Scars

Juliet had buried her mother months ago, in a patch of withered heather behind the manor. 

She hadn’t gone out since then. The old man from down the lane came by every day, bringing her water from the well and fresh food from the market in exchange for money. He was the only person she ever saw. 

Everyone else in the village didn’t have the full picture, just whispered rumors. And for this reason, if Juliet went out, she knew she would be hunted down. No one was brave enough to find her and kill her in her own home, especially with the manor’s formidable gates. But there was an unspoken knowledge, weighing on the air like a dust cloud, that if she showed her face outside, it would be the last thing she did. 

Today she woke up later than usual, rolling over in her expensive silk sheets and letting the listless winter light streaming through the windows wash over her face. It took a moment for her to realize. It’s Christmas. Mother had loved Christmas. She would tell the servants to hang garlands from every polished banister, to assemble gorgeously decorated trees in every room, to light blazing fires in every hearth. 

The servants had all gone now; Juliet had sent them away, back to their homes in the village. She felt their absence even more acutely today, walking through the empty, ghoulish halls in her thin nightgown and bare feet. She wandered slowly down a staircase, footsteps silent against the heavy carpet. 

She walked into the kitchen, which was quite humble compared to the rest of the house. Brick, with a wooden table and endless dull pots and pans. Juliet never ate in the dining room. It was much too grand. The kitchen suited her needs just fine. She opened a cloth sack on the table—the old man had given it to her the day before—and looked inside, pulling out oats and a bottle of milk. She poured both into a pot and began preparing porridge. 

Her hands shook as she stirred the porridge with a metal spoon. Every time the spoon clanked against the edge of the pot, the noise seemed to reverbrate throughout the entire hollow manor. The air was still and so, so cold. 

Juliet scooped the porridge into a porcelain bowl and began to eat. 

It was Christmas. Usually the kitchen was alight with roaring fires and heavy with the warm smell of smoke and delicious foods. Cooks ran about, preparing tender meats and roasted potatoes, stuffed fowl and rich, steaming stews, thick cakes and decadent gingerbread. Juliet and her mother had had a tradition, where they would forgo food for the entire day so that they would be properly hungry for Christmas dinner. 

Juliet rested her head on her hand, clenching her fingers in the blond curls close to her scalp. The idea of a beautiful Christmas felt so faint now, so intangible. All that she had was gray, cold porridge and memories that felt like they were fraying at the seams, tarnished by misery and regret. 

Staying here in this house was making her crazy. She could nearly feel herself unraveling. Slowly but surely, bit by bit, so slowly that she hadn’t noticed, so quickly that she couldn’t stop it. 

She was only half sure that she hadn’t gone mad. 

She stood up slowly from the table, casting aside the barely-touched bowl of porridge. Her shoulders shook. She had thought to herself once, months ago, that she would run out of tears one day. That she would eventually grow numb. But that day refused to come. Tears coursed down her cheeks, glistened on the edge of her round, freckled nose. This place was just so cold. She could feel the cold enveloping her, choking her, sucking out all the warmth that she’d tried her hardest to protect.

That’s it, she decided, right then and there. Something needed to change. 

*

It was night. Snow was blowing wildly outside in great waves through the air. The old man had come and gone, his shriveled, mole-ridden hands reaching out for the usual three gold coins. She’d given him seven this time. He’d stared at her, eyes watery and round with disbelief.

“Why so many, dear?” he’d asked hoarsely. 

She didn’t have the heart to tell him that there would be no more gold coins after this. “It’s Christmas,” she said instead. He nodded and grinned a warm, toothless grin, then left. 

Now Juliet found Mother’s old cloak hanging by the door. It was thick, maroon, and smelled just like its old owner. Juliet wrapped it around herself, breathing in the smell of her mother, and felt slightly sick. 

She swung a sack over her shoulder. It was filled with food, a canteen of water, and a blanket. Everything else—everything she owned, everything Mother had owned—would be left behind. 

The manor felt especially still and gaunt now, as Juliet stood at the front door. The tall wooden grandfather clock in the foyer read nearly ten o’clock. She had waited until it was dark out, when the villagers wouldn’t see her. 

It would feel so wonderful, to leave, to sleep in haystacks and old barns instead of this frigid prison, to be free of all that had been weighing on her for the past year. But Juliet hesitated. She looked around the place where she’d grown up, the only home she’d ever known. She could nearly hear the bustle of the servants, the roar of the kitchen, the lilting sound of her mother singing in the hallways. The smell of the cloak felt intoxicating now. If she closed her eyes, she could almost start to feel warm again…

She turned away and forced herself to walk out the door. 

