The Rules

“You know the rules!” Mother shouts, raising her voice above the last two stanzas of the screeching song.

Lyla’s narrow shoulders curve in to retreat from the crescendo of voices. “You really didn’t have to.”

A meek smile creeps onto full lips. Elegant fingers, the color of Mother’s coffee before milk, brush a curtain of thickly coiled hair behind pierced ears.

Mother places a weathered alabaster-white hand on Lyla’s shoulder. “Go on, love.” Mother motions to the modest single-layer Betty Crocker cake, an eighteen the shape of golden balloons sitting atop it.

I watch Lyla close her eyes and knit her brows. The creaky house becomes eerily still, holding its breath in an attempt to bring Lyla’s wish into existence on the melting vanilla icing.

Next to me, Kiki, one of the triplets, rolls her eyes and barks, “Hurry up and make a wish, Lyla! I’m hungry!” Kita and Kimi whirl and simultaneously smack Kiki’s arm. “You just wish it was your 18th birthday so you could get your special cake!” The three fell into the steady pattern of all birthday celebrations, begging Mother to let them have a taste.

Maybe just this once, I thought.

“Now, now. You know the rules,” Mother croons, brushing back the triplets' ramshackle hair to perfection.

Multiple voices chirp, reciting the words Mother taught all of us when we arrived. Rule number two: The day we can venture out into the world is when we can celebrate with something special: cake. How could Mother do it for every birthday?

Especially with the baby that showed up at our doorstep last night.

I wasn’t a baby when I got to Mother’s, but I was left at the doorstep, too. At first, all you can do is cry. Searing, hot tears for weeks, months. An ache in your chest that doesn’t go away, like your ribcage is made of plexiglass, taking each inhale with no real air to supplement the gasping screams.

The question that ping-pongs in your brain all day long, urging you to continue purging the memories of your previous family.

Why wasn’t I enough?

Then, you slowly forget – that soft white sensation creeping in– as if your head is floating.

And Mother is there, with open arms. She’s brought in over thirty sisters into this house. She was the only one who thought we were worthy when everyone else tossed us to the side.

Weathered, soft, alabaster white floating through you.

Like the clouds lazily hanging from the thick beams in our shared bedrooms.

And glow-in-the dark stars shielding us from the hazy figures in the corners, watching us sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lyla’s leaving today, on her way to begin a new life. How many of my older sisters have left and never come back to see how we were all doing?

How Mother is doing?

An itch of bitterness creeps down my throat. I would miss Lyla the most.

She taught me how to braid my hair, pierced my ears when Mother wasn’t looking, and even told me she kissed a boy when we weren’t supposed to go past the iron gate.

I shake my head, attempting to recenter my reality from the cloudy memories. A jerky movement from the corner of my eye snaps my mind to attention. A straw hat covering sparse gray hairs and ripped jean overalls appear in front of the sprawling patches of narcissus and red poppies. I let out a soft sigh, Just gardener William. The gentle ebb and flow of Mother’s perfect flowers mirrors a dreamy sunrise from the casement windows, years of William perfecting his green thumb on grand display. He turns to the large windows and smiles, waving to me. This was a daily occurrence ever since I came to live here. I love helping gardener William, he often calls me his little green thumb.

He’s the closest thing to a father I have. He taught all of us how to ride a bike, tie our shoes, and catch lightning bugs, Mother even has him eat supper with us every night.

In a blinding flash, William’s shears clumsily miss a wilting stem, deep red pooling in his hand and forearm, trickling down.

William’s head oddly cracks to the left, too far to the left. My desk scrapes against the floor as a full body gasp escapes my lips, and eleven heads swivel in my direction.

Shit.

“Nicolette,” Mother mutters, “what is rule number three?” Her heels hiss against the wood floor as she pivots, setting the Bible onto the ornately sculpted desk. Piercing blue eyes pin me to my seat, and my heart lodges in my throat.

“When Mother is teaching, we are listening.” I avoid her icy gaze. Every time a sister leaves, Mother becomes easily irritable. When Diana left two years ago, she forced all of us to balance books on our heads for three straight hours because Olivia forgot to put away the eggs.

