The stairs creaked as Lucy took each step upwards, her shoulders slumped, the tips of her gloves wet with blood. Tears ran unbidden down her face: not for Emily Edmonds, but for the dream of a mother she had left behind. Emily wasn’t her mother. She was just like all the others. Nothing but a huge disappointment. She would have to clean up the mess before she could even think about starting again.
Steam rose in puffs of clouds as the bath filled, and she wiped the sides of the old music box clean. Despite the mouldy tiles and the paint chipping on the bathroom ceiling, she couldn’t bring herself to activate the extractor fan. She liked the steam, and the condensation dripping lazily down the walls. She could pretend she was in a different place rather than here, at home, abandoned and alone. The music box gave an involuntary tinkle as she gently placed it on the tiled window ledge.
She tutted at the splatters of blood as she slipped off her lace-up boots. She had cleaned them up before; she could do it again. ‘Hush little baby, don’t say a word… ’ she sang. Pulling off the bloodstained apron and then her dress, she rolled down her black tights and removed her underwear. ‘Mama’s gonna buy you a mocking bird.’ She wasn’t wearing a bra. Little girls didn’t need things like that. The wig was the last thing to come off, and she walked across the landing and placed it lovingly on the styrofoam head in her bedroom. The blonde ringlets bounced as it settled, and she hummed the rest of the tune, fixing the dummy’s head until it was in line with all the others. Satisfied, she returned to the bathroom.
Steaming hot water sloshed over the sides of the roll-top bath as she eased herself in. She would need to wash again after she disposed of the body, but she didn’t want to think about that. She needed to go to a happy place now that the rage had subsided. She wound her music box, allowing the tinkling tune of ‘Hush, Little Baby’ to carry her away.
Holding her breath, she submerged herself under the water. She was there in an instant. A reset button flicked in her brain, and she opened her eyes, allowing her fantasies of Emily Edmonds to wash away. She was not Lucy Edmonds. She had another Mummy with a different surname, and soon she would be knocking on her door.
Steam haloed around her head as she emerged, giving in to the instinctive need for air. She closed her eyes as the scene played out, vivid in her imagination. It was warm, comforting, the perfect Christmas Day, back in a time where nobody could hurt her. Her hands caressed the silkiness of her skin, until the scene dissolved and the transformation was complete. She was no longer a child at Christmas but a woman, and she had housework to do and a mess to clean up in the basement. She examined her hands and thought of the blood, the life she had extinguished. Emily’s muffled pleas had not gained her empathy, but fed her sense of power. Emily was merely a representative of all the people who turned their back on her pain. Lucy allowed the blood-tinged foam to wash over her as she dipped her chin into the water; her hands stroking now, gaining in rhythm. ‘Yes,’ she moaned. That felt good. There was nothing to regret. Soon she could start again.
She re-enacted the basement scene: the blood dripping from the corners of Emily’s mouth; staining Lucy’s gloves as she gripped her throat. The metal chair, tilting and collapsing beneath them as she straddled Emily’s limp frame. Finally, the thrill of feeling Emily’s pulse fade beneath her fingers as her pathetic life ebbed away. Lucy’s eyes rolled back into her head as pleasure rippled through her body. Gradually, the water turned cold and the sound of the music box stilled.
Tomorrow she would begin again. And again. And again.
She would do what it took to find her mother. Somebody worthy of her love.