Immediately she wanted to go back inside. Despite the stifling memories, at least in the manor, it wasn’t this harsh. The snow was sharp, billowing around her like flames, standing out starkly against the black sky above. The cruel wind seemed like it wished to force Juliet off the path, stinging her skin and making her cheeks flush red. She stumbled and clutched the cloak around her as she walked slowly away from the manor and towards the tall, dark iron gates that led to the road. 

The manor sat at the very end of a dirt road, which wound its way through sparse, skeletal trees and smaller houses until it got to the village. It was more open out here, so the storm felt even worse. Juliet walked as quickly as she could. The wind blew her hood back from her head. Her curls flew fiercely around her face. She grimaced with dry, cracking lips. Perhaps once she got into the village, she could rest for a little while, in an alcove or alleyway. It was a risk, but she couldn’t imagine anyone would be outside their homes in this storm, especially so late at night. 

Then, after she got through the village, she would walk until she got to the next town, which wasn’t far from here. A town where no one knew her name. A town where whispers about her didn’t lurk in dim corners and the dank mouths of people glancing furtively over their shoulders. 

She was almost there, almost to the unfriendly village. This would be the hardest part. 

The old man lived just outside the village, in a little wooden house just a little ways from the place where the dirt road became cobblestone. Juliet had hoped she could get past this quickly, but here, in this spot, wrapped in the cloak that still smelled like her mother despite the winding beating it so, the bitter taste of memory grew too much to bear. 

Juliet stopped. 

*

It was an overcast day, the clouds above weighted with the promise of rain. Juliet and her mother laughed as they wandered through the village, baskets of food slung on their arms. It was shopping day, and they’d been walking around the market for hours, smiling at all the things they saw. The town was so charming, Juliet thought to herself, compared to the grand manor she lived in. 

She smiled when she saw group of children playing in the street, then retreating after they were scolded by a man trying to get his mule-drawn cart of apples to the market. She didn’t feel any jealousy towards these children, though she’d never had any friends to play with. Juliet was sixteen now, and without a single friend. And she couldn’t care less. She had Mother, and that was all she needed. 

“Oh, look how pretty the sky is!” said Mother, her curly reddish-brown hair falling back from her face as she stared upwards. 

Juliet laughed, shaking her head. “It isn’t pretty, Mother, it’s all gray.”

Mother beamed, her smile stretching across her pink cheeks. Though her skin was pale, she made up for it by always being flushed with delight at something or other. “Yes, and it is beautiful. Or will you say that I’m not beautiful when I’m old and have gray hair?”

“Never,” giggled Juliet. She couldn’t imagine her mother being anything but young and gorgeous. She was someone that Juliet felt would never grow old, no matter how much time passed. 

“Come on,” Mother said. “Let’s go home. Or is there anything else you want to buy?”

“No,” said Juliet. “Let’s go.”

Her mother took her hand and led her through the throngs of people. The crowd thinned out slowly as they wound their way through the wooden shops and homes, and when they reached the dirt road, there was no one around at all. Just the wide open bleakness of the February sky, Juliet, and her radiant mother. 

It was Juliet who noticed him first. A young man, with a soot-streaked face and disheveled black hair. His clothes were tattered. Juliet always grew nervous around poor people. They were much too loud and raucous and unpredictable, in her opinion. 

“Hello,” said her mother politely. “How are you today?”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Are yeh the Hills?”

Her mother nodded. “Yes.” 

“The ones who live in the manor?”

Juliet answered this time, somewhat impatiently. “Yes, we are.”

It was Mother who noticed the gun first. It was strapped on the man’s back, nearly hidden from view. Juliet saw her mother’s eyes widen when she saw it. 

The moment the man realized that Mother had seen the gun, he reached behind and pulled it out, quick as a snap, and pointed it at her. Juliet gasped. Her mother slowly put her trembling hands up. 

“Give me money,” the man said with a slight smirk. He cocked the gun with a crack. “Give me everything you have, and maybe I won’t kill yeh.” 

Juliet’s heart was pounding in her ears. She glanced around wildly, but she didn’t see anyone. The road was still deserted. She didn’t dare call for help.

“All right.” Mother’s voice was shaking. She reached into her basket with a quivering hand and pulled out a sack of coins. “Here, it’s yours.” 

“Drop it at my feet,” said the man. She did. Then he jutted his chin at Juliet. “You too, pretty girl. Everything you have. Unless you want to see your mother die.”

Juliet paled. Both her mind and body felt frozen with fear. She couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, couldn’t think. All she could see was the man’s gun, like a blazing image suspended in midair. She was going to die. Her and Mother. They were both going to die, right here, on this cloudy day. Her breaths grew short. Her chest heaved up and down. Her head spun in circles, her vision blurring and refocusing. The man was still glaring at her, still pointing his gun at Mother. 