Rule number five: one sister's chore is everyone’s responsibility.

No breaks. No water. Only Mother’s lesson.

Beads of sweat from the cold glass dripped onto her puckered skin, the crash of several books echoed throughout the halls, “These are the rules,” her voice soft and sweet, one sister sniffled, rebalancing the three books onto her aching crown, “no child of mine will forget them.”

She nods curtly. “Please go to your room and grab your blackboard and Bible. I know you did not bring it down to lessons today.” She taps her glasses away from the tip of her nose, and eyes the stairs.

I gulp down a sigh of relief and twist to lift off from the stiff chair, “And on your way back–” her voice booms, “you must recite Ephesians verse 5 and 6 from memory.”

It felt as if eyes from every part of the room were boring into me, my legs melting into the floor.

Mother only wants what is best; she knows I can do better.

I bow softly. “As you wish, Mother.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I take the stairs by twos attempting to quicken my pace, our shared rooms come into view from the top of the steps.

Which verse used ‘thy’ versus ‘thee’? – a cloud of white fogs my memory.

I hear the click of a lock, metal grinding, and a soft rasp of old hinges.

I slowly turn to the sound, an old, heavy door slightly ajar. A stained glass lamp peaking through the crack, shining bright as if someone was seated there moments ago.

Rule number one: Do not go into Mother’s office.

I shake my head in protest. No, no, you’ve caused enough trouble today. You know how Mother gets when she loses a daughter.

Another voice screams in my head, the ping-ponging starting up again, What will she do if she– my head begins to hurt.

The words fade away, were they even there?

Soft reverberations of Mother’s lesson spiral up and I quickly scan the hall for hidden sisters – then slide my small frame through the crack of the office door.

An oval green rug sits beneath the delicately carved desk, with angels and beasts carved into every inch. Four bookshelves loom behind it, holding leather back textbooks, locked boxes and binders thick with documents.

I make my feet as light as possible, tiptoeing to the brightly lit desk, scanning to find any potential letters from our sisters.

Ugh, just boring newspapers and – I cock my head, attempting to gain a better view below the desk.

Stray papers catch the lamp light, titles regarding “goods and services”, “price ranges”, hair color – receipts and invoices with sisters' names.

Maybe Mother is in need of additional money to support us.

I wonder if we can help her?

Why does she not tell us?

A nagging voice rings like a bell in the back of my mind. I remember Mother taught a few lessons on our government, social security, foster care systems, capitalistic governments, stocks, the brown market – I definitely zoned out during this lesson. Mother acted as if poison was on her tongue when she discussed the topic with us, we never talked about it again.

A bitter cold strikes the back of my neck, as if the world was dunked into an ice bath. A streak of black shoots through my peripheral vision and into the corner of the office, long streaks of inky hair whisper around the figure – I choke back a scream, stumbling backwards, digging my nails into my palms.

The ghostly figure seems to waver, bleeding into the corner of the room as if it were a painting. A long tendril rises at the shoulder, a finger-like talon points towards the office door.

A skull key.

Creaks of the stairs blast up upwards, heels smacking onto the splintering wood. I jump, leaping towards the door and swipe the heavy key. I turn quickly to see if the wavering haze was indeed a painting, angling myself to escape the frigid room.

But it was gone.

I can’t sleep.

A windstorm began brewing at dinner time, creaks and moans of hundred year old crevices reverberating endlessly into the night.

The cold sting of the skull key presses into my breast like a brand, forcing my eyes open, frequently darting to the corner where the hazy figures reside.

Tonight, it seems as if they are waiting for something.

Potentially agitated with the windstorm’s never ending banter with the shingles, or that I now held something they guided me to.

A tiny sliver of moonlight broke through the window, tree branches creating malformed faces and figures through the vast window, and I raise the skull key to meet it.

D.H

My heart skips a beat, D.H? Mother never told us of a sister named D.H. or was this the old owner of the house?

Curiosity grumbles in my gut.

