37

Abi moved toward the mantelpiece; the knife held loosely by her side. She made a beeline for the large ornamental jar, adorned with a golden plate, engraved expertly with the name of the deceased. Her movements were methodical, distant—she rested the knife on the wooden surface, before a picture of Lauren and her happy family. She reached for the ashes.

Lauren was up quickly, finding strength and bravery that she didn’t know she possessed, strength and bravery born of anger, frustration, desperation. She scooted up behind her relative, waited, and prepared.

Abi grunted in displeasure, placed the urn back on the mantelpiece, and turned around. “It says Butch, not—”

Lauren moved her head back and then forward, a pendulum swing that connected forehead to nose, skull to cartilage. The impact rocked her, instantly blurring her vision, sending a screaming pain through her skull and forcing her to stagger, but she had the advantage of surprise, and it did more damage to her assailant. Abi careened backward, her spine connecting with the wooden edge of the mantelpiece and causing her to double over, bringing photographs and the urn of ashes tumbling down as she crashed into a heap on the floor.

“That’s because it’s our dog!” Lauren yelled through the blinding haze, kicking out in the direction of her attacker’s face, reveling in the sensation she felt when the bones of her slippered foot connected with flesh. “Gran was buried, you psycho bitch!” she swung again, this time connecting with her jaw. The impact broke bones in Lauren’s foot and caused her to stumble, but she righted herself and swung with her other foot. “She stopped visiting you and sending you letters because she fucking died. Dead people don’t write letters, they don’t visit people in hospital, and they definitely don’t kill people!”

Lauren kicked and kicked, hearing grunts and anguished cries spit and splutter in reply, realizing that her efforts were working. The noise of encroaching sirens filtered through the whistling tinnitus, creating a banshee cacophony. Her body was fueled on adrenaline—shaking, unsteady, dizzy. The chaos around her seemed far away, an alarm clock interrupting a deep sleep and a vivid dream, a film watched through fatigued eyes.

Every kick she threw her sister’s way was weaker than the last, causing less damage, making less of an impact, until eventually, Abi caught one of the swinging limbs and, with what little energy she could muster, held it tight. Lauren was too exhausted to fight back. Immediately she lost her balance, shaking on her standing leg, arms flailing, a yelp escaping her lips. She was unable to right herself, unable to prevent her sister from clawing at her leg, twisting her, dragging her down.

Lauren fell sideways, into the fireplace. She threw out her hands to stop herself and prevent the vulnerable appendages from taking the brunt of the fall. Her hands caught on the metal grille of the fireplace, the plastic zip tie forcing her arms upward while the rest of her body fell down.

A bolt of white-hot pain raced from her shoulders to the back of her skull. She heard something crack, and for a split second she thought she had ripped her arms out of her sockets, but then she felt them drop loosely by her side—numb, tingling, and wrapped with the remnants of a broken zip tie.

Lauren fell as a crumpled heap on her sister, her temple clipping the bottom of the grill—another short, sharp shock, another bolt of pain—before her body rested atop the mess of canine ashes that coated her face, her clothes, and the floor.

The pain screeching through her body seemed to stop, if just for a moment, and she felt like the world had slipped out from under her. There was movement, a juggle of bodies, an exchange of positions. Lauren realized that her sister had pulled away, no longer lying beneath her, no longer supporting her. But even as the shadow of her psychotic sibling slowly rose above her, a black silhouette breaking through the white noise of her vision, the only thing she could think about was her son.

Had she given him enough time? Would the police arrive quickly enough?

The silhouette grew. Her sister reestablished her dominance, preparing to kill the one she was most jealous of, the one she hated more than anyone else in the world. The movement in her arms was gradually returning, the blood rushing to where it needed to be, the adrenaline forcing them into action, but her vision blinked in and out. She saw the silhouette of her sister one minute—towering over her menacingly, threateningly—and the welcoming relief of blackness the next.

In the darkness, she felt a weight on top of her. When she opened her eyes, she realized that her sister had now straddled her, taking control. Abi grabbed Lauren by the bangs, pulled her head forward, and then slammed it down. A tuft of ashes rose around her face as it connected with the floor and what remained of her beloved pet.

The ringing in her ears stopped for just a moment, before being replaced by a louder, more alarming noise, as if her mind was screaming at her. Her head was slammed again, and again, but the more pain she felt, the more her body told her wanted to close her eyes and drift away, the more determined Lauren’s mind was to stay awake. She couldn’t hear the sirens anymore, but she knew they were there, she knew the police were near, and she knew that the more she fought, the more time she bought her son.

