Hand-Me-Downs

Doorbells and knocks—easily the worst noises on this space rock, especially when you're elbows-deep in a blood-soaked carpet and there's a pile of limbs in your tub.

I froze, the whimsical bell chime I bought online a few months back mocking me with its funny tune. The box cutter in my hand turned to concrete, every muscle in my body warming under the panic.

I waited, hoped they would go away. The ticking of my grandmother’s grandfather clock filled the space as I held my breath.

The moment stretched long enough for me to finally let my lungs out. I got back to cutting before another chime rudely interrupted.

I stood, sighing, and rushed to my bedroom. I ran on my toes over the hardwood in the hall. An effort to keep the mess contained.

Stripping already as I rounded the corner, I bounced into the room and threw on a pair of sweats and a band tshirt.

Another press of the doorbell echoed loud as I sprinted to the bathroom. I grabbed the frame and let momentum swing me into the bright, linoleum covered restroom.

Chopped limbs and other viscera piled on top of the red smeared egg-shell tub liner. I wasn't sure where one limb ended and the other began, and a quick glance convinced me I saw three hands.

Couldn't be, Trevor had a normal amount of limbs. He was hand-selected off Tinder. He had an extra limb, but it wasn't an arm.

Should've read my bio closer: Down for a killer time?

I washed my hands—faster than normal—and slammed the door behind me. I slipped into my Crocs and ran down to the back door, sliding it open and rushing into the back yard.

No shot was I going to open the front door right now.

I closed it behind me, turning before closing the distance to the locked gate that led to the front yard.

My hand on the lock, I froze, taking a deep breath. My chest heaved, panic and excitement coursing through me. Whoever it was, I needed to come off normal.

What if it was a neighbor? A cop? A Girl Scout with hyper-observant parents?

Dismemberment was a fun way to decompress, but frowned upon, generally.

I slipped the lock free and pulled it in. The stone path rounded the house to the right, leading me to my not-so-welcome guests.

"Hey!" I smiled big, rounding the corner. Didn't matter who it was, people always returned my smiles.

Dad and Mom stood on the doorstep, Tupperware in hand and expectant as always.

Fuck.

"Sorry I was reading in my hammock, almost didn't hear the door." I waved them back, urging them to follow. They exchanged a look, but I turned before they could argue.

“Sorry for dropping by so suddenly,” Dad said. "Your mom made some pecan pie and meatloaf, figured you'd want some."

I would let it grow mold in my fridge and toss it out, just like every other bit of left-overs I've ever had.

The gate popped open under my hand. "Yes, thank you! I'm actually starving, I've had a busy day." I smiled sly into the yard.

"Busy day reading?" Mom called, closing the distance. They followed me into the back yard. The lawn was neatly trimmed, brick-lined garden on the right. Little garage in the back right with a shovel leaned neatly against it.

And my hammock swaying slowly in the center.

"Well, I was decompressing," I explained. "Was about to start dinner, so thank you."

I plopped in the hammock, watching them mull around the yard. Dad was looking for something to lecture me about, but couldn't find anything. I kept a better yard than he did.

Mom fell on a patio chair and placed the containers on the table.

"Still no boyfriend, Haley?" Mom asked.

I stifled a laugh. "No, Mom. No boyfriend, still piecing together what I want."

She smiled and I returned it. Dad moseyed around a little longer before sitting next to her.

"You shouldn't be so picky," Dad prodded. "You've got a great career and a great house. You should be having kids by now."

I frowned. Why they always did this, I would never know. So pressing, like boundaries are something foreign to them.

Gen Xer's at their best.

"I don't want kids, Dad." That sentence always made him glower. The way his mustache curved made it worth it.

Mom stood again, brushing off her pants. A hot thrill washed over me.

"I'm gonna go use the ladies room and then we can crack into this pie, yeah?"

"No!" I shouted, standing quick. The hammock rocked and tapped against the back of my knees. "I mean, there's a leak and I can't flush."

Dad looked at me under bushy brows. Mom turned, cocking her head like I was being preposterous.

"You forget how we lived," she started. "I won't flush, just gotta tinkle anyways." She kept walking, heading for the door.

"Wait," I shouted, pulling her back. "It's not just the plumbing... I have some stuff in there." I pulled a glancing look at Dad, hoping to make him uncomfortable.

Mom smiled, turning back. "Dear, you're grown. It's not a secret." She pulled the door open and stepped in before I could cross the lawn.

I ran across the grass, catching the door before it slid shut. Just around the corner was the half-pulled carpet.

"Haley, you're being weird." I didn't respond as I flew past him into the kitchen.

"Mom, stop," I yelled as she rounded the corner into the hall. "Mom!"

I rounded the corner myself and watched her disappear into the bathroom, the door clicking behind her.

Confusion racked my brain. There's not a chance she didn't see Trevor all stacked up and leaking into the drain. She should've rounded the corner and screamed or turned or something.

I stood at the hall's end, waiting, listening for anything from the bathroom. Seconds passed like minutes, every tick of the clock jarring my nerves.

A flush.

She knew my plumbing excuse was a lie.

Water running. Then stopped.

Some ruffling before the latch clicked again and she stepped out.

She looked at me, flashing a smile before smoothing her blouse. I looked at her, expecting horror, an accusation, something other than a smile.

"How many?" She asked, walking toward me. I stepped aside and she passed, heading back out the sliding door.

I followed at a brisk pace. She couldn't leave now. Dad either.

Matricide and patricide in a single day wouldn't be therapeutic. Wasn't my style. I loved my parents, but loathed prison. I was never going to prison. Never.

"What," I asked, stumbling into the yard. She took her seat next to Dad and cracked open the pie container.

"How many, Haley?" She grabbed a plastic fork and took a bite, closing her eyes at the taste.

"What are you on about?" Dad asked, darting his eyes between us.

"She's got it," Mom added, matter-of-fact. "I always wondered."

"Uhhh," I stuttered, still lost. "You'll have to fill me in."

"The man in your tub," she took another bite. "Me and your aunt are the same way. How many?"

My stomach dropped out. She did see—of course she did—but this was dream-level strange.

"Twelve." I answered flat.

Dad whistled. "That’s three better than your aunt. If she hadn’t had that heart attack…” He tilted his head, snatched the fork from Mom.

"I'm at twenty. Haven't had one in a few years though." She grinned. "Tough when you get older. It's so messy, right?"

I nodded, slow, my vision spinning. "Yeah," I managed, but it came as a whisper.

"Chopping ’em up? That’s a hell of a move."

Dad chimed in. "She's chopping them up?" He sounded exasperated, almost impressed.

"Only some." I walked lazy, floating outside my body. I sat in the hammock again, rocking slow. "I find them on dating apps."

"Ah. That's why you don't have kids!" Dad laughed, raising his fork in a mock cheers.

They sat in the chairs, eating my pie. I watched them—so normal. In my back yard, eating left overs, laughing with each other.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened Tinder.

Three new matches.

Unexpected family visits were always stressful.