Lucy pushed her head through the open bedroom window and inhaled deeply. Wavy heat lines rose from the road below, bringing with them the whiff of melting tar. She wiped the sweat from her brow, feeling like an ant burning under a magnifying glass. Any second now, she may just combust into flames. Maybe it would be better if she did. It had been hard to shift her mindset away from what she was brought up to believe: that she was a worthless waste of space, only good for the benefits her foster parents earned from keeping a roof over her head. A voice crept into her memory. C’mon, doesn’t matter if we do it, because we’re not really related after all. It was the voice of her foster brother the day before Lucy was sent back to the home. Each time she was returned to care because of her disruptive influence on the family household. Nobody believed her side of the story. At the age of thirteen she was on the scrapheap of life, with one failed adoption and numerous foster parents. Nice people didn’t want a troublesome child like her, and nobody stuck around long enough to ask her why she behaved the way she did.
How nice it must have been for them to carry on their lives without her. For years she endured the pain of watching other children get chosen for permanent homes. There had been one moment of hope. Mr and Mrs Mills, her third set of foster parents, had almost won her around, gifting her with the music box so alike the one from the movie she watched on a loop every day. Foolishly, Lucy had allowed herself to dream of them making a permanent commitment. But like a dog in the pound, she was destined for return. If she were an animal, she would have been put down.
But that was OK because now things would be different. She thought of Monica, with her beautiful features and manicured nails. She liked to sit on the basement step watching her as she slept. She’s not asleep, she’s concussed. The small voice spoke from the corner of her mind. Lucy’s jaw tightened. She was done with listening to reason. Monica was sleeping and everything would be just fine. Besides, she didn’t want to spoil things by waking her up. Having Monica look at her with fear in her eyes would only serve to dampen the warm spark of hope inside. You’re stupid if you think you can get away with it. Why would she want someone like you? ‘Shut up,’ she growled.
The stiff timber frame rattled as she banged her head against it in a rush to get inside. She needed to sit at her dressing table to quieten her inner voice. She rubbed the back of her scalp, taking her place before the mirror. The row of wigs, the false eyelashes, and the coloured contact lenses: all props to make her forget who she was. Only then could she start again. She eased the brunette wig from the styrofoam head and dipped her chin as she set it in place. Soon she would be Monica’s daughter for real. Her make-up may not be as eloquently applied, but her mother would love her just the same. Then later, when Mummy was feeling better, they would play her little game, and it would be Christmas all over again. Lucy checked her reflection against the photos sellotaped to the mirror before her. She liked the one of Monica sleeping the best. Lucy had made use of her special camera which could silently capture any image in the dimmest of light. Her eyes trailed over Monica’s satin nightdress as she peacefully slept in her king-sized bed: even in sleep she looked beautiful – just like a movie star. Lucy applied a coat of pink lipstick. Rolling it over her mouth, it stained the edges, making it appear bigger than it was. She smacked her lips together, too lost in thought to notice the stains on her teeth. She would show them. With the help of her new mother she would turn things around.
After ten minutes she was almost ready. Her sweat-laced skin had absorbed the foundation pancaking her face, and she dabbed her face with the powder puff to mask the streaks. There. Perfect. Now she was ready to wake Monica up. Lucy felt a flutter in her belly as a sense of cautious hope returned. Emily was just a test run. This time it would be just right. And nobody would get in her way.