All of the sisters knew every room, what was in them, and what went where, and to return what you take – that was another one of Mother’s rules, number four to be exact. The only additional room I can think of is the shed outside for additional supplies and some gardening tools for William.

It’s most likely just a name, Nicolette.

Get back to bed.

Mother knows best.

A twinge twists my gut.

On instinct I look up.

Two figures stand before me, hazy and see through. Their heads lie at an odd angle, too sharp to the left, just like gardener William.

This time I am not afraid as they lead me to the door.

I softly plumff onto the carpet beneath our bunk and tiptoe, placing my heels carefully onto the pieces of wood that won’t creak.

I have Lyla to thank for that.

I slide down the hall eyeing Mother’s room as I pass, and drift down the stairs like the wraith’s in front of me. They abruptly stop, turning their angled necks to me and point.

Linens.

There was a door at the back of the closet. The wraiths hover behind me, a bone deep pressure building in my chest, a tight squeeze beginning to sharpen against my throat.

My mind feels as if it is breaking – like air is being sucked out of the tight room. What about the rules? What will Mother make my sisters do if she finds me?

Another voice grinds out, as if bone was fluttering in the back of one's mouth – crunching every word into my ears.

Why… do we never… call?

Mother loves us!

Why… do we never… come back?

MOTHER LOVES US!

A gentle brush against my elbow snaps me into reality, pushing my arm forward, gliding the key into the lock and twisting.

Metal – cold metal spreads across my slick finger tips.

A room, just like our living room is replicated in this cold space. A lamp is on, the same lamp – in the same place as our living room.

The chairs are the same.

The carpets are the same.

Mother’s ornate desk is the same.

There’s a sort of muscle memory at play, since the rest of the room is still coated in the hue of the night. I step into the room and the floorboards creak. In the corner of my eye I see a shadow, sitting on the love seat angled towards the bookshelf.

Before they can move I lie flat onto the ground behind the large leather sofa.

It’s Mother, this is just like her office. Her place to relax. Just stand up and apologize.

But the figure does not move. The floors do not creak. The release of the leather on skin does not pierce the sickly quiet air.

I remove myself from the floor and cautiously move to the lamp – still no movement, not even an inch.

This shadow, it seems so familiar.

I curl my fingers against the lamp and turn it towards the figure, slowly revealing the brown thick curls and pierced ears I saw only two days ago.

A bright toothy grin is stretched into a smile, reaching high up on her cheeks and squinting her beautiful eyes almost shut. Her elbows are flexed into 90 degree angles, floating above the rolled sofa arm, neck tilted slightly to the left.

A large necklace covering a blooming bruise around her throat.

“L-Lyla?” my voice comes out in a squeak, I move closer reaching out to touch her.

Her nailbeds are blue, but she feels… warm. I look down to the carpet, attempting to examine her feet, but she’s barefoot.

With a tag wrapped around her big toe.

A price tag.

I take in air in massive gulps, the white fog begins to clear. The night Lyla left, I remember.

She told me to be careful.

She told me to run.

So, I run.

The lamp thuds onto the floor and I bolt past the doorway into the sprawling garden. The deep hues of sunrise begin to blot the sky. My head whips.

Go.

The crackles of the tree branches and red poppies seem to scream at me as my bare feet dig into the earth, kicking up the soft morning dew.

Gardener William leaves the pearly white shed with a pale of fresh soil in hand, already beginning his day and locks eyes with me.

My heart sings, his arms open wide and I crash into him, tears streaking my face. “M-mother!!” I croak, “she keeps them!” I pant, looking frantically between his bloodshot eyes. I hear soft shushes from his lips, caressing my hair with his weathered hands.

“She stuffs them and sells them,” I whisper-scream, looking around to ensure I haven’t been found, “like dolls!” I tug his arm towards the gate, snot rolling down my nose, sputtering the last words out like a prayer.

“You have to help us leave, you have to help my sisters escape!”

Gardener William cocks his head, looking into my eyes and flashes a toothy grin.

One that reached past his cheekbones.

“You know the rules.”