Page 7 of Dreadful
“The butler, the maids, and gardener… The driver, capo, and priest… The judge, godmother-and-father—”
“Boy!”
Act 1
Scene 1
THE GARDENER
Talia
Present Day
Butler.Maids.Gardener. Driver. Capo. Priest. Judge.Godmother.Godfather—
Dirt drifts into the air, interrupting my mantra. The traitorous little particles tickle my nose, threatening to make me sneeze. I keep my mouth closed and squint, refusing to let the rugged scent give my position away. Once the sneeze is gone, I go back to patting the mound of cold earth in front of my knees.
I won’t be around to see the bulbs claw their way up to the surface. It’s late in the season to plant them, but this past fall has been unseasonably warm. I only wore my jacket today because its bulkiness provides me a sense of security.
Gardening usually sets my mind at ease. At least, it does when I tend to my potted plants at home. But right now, my heart thunders in my chest and drowns out the chant in my head.
It’s been a while since I’ve been inside the Vincelli’s garden. Before college, I was too intimidated to come near this place, and for the past four years I’ve been too busy studying to keep my scholarship. I was tempted to start this project years ago, but I bided my time, waiting until I graduated before putting my plans in motion. Today will be my biggest task yet.
Thanks to the Vincellis, I’ve designed costumes to become a maid, a dry-cleaning assistant, and a mechanic. Today, I get to be a gardener, wearing the same Victorian-style that the Boss’s wife is so fond of her staff wearing. Even if I wasn’t dressed up, I doubt anyone would notice me. The Vincellis are partying it up at a wedding in Vegas, and the brownstone is down to its skeleton crew. Only the rare few who live on the grounds are still here.
Like the gardener.
Beside me, glittering dew clings to the garden shears’ blades. I’ve positioned them just like I did fifteen years ago, but I won’t fuck up like I did last time.
Don’t think like that. It’ll only stress you out.
I ball my hands into fists to stop their anxious shaking. This name on my list has been a long time coming, and I can’t let trembling fingers stop me. I’ve worked hard for this. In college, I took every on-set fight coordination, self-defense, and stunt-actor elective that the school offered. They’ve given me confidence, but I’ve never had to actuallyusemy skills for self-defense. I’m about to put the non-performative aspects of my training to the test, and I pray my nerves don’t get the best of me.
Before continuing to bury the tulip, I take a deep, centering breath. It releases from my chest in a cloud of warm air that mixes with autumn’s morning chill. Thank goodness mynonni, Gio and Tony, taught me to be an early riser. I’ve been getting up at the crack of dawn to help them in the bakery for years. Doing this any later in the day might’ve made me lose my courage, and I can’t get off track now.
If I go through my list too quickly, my motivation will become obvious. But if I don’t go fast enough, I won’t be able to take down all the names before getting caught. I need them to think they’re picking themselves off from the inside before they look to blame an outsider.
Uneven footsteps pad down the path toward me, and I glance at my watch.
Right on time.
“Hey! Who’re you?”
I don’t lift my head at the man’s gruff question. Instead, I peek through the shrub in front of me. Familiar worn boots crunch up the gravel walkway before stopping right next to me.
“Hey, I asked you a question. What are you deaf—”
I swing my hand rake upward, and a wild smile crests my lips. The small, clawed tool fits as perfectly as I thought it would, cupping his balls with the jagged prongs. If he makes one wrong move, the sharpened rake could easily pierce his khakis and castrate him.
When I meet his wide brown eyes, I shift my chin so he sees the scar I refused to cover this morning. Confusion and recognition mix with sheer terror, and he turns as still as stone.
“You…I thought…Antonella said you were dead!”
“I got better.” My voice grates out so low and ragged with anger that I hardly recognize it. I tug him forward by the balls and enjoy his squealing. “Ah, ah, ah. Don’t scream, or this could end very badly for you.”
He grimaces and stands stick-straight, not moving a muscle. His ruddy complexion has paled with fear, but otherwise, time hasn’t changed him much on the outside. That realization only angers me further. Abusers shouldn’t get to stay the same while survivors are forced to change forever.
“I’d never forget your face, but I guess the tinted glass hid all the ugly.”
