as my feet were dragged along grooves their soles had worn in the floor.
Mister Pérouse’s apartments were at the far end of the manse. Up three flights of stairs, along the hall, and back down so many steps we might have ended up in the basement. My legs were shaking by the time we arrived; blood dripped down my thighs. A receiving room, a study, a chambermaid’s cupboard, and a master bedroom with modern en suite were all barricaded behind a thick oak door, secured with a brass deadbolt. The costumes he’d worn to Ma’s parties spilled from a wardrobe, littered his bed. Their fine fabric chafed my skin when he threw me upon them. When he showed me, in no uncertain terms, what my role was to be in this household.
I flailed and kicked. My screams, half-formed and breathless; wrists trapped in the vice of his hands. I butted my head against his until my skull ached, but he simply leaned back, waited for me to tire. He used the advantage years of practice had given him, pinning me down with his torso. Hungry saliva dripped on my cheek, trickled down my neck.
“Mama, Mama, Mama,” I cried, as he shoved my nightie up, pulled my drawers down, revealed the mess of blood between my legs. He wriggled more firmly on top of me, pressed my arcing back flat with his weight, then slid down my body until his face was in line with my crotch.
“Your mother is dead,” he said, matter-of-factly. His tongue, rough as a cat’s, began to rasp along my inner thighs.
No. The fight, the life went out of me. She can’t be. I’d squeezed my eyes shut, but now they flew open. My mind was blank, my mind raced. I looked up, not down. Ma’s voice rang in my ears, telling Harley tales. The cinnamon smell of her breakfast oatmeal filled my nostrils—not sweat, not blood, not Mister Pérouse’s lamb-carcass breath. In my mouth, raspberry cordial laced with brandy; the drink Ma gave me the first time I’d hidden my blood-soaked rags. No, no, no. I looked up, stared up. A watermark shaped like our state stained the ceiling. I tried to pinpoint the county where I grew up—a splotch of mold covered it. Covered Ma. I cried out—
Not dead.
I didn’t look down; wouldn’t. In my mind I saw Mister Pérouse’s chin drip with my blood. Saw his teeth lengthen, glistening and red. Felt them pierce. The prod of his tongue. Sucking, drinking deep. Taking his fill.
Everything was silent.
A tornado howled through the room.
Face contorted, mouth shaped words. Expression evangelical, like Bible-bashers Ma sent from our door each Sunday. Still wearing the cowboy coat she’d made, he slithered back on top. Nicked the tip of his penis. Smeared his blood. Mixed it with mine.
Searing pain to dull throb. Breath whooshed out. In and out.
In and out.
His body preached at mine: I didn’t hear a thing. I looked at the county lines overhead, traced their borders with my eyes.
No.
He grew stronger, stronger. Licked my jugular. Moaned. Didn’t bite.
Numb, I watched us from the settee on the opposite side of the room. Looked at the spectacle we made on my mother’s costumes. My legs like slabs of ham on the mattress. His hips twitching, plunging. My hands clenching, unclenching, clenching. Intent and inert.
Waited for him to finish. Waited for my spirit to return. Waited to feel.
Not dead.
I didn’t see Harley or the girls for days afterwards. By then I was too tired to be scared for any of us.
Mister Pérouse kept me in his bedroom until my menses stopped flowing. Nightmares plagued me all day, then came to life at dusk. For five nights he drank his fill, reopened the thin cut on his cock, climbed on top of me. Humming all the while about a child born of blood. He rubbed my belly before pulling out, for luck or to mark his territory, or both.
Though they came knocking, claiming their turns with the “live one,” Mister Pérouse wouldn’t let Théo or Jacques in. “Mais, monsieur,” they’d protest, their voices muffled through the door. “Arianne hasn’t bled for decades—”
My master wouldn’t hear a word against her. “Patience, les gars. I won us three filles this time, non? The two youngest are yours—take them as gifts. Pour vous remerciez.”
The men said nothing.
“Aha,” said Mister Pérouse, sighing, rolling off me. “You’ve opted for the weakling’s fare—sucking a few hours’ of youth from babes—and now you’re here to challenge me? Mais