Lauren kicked and bucked, trying to throw her assailant off, but Abi rode her like a bucking bronco, holding on tight. She tried to punch and claw, but her efforts were futile as her arms were weak. She tried to bite, but she couldn’t reach. And all the while, Abi wore a mocking smile, treating it like a game, a harmless fight between siblings.

Lauren twisted, squirmed, but Abi seemingly lost patience, moving her hands from Lauren’s blood-soaked hair to her neck. “Thought you could get the better of me, dear?” Abi scowled, squeezing tightly. There was a menace to her voice that wasn’t there before, spittle spraying on every syllable. “I’ve killed bigger and stronger people than you.”

Lauren tried to scream at her, to call her names, to yell for help, but her words were trapped under the tightening grip of her attacker.

“You’re just a worthless little girl. You can’t kill me.”

Lauren thought about playing dead, an idea she entertained for the briefest of moments, but her instincts fought it. She continued to buck, knowing she couldn’t force her attacker off, but also knowing that it would distract her. Just as Abi rode another attempt, keeping her hands tight to Lauren’s neck as she rocked forward, Lauren swung her fist at her sister’s face. There wasn’t much force behind the punch, but it was accurate and enough to catch Abi unawares and to knock her off balance. The grip loosened momentarily, but Lauren didn’t waste time admiring her handiwork. She used the extra freedom to shift to her left, bringing a toppled picture frame into reach, its solid wooden edges welcome underneath her fingertips. Lauren gripped the frame tightly and swung, connecting with Abi’s face just as her sister was recovering from the shock of the punch.

The glass in the frame had already cracked, but on contact with Abi’s temple, it shattered into a dozen more pieces and rained over the brawling siblings. Lauren bucked again, this time more successfully, causing her sister to rock and stumble. Her focus, her vision, her strength, and her determination were returning. Adrenaline, desperation, anger—emotions raged inside her and gave her a strength she didn’t know she had.

The glass may have broken, but the solid wooden frame was still intact. Lauren repositioned it so that the sharp corner jutted outward and she swung again, making clean contact with Abi’s temple, an impact so fierce that it snapped the frame in half.

Abi swayed from side to side and looked unsteady as a wound on the side of her head rapidly leaked blood. Lauren slapped the floor again, looking for another weapon, another opportunity. Her sister, albeit dazed and confused, returned her hands to Lauren’s throat, her mouth opening and closing to spit, her face a picture of malignancy, her words dead on arrival, her grip as weak as her mind.

Lauren’s eyes lit up when she felt cold steel between her fingers. It was an ornamental art piece, an industrial construct made of recovered wood and iron nails. She remembered the fake gratitude she had expressed when her husband bought it for her; the smile on his face as he waited for her to reciprocate and told her how it had been handmade by a famous industrial artist from Greece. Despite the pain, despite the noise that echoed throughout her skull and despite the threatening presence of her sister on top of her, Lauren swung with all her might.

A sound like a muffled gunshot rang throughout the room as the piece connected with Abi’s temple, cracking her skull, rolling her eyes to the back of her head, and sending her toppling to the floor. Lauren held the piece above her, blood dripping from one of the nails, trickling over the composite image of Christ.

Ethan appeared behind the sculpture. Lauren’s vision was still hazy, unable to focus, but she could see that he was terrified, visibly shaking. He held a baseball bat in both hands and seemed preoccupied with Lauren’s fallen foe.

“Ethan, you’re okay,” Lauren said, feeling an immediate sense of relief, the natural painkiller that her body had been crying out for.

“Are you?” he asked.

“I’ll live.”

“Should I finish her off?”

Lauren laughed, the noise becoming trapped in her throat, choked out by a spluttered cough.

“I will, you know. She deserves it.”

“She does,” Lauren agreed. “But no.”

Ethan bent down and extended his hand, but Lauren tiredly shook her head. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to lie here awhile. At least until the world stops spinning.”

Ethan nodded and looked at the woman, technically his aunt, the woman he didn’t know existed. “Is she dead?”

“We can only hope.”

“Should I make sure of it?”

Lauren laughed again, a short burst that she immediately regretted. “The police will be here soon. They’ll deal with her. Just … keep your distance.”

“I saw what she did to Dad,” Ethan said, not moving an inch despite what his mother told him. There was a pause, a protracted silence through which Lauren heard the sirens again, realizing that they were nearer, much nearer. “I saw what she did to you, as well. I was going to stop her, if you … you know.”

“I know, son. I know. Now, get the hell out of here in case that crazy cow comes back to life.”