipstick, and a lazy eye- but damned if she didn't have a way with men. Daddy never knew, of course. He was a traveling salesman, off providing for us, door-to-door. He never knew Agnes was unhappy...he never knew Agnes was psychotic. The only thing he knew was that Agnes often had a rich, bubbling beef stew simmering for him when he came home. She was a good wife, cooking for her husband, popping the top off his bottle of beer and massaging his tired feet. Did it matter that the stew was made up of the butchered body of a young boy that Agnes had met somewhere?
Poor Daddy ate it up every time, like it was the tastiest thing on earth. He would belch and pick his teeth with a toothpick. Then he would be off again, gone for weeks, leaving Agnes with her blood lust. Poor Daddy never had a clue.
I don't know why she did it. Reporters asked me time and time again, but I couldn't give them an answer. The truth was, Agnes was simply damaged. She always had been. I remember stories she used to tell me about her father, and how he used to touch her. When she was fifteen, she gave his baby up for adoption. Somewhere in this world, I have an inbred half-sister, but I have no desire to find her. I'm afraid she might remind me too much of Agnes.
She started hacking young men to death when I was about nine years old. I remember the first time well: Agnes had lured an errand boy into the house with the promise of free booze and sex. He readily accepted, and after she got him good and liquored up, out came the hatchet. He was passed out when she gave him a good blow to his head, lodging the hatchet against bone with a hideous "CRACK!" I still hear that sound in my dreams. The blood was dark and thick, and it pooled on the ratty couch. Agnes had to get rid of it before Daddy came home. She put it on our tiny front lawn, and when a neighbor asked about the stains, Agnes told her it was cranberry juice. No further questions were asked.
I helped her for the first time when I was twelve. She thrust the hatchet in my hands, and I had no choice but to take a swing. She kept staring at me, penetrating me with her eyes. "Do it," she said through gritted teeth. "I am your mother, and goddamn it, you will do as I say."
I looked at the victim. He couldn't have been more than twenty years old, lanky and pimple-faced. He was writhing on the floor; Agnes had given him a good blow to the head like she always had, and he was slowly dying, like a fish out of water. I clutched the hatchet in both hands and took a deep breath. With all the strength I had, I lodged the blade in his chest. The blood came pouring out of his mouth, viscous and nearly black, and as I pulled the hatchet out of his chest with Agnes's help, he fixed his blue eyes on me before he finally died. I had put him out of his misery, just like Agnes wanted.
Agnes chopped him into pieces and made Daddy's special stew. What little she had leftover, she fed to the dog. The neighbors always wondered what we fed him, since he was the biggest, strongest mutt they had ever seen. Oh, if only they knew.
Agnes was found out in 1952. That's when I finally gathered the courage to call the cops. Even though I never wanted to help her, they tried me, as well. I spent years in the pen before I was finally released, old and broken, the subject of rumors and gossip. I didn't care...I didn't care about anything, anymore. Agnes is long gone, died in prison. Daddy died of a heart attack while vacationing with his second family. He never wrote me, or came to see me. He gave himself a fresh start.
So, here I am, living in some rat-hole apartment and having my groceries delivered to me by a kind and helpful young boy. Last week, he brought me a pumpkin from the store and offered to make me a jack-o'-lantern. I told him to leave the pumpkin as it was, but I offered him a beer before he left. His face lit up, and as I popped the top off for him, I noticed just how young and lithe he was. I grabbed a beer myself and toasted Agnes.
"Who's Agnes?" he asked, wiping his mouth.
"No one," I said, thinking of the small hatchet I kept under the kitchen sink. "go on and finish your beer, hon."
"An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way."
"And by the way, dearie, your punctuation sucks canal water!"
-The ghost of Vivian Vance
This message was edited by the author on October 21, 2012 at 11:56:29 AM
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