Page 51 of Anorthic Anarchy

My fingers clutch Fred the flashlight underneath the pillow as I awaken. The sconce on the wall still glows, but withoutwindows, I have no concept of time. Using my old bathroom, I brush my teeth and stare at the person in the mirror.

She’s different now. Older. Wiser? Yes.

Eyes a little more narrowed, my brow heavier. The tension in my neck never goes away. Except during baths with Vincente. His arms are my fortress.

The reflection is of a woman on the precipice of a dire decision. I’m not even sure what it is yet, but I feel it deep within me. As if the natural state of me is unleashed.

Sliding up the servant stairs, I find my way to the kitchen and steal some fresh bacon while the cooks pay me no attention. It’s early morning and a gray mist hovers on the wet grass when I exit the back door.

As the rain picks up, I slip into the large greenhouse. It feels like summer with the heavy air and smell of fragrant flowers. Vegetables line most of the long beds, but there’s still an abundance of beauty to be had. Even the lettuces look like a rainbow spilled onto the rich dirt.

In the rows near the back, the gardeners left an abundance of tools while digging through overgrown plants and some weeds. Scythes, machetes, knives, pruning shears, hedging shears… I only know of them because of making a list of items I’d need to get through the jungles of Belize.

It’s careless of them.

And convenient for me.

All that holds Vincente’s oversized T-shirt on my body is a tied belt from his wardrobe. I left his pajama pants in the library. My fingers tug on the loops and tighten the leather.

Not really understanding why, I choose two machetes and slide them into the makeshift holster and skirt back to the house. It feelsrightto have the weapons on me. Though I’m not quite sure what I’m doing with them.

I stare at the billowing clouds rolling by instead of walking inside immediately. The atmosphere is angry; the sun hides behind a mask of violent air. Tears from the sky pelt my body like a brutal shower, washing me with a vicious need for violence. Despite its savagery, the water covers the ground with a slurry of nourishing moisture.

Perhaps it’s not a thought that carries me up the winding, narrow stairs. It’s the wind whistling through the cracks in the old walls. Willing me to whet the appetite for chaos.

When I reach my room, I don’t stop until I toss open the connecting door to my husband’s bedchamber. It doesn’t surprise me that he lies in bed surrounded by women. Vincente seems to hide behind the bickering and cattiness that he causes to hide the truth.

He’s a scared little boy.

Especially when his gray eyes peek open from his slumber and widen with sleep still heavy across his face. Five women cover the comforter with their nude and varied bodies. Curvy like Yasmina. Pink like Chloe. Dark like Ceylon. Thin like Nari. Edgy like Lydia. The girls don’t see me as they writhe on each other, giggling and laughing, but he does.

The master sees everything, but remains frozen like a statue.

Rage riles me into a riotous wrath.

Slick wooden handles fill my palms as I slide the machetes into each hand. My wrist tingles when I first hit one of them in the back of the head. Plunged between Ceylon’s thighs, Lydia sprays blood from her fresh wound all over my forearms until the heat tickles my skin. No one moves. Not at first.

A scream wrenches from Ceylon’s thick lips until it’s silenced by my slice across her cheek. Her jaw shatters beneath the blow, and one eye bounces out of its socket. The gruesome sight is something like from a movie and doesn’t register asrealto mybrain. More shattering sounds surround the room as the others scramble, not knowing where to go.

It’s quite funny, actually. The way they look like chickens. The fear they haveof me. Hysterical, really.

And powerful.

With the blades held in an X, I slice Nari through her abdomen. Her insides spill out like Polish sausages. Grasping at the slimy entrails, she attempts to shove them back inside the gaping hole while screeching with horror. She stumbles away and drops to the floor in a tiny pile of ruin.

Yasmina curls into a ball near the master, but she’s easily swayed from him when I pull her hair. Using the sharpened edge, I slice her throat until blood gushes in a torrid wave across the master’s chest. The stench of iron and cheap perfume fills me with a continued courage for carnage. He holds up his hands as if to stop the incoming tsunami, but it just spreads through the slats of his fingers.

Meanwhile, Chloe attempts to run off, but I chase her down and spear one blade through her spinal cord. She falls on her face while her body stiffens into a rod. I kick her over so she has to look at me, and the panic taking over her face makes me smile a goodbye.

With a leap, I lunge onto her core and dice whatever the machetes can dig up. Blood spews into my mouth and nostrils, tongue, eyes. Blinking back red tears, I inspect my artwork. She’s left a pile of gore and sinew. An unrecognizable pulp of parts. Except for the pink hair that clings to my weapons.

I turn and face the master, who sits on the edge of his bed. His posture isn’t even offering concern. If anything, he looks as if he’s watching a show. Shoulders bowed and hands plastered on the mattress. The red streaks decorate his white hair and broad chest like stripes of a deranged zebra. Raising one of his palms, he licks the area between his thumb and forefinger whilekeeping his eyes locked on me. Perhaps there’s pride behind them.

No. Vincente Strauss isn’t a monster.

I am.

We study each other for a long time. My chest heaves with the work I’ve just performed. After I catch my breath, I bend at the waist while maintaining his gaze, and take a bow. Holding the machetes out to my sides, I add a cute curtsy to the end.

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