“Juliet!” said Mother. Her voice was the most sharp and urgent Juliet had ever heard it. “Do as he says.” 

Juliet was still paralyzed. Her feet felt glued to the dirt road. She couldn’t do anything except very slowly, stiffly, shake her head. 

A shot rang out, loud and echoing, slicing through the silence of the world. Juliet jumped at the sudden noise. She looked around, not sure where it had come from. She didn’t realize it had come from the gun; she had never even seen one before, much less heard one. Her ears rang. She saw the man’s mouth fall open, as though he’d done something he hadn’t planned on actually doing. He dropped the gun on the ground and ran away, back into the village. 

Juliet stared after him, confused. Then she looked back at the gun on the ground.

And her mother lying next to it. 

Only then did she scream. 

No longer frozen, she ran towards Mother. There was a round little wound in the side of her jaw. Blood was pouring out of it in great spurts, staining the earth scarlet. Juliet dropped down on her knees and wailed. 

“Mother!” she cried. “Mother, are you all right?”

Her mother turned her head ever so slightly towards her. “Juliet,” she gasped out. 

“It will be all right,” said Juliet, touching Mother’s cheek. “Someone will help you.” She raised her head. “Help!” she shrieked. She searched around frantically, then caught sight of an old man standing outside of his house, looking bewildered. “Help me, please!”

Slowly he tottered towards Juliet. “I saw what happened,” he croaked, his eyes wet. “I’m sorry, dear. She cannot be helped. You need to…you need to finish it. She is in great pain.” 

Juliet stared at him. “Finish it?” Her voice grew high and uncertain. “You can’t mean kill her?”

Mother reached up and touched Juliet’s arm. “Juliet,” she whispered again. 

Juliet turned her head hurriedly. “It’s okay, Mother, we’ll find help, don’t worry—”

“No,” her mother rasped. Her lips hardly moved. Deep red blood was covering her neck and soaking her hair. “He…is right. You have to…” 

Juliet’s eyes widened. “No,” she said, shaking her head fervently. “I won’t. I won’t do it.” 

The old man behind her spoke again. “You must. She will only die very slowly, and much more painfully, if you do not.” 

Tears spilled from the corners of Juliet’s eyes. “No,” she said, her voice wavering. 

“Please,” Mother whispered, her voice breaking. “Please, Juliet.” 

Juliet was sobbing now. The old man put a tentative hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off. “I can’t.” 

Mother’s earnest brown eyes met hers. They were glistening and filled with pain. “You must.” 

Juliet’s heart was still hammering. She threw her head back and stared up at the sky. It was not beautiful. It was cold and unfriendly and distant. Slowly, on thin, shaking legs, Juliet stood up. She picked up the gun. 

Her mother was shaking, whether from pain or fear, she couldn’t tell. Juliet could hardly see through the tears. “I’m sorry, Mother.” 

“Do it,” Mother said, so, so quietly. “Please.” 

Just as she’d watched that awful man do, Juliet cocked the gun. She pointed it at her mother’s head. Her entire body was trembling. 

Closing her eyes, she pulled the trigger. 

Her mother’s head jerked sideways, then lay still. Her eyes went quickly, finally, blank. 

Juliet fell to her knees. “I’m so sorry,” she wept, over and over again. For a while, the air was very still. 

Then a woman screamed. 

It was a wailing, bloodcurdling scream. Juliet raised her head. Standing nearby was a great crowd of people that had gathered on the dirt road. They were all staring at her as though she’d done something horrible.

“What happened?” she heard one person ask.

Another voice replied, “That girl—the Hill girl—just killed her mother.”

And then suddenly, as though turned by a switch, everyone’s faces grew angry. The crowd surged forward. It happened so quickly that Juliet didn’t react. 

The old man did, though. He grabbed her and pulled her up by her shoulders. “Run!” he whispered urgently in her ear. And so she did. She turned and ran, back down the road, back towards the manor. It had finally started to rain now, soaking her clothes and streaming down her face, washing away the tears. Juliet ran and ran and ran. 

It was many hours, well into the middle of the night, before she felt safe enough to look for her mother’s body. Sure enough, there she was, left splayed out on the road like a reminder of what had happened that day. Sobbing the whole time, Juliet dragged her mother back to the manor. 

It wasn’t your fault, she told herself, over and over, for hours, for days, for months. 

But she knew it wasn’t true. 

*

Juliet jolted herself back to the present. Snow swirled around her. Her breath made clouds in the air. She was mildly surprised to notice that there were tears frozen on her cheeks. 

The cloak felt too tight around her now, like it was trying to choke her, to drag her down. And, though Juliet told herself it was her imagination, she could’ve sworn that the howling wind was saying something. 

You cannot run.