Evil-yn

"Wake up, Evelyn, it’s time,” whispered a soft voice, nudging her sleeping sister gently.

Evelyn opened her eyes to the sight of wooden beams above her. Termites and mold had already crept into their home, leaving behind holes and rotted remnants. She wondered if her insides resembled the same decay. Would anyone ever have the endurance, or even the curiosity, to pry her open and witness the disintegration of her soul?

“Evelyn!” came the voice again, more anxious now. “Get up! He’s finally asleep!”

Evelyn turned her face slowly toward her younger sister, whose features reminded her so much of their mother. Her blue eyes glimmered even in the dark, and her flawless, pale skin could rival that of any noble-born daughter. Evelyn placed her palm on the girl’s cheek and tried to wipe away a smudge on her nose with her finger. But the yellow-black bruise around her sister’s eye couldn’t be erased, and it tore Evelyn apart, slowly and painfully. Hiding her despair, she pulled the girl close, giving her a kiss on the forehead—a silent promise.

“Please, don’t change your mind. I hate it here. I don’t want to stay with him anymore,” the young girl pleaded, pulling her head away from Evelyn’s hands. Her blue eyes had darkened suddenly, like a stormy sunset giving way to night. She stared at Evelyn intently. “You promised!”

Evelyn had indeed made that promise—first to herself, long before she made it to her sister. She had vowed six years ago, when she held her sister for the first time, that they would leave this cursed house, this cursed village, or even this cursed country if need be. The moment that man laid a hand on her sister, they would go. And just as she had foreseen, that moment had arrived a week ago.

A loud snore from the next room snapped her out of her thoughts. It felt as if she had been in a paralyzing limbo, and now her senses were flooding back, jolting her violently into reality. She smelled the mold’s stench, heard the sharp crackling of the firewood in the living room, and felt the dampness of the dirty sheets under her fingers. Through the crack in the door, she could see the shadow of the “devil” lying in the wooden rocking chair, and her mouth recalled a taste that no child should ever be able to recognise.

At the second guttural snore, Evelyn’s body flooded with a fight-or-flight response. In one swift motion, she was on her feet, causing the wooden floor to creak softly. The little girl smiled in satisfaction and tiptoed to the door, keeping an eye on the man’s movements as Evelyn began to prepare.

Evelyn picked up the white blouse and blue skirt hanging from the bedpost, bringing them close to her face as if they were the most fragrant flowers of the countryside. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. They smelled of joy, warm embraces, and love. They smelled of Mother. The clothes, now a perfect fit, had retained her mother’s scent, Evelyn was certain. Her younger sister, though she never said it, believed those clothes smelled of safety, peace, and... Evelyn.

With silent, precise movements, Evelyn put on her mother’s clothes and her own childhood apron, which she never parted with—it reminded her of who she was. She then groomed herself meticulously, as though preparing for church. Yes, that same church where the “devil” forced them to go every Sunday. He hid his horns behind neatly combed hair, sharpened his teeth strategically, and wore his Sunday best to conceal his sinful tail. Yes, the “devil” could deceive even God Himself if he wanted.

Next, Evelyn slid her feet into the black, worn men’s boots he used at work in the mine, trying to suppress a shudder at their origin. She remembered the day he announced he’d go hunting—an unusual event for him—and left her alone with the baby for three days. When he returned, he had no game, only the stench of alcohol emanating from his every pore and these boots. He’d thrown them at her feet as she cradled her crying sister and ordered her to clean them, informing her she’d start work at the mine the next morning. She was only thirteen. For hours, she’d scrubbed them in the icy river, but the bloodstain on one sole never truly disappeared. Even now, five years later, nausea rose whenever she wore them. Yet they protected her from the cold far better than her torn little shoes.

She glanced at herself in the cracked mirror—her mother’s one unsold possession—and decided she was ready to do what should have been done long ago.

Carefully, Evelyn retrieved her sister’s birth certificate from under her pillow and slipped it into her skirt pocket. She then pulled out the hidden sack from beneath the bed, slung it onto her back, and approached her sister, who was still watching the doorway. She gripped the cold, round metal doorknob, lifting it slightly to prevent the hinges from squeaking as she opened it. She knew that sound intimately; it haunted her bones every time the door creaked open in the dead of night. Often, she had prayed it was a demonic spirit come to finally drag her to her doom. The devil did visit, but he never took her with him. He left her instead, torn apart in the silence of her sobs. She used to scream, in those early years. But when no one came, she decided her voice was useless. It had been eight years since she’d last used it.

Evelyn took her sister’s hand gently and stepped forward. Together, they surveyed the cramped room ahead, a combination of kitchen and living room space, where a small fire flickered, breaking the silence. Before them, in deep sleep, snored someone who had been human a decade ago but now was far from it. Evelyn squeezed the girl’s hand once—a signal—and they began their escape. Following the plan they’d practiced, their steps were slow and calculated, avoiding unnecessary noise as they approached the cabin’s exit.

With a fluid motion, Evelyn swung the entrance door wide open, letting the cold air rush in and devour the small warmth the fire provided. Like there was any chance the fresh air would be able to purge the stench off from the memories trapped within the cabin’s wooden walls.

“He’ll wake up,” the little girl whispered fearfully through clenched teeth, tightening her grip. Evelyn guided her sister outside and knelt in front of her, offering a reassuring smile. “It’s time, isn’t it?” the girl whispered, pulling a piece of cloth from her apron pocket. Evelyn nodded, took the cloth, and, following their practiced routine, tied it snugly over her sister’s eyes before kissing her forehead.

Confidently, Evelyn moved to the kitchen and retrieved a small wooden barrel hidden in a cupboard. With force, she pried out the nail sealing its contents and cast one last glance around. She looked at the house that had offered her sweet memories in her first nine years and became a tormenting prison for the next nine. Tight-lipped with hatred, she began pouring the thick liquid onto the kitchen counter—the same counter where her aunt had once seen her with bloodied lips and a swollen eye but offered no help to avoid "overstepping family boundaries." The woman acted like she didn’t notice and merely looked away with a grimace of disgust.

 Then, with steady and deliberate steps, she dragged a wet, slimy line toward the bedroom. The same room where the entire village had heard her pleading for help, as the monster filled her insides with darkness. No one showed her mercy—not wanting to exceed the bounds of being a "good neighbor." They preferred to pretend they didn’t understand what was happening, though she had seen them in church, sneaking glances and gossiping shamelessly.

As she exited the bedroom, Evelyn paused and looked at the back of the monster, now lying almost unconscious in her mother’s favorite wooden chair. She tried to summon the part of herself that might pity him, but her eyes fell instead on the little girl waiting eagerly by the door. In that instant, she knew exactly what she needed to do.

Her next step faltered slightly as she slipped on the drops that had fallen to the floor. She was briefly reminded of that winter she had gone to the lake with her mother, just before she died, playing and sliding on the ice. She recalled her mother’s smile, the sound of their laughter, and the warmth of her embrace when they had tumbled onto the frozen lake together. It took her only a moment to regain her balance. When she did, she smirked ironically at the liquid on the floor. “Who would have known that animal fat could be so slippery?” she thought, continuing to create the slick path toward the living room floor.The same living room where, six years earlier, she had wept, feeling like she was being torn apart, begging the midwife to take the child to another home to save it. But the midwife had not done so, considering it beyond her job description boundaries. Instead, she had feigned momentarily deafness and handed the baby with joy to the wretched being now lying in that same spot.

Evelyn placed the nearly empty barrel by the front door, added another log to the fire, and turned toward the man. She looked at him for a long time, studying him. She tried to see the human behind the beast but couldn’t. Perhaps she, too, had become a fiend by now. Hearing the little girl’s teeth chattering from the cold behind her, she silently promised to rediscover the humanity within herself—for the sake of the girl. She was all that mattered anymore.

Resolutely, she moved toward him and yanked the bottle still resting on his chest with force. Raising her head, she looked down at him with pity before bringing the bottle to her lips. She took a large gulp, swirled it in her mouth, and spat it boldly in his face. She wasn’t worried about waking him. Her friends at the mine were strong people—poor but resourceful. “Just a few flakes of opium can put even an ox to sleep,” they had told her. She silently thanked them for their advice as she was serving him dinner that evening.

Slowly and with cruel precision, she began to pour the liquor over his face, his chest, and his pants. She took her time, savoring it. She set the bottle down beside him and wiped her greasy hands on the apron she wore. With graceful, practiced movements, she untied it from her waist—exactly as she had seen her mother do countless times before her death. Then, approaching the roaring fireplace, she deftly placed the apron’s string into the flames. Turning back, she looked at the man with cold indifference. She took one last look at the same man who had crossed so many goddamn boundaries—her father—before tossing the flaming apron onto his groin.

Afterward, Evelyn walked calmly toward the cabin’s threshold, kicked the small barrel of remaining fat onto the floor, and closed the door behind her. She took the little girl’s hands and placed them over her ears to shield her from the noise, then picked her up and began walking away. Glancing briefly over her shoulder at the blazing interior of the cabin, she chose to feign ignorance of it. Moments later, she heard the agonized screams erupting from within but chose to pretend not to understand what was happening.She saw the villagers running toward the cabin, shouting and begging someone to save the man who was writhing and screaming inside, but she chose a moment of deafness. After all, she didn’t want to cross any boundaries herself.

Just before entering the forest, Evelyn turned for one final glance at her act of purification. She hugged the little girl tightly and waited patiently for the demon-like cries to cease. The silence that followed was almost liberating.

“Go to hell,” she said, smiling, before disappearing into the forest, establishing her own boundaries at last.