The Girl Who Cried Wolf

Reality is a matter of perception.

 

THE GIRL WHO CRIED WOLF

 

I wake up with a start. I think I might've dozed off, again.

The calender says: Saturday, 21 November, 2015. The bedside-clock reads: 21:00.

The world's dark outside. The two-storey house is as quiet as a graveyard (clichéd, but true). There're no sounds to be heard besides my own unsteady breathing, no movements to capture except for the bare, wiry branches stretching their thin fingers to scratch at the inner white curtains of my bedroom window.

I frown.

I distinctly remember closing the window before going to sleep. I never ever go to bed without making sure the lock's fastened on the window.

Slowly, I slide out from under the blanket, and off of the bed. With cautious steps, I cross the room to my window, praying that the hardwood floor doesn't creak beneath my bare feet.

With slightly trembling fingers, I grab hold of the shutters. Before closing them, I peer down onto the lawn. The roots of the giant Sycamore tree and the tall grasses surrounding its base stare back at me silently. Around the tree, our golden retriever, Susmu's leash is tied, the collar at the head empty, Susmu nowhere to be seen.

I frown.

I distinctly remember putting the collar round him, as he nibbled at my fingers and whined mournfully. I remember tying the leash around the tree, remember grabbing my coat to go outside.

Okay ... I'm really freaking out, now.

I, Jaime Finnicky, and my ten-year-old sister, Amy Finnicky, are alone in the house, right now. Our parents decided last week that a sixteen-year-old girl is old enough to look after herself and her weird sister and the disinterested dog and the big white house, alongwith any hypothetical distant relative who happens to stumble upon the secluded Finnicky house near the end of the block.

"Jaime," they said gravely, as I scowled at them. "We'll be gone for the weekend, but we'll be back before you know it, okay, sweetie?" It was a rhetorical question, and we all knew it. "Just remember to feed Susmu and take him for an evening-walk everyday. And also, see that Amy takes her medicines every night." A familiar uncomfortable expression settled on both of their faces; it was the look of embarrassment mixed with image-consciousness. "You know how she gets if she misses them," they reminded me softly.

As if I needed any reminding.

"We're counting on you, honey," Mom told me in her fake pacifying voice.

I stared back at them, empty-faced, hoping my deadening look conveyed everything I didn't bother to say out loud.

You see, I'm a social recluse, in all sense of the term. I don't like hanging out with friends (or, maybe I would've if I had any to start with), I hate parties (sweaty bodies everywhere ... hygiene anyone?), and I hate to leave my house (home sweet home, etcetera, etcetera). Which is exactly why I'm in bed at nine o' clock on a Saturday night.

Or was. Apparently the hypothetical distant relative is nearby.

I tiptoe out of my room, leaving the door open so as not to make any sound. Looking over the rail, I find that it's utterly dark downstairs, except for the pale flickering light filtering through the window panes from the streetlamps outside.

I frown.

I distinctly remember leaving the drawing-room lamp switched on, in case Amy wanted to get herself a glass of water from the kitchen.

My breaths fall more rapidly as I climb down the stairs, careful to skip the fourth step because it always creaks when stepped on. The glass panels, separating the patio from the interior, display a wide array of strange dancing shadows, as the branches of the Sycamore tree sway in the night breeze. I press myself up against the wall, just by the edge of the panel, careful to stay out of sight in case anyone's looking in. I count to ten under my breath. Then I peer out.

The empty lawn with freshly mown grass stares back at me.

I shudder once ... then remember what my Mom told me: We're counting on you.

Well, I've never suspected her to be a bright one, have I?

Sliding the glass panel open as little as possible, I slip out, my fingers shaking too hard to stay crossed. With light footsteps, I walk around the house to the back, all the while aware of this strange lingering gaze on the nape of my neck. I look toward the street once, then twice, to make sure nobody's watching me, but it stays as empty as an idle brain (Again: clichéd, but true).

When I reach the tree, I kneel down at its base, and pick up the leash, coiling it round my fingers. My eyebrows furrow in confusion as they take in the untorn string round the collar, the confirmation that Susmu has indeed been let free. But Susmu's not that kind of a dog. He'd never let any stranger free him, or, come to think of it, he'd never let any stranger near the premises of the house. Which means, he knew the person freeing him. So, the million-bucks-question is: Who set our dog free..?

A twig snaps behind me.

I jerk around so fast, that I almost snap my own neck. The lingering gaze I felt on me since I came out of the house is now staring right at me, looking right into my eyes ... and I freeze seeing my little sister looming over me.

"Amy?" I gasp, trying to catch my breath.

Amy stares at me with a blank face and eyes devoid of all emotions. In her floral-printed nightdress, she looks like an irrelevant extra from a cheap horror movie.

"Amy?" I ask again, my voice steadier. "What are you doing out here?"

She doesn't reply.

I stare at her for another heartbeat, shake my head, and try to get up ... when all of a sudden, out of the blue, Amy points a knife at my chest.

I freeze.

Time freezes.

I look down at the pointed knife, noticing the blood on its blade. What the hell? I swallow, before looking up at Amy. "What are you doing?" I ask, my voice coming out in a whisper.

Amy's hand trembles slightly. "You killed him," she says.

I narrow my eyes, trying to make sense of what she said. "Killed who?" I ask.

"Susmu," she replies, voice small. "You killed him, I saw it."

The worst part of it is how completely serious she looked when she said it. Like, it isn't at all impossible for me to kill my own pet.

My fear solidifies to anger. "You don't know what you're saying," I tell her, and move to get up.

Amy presses the knife deeper; I fall back, stunned. "I'm not going to let you run away," she whispers. "You killed him. You'll kill me, too."

My patience is wearing. "Amy," I say, "where the hell did you get this knife?"

For the first time since this bizzare conversation started, an expression registers on my sister's face. And, even though it's only a frown, it's a start, atleast. "I got it from the kitchen," she answers warily.

I left the lamp on for you to get a glass of water from the kitchen, not a friggin' knife!  I bite back the cutting remark that I'll probably regret later. Instead, I say: "Then, go and put this knife back in the kichen, please. And wash it, first." I don't deign to ask what exactly the red color on the blade is; something tells me it's not real blood.

For a second, my sister stares at me. Then she blinks, and says very simply: "No."

Now it's my turn to blink. I stammer: "Wha-What d'you mean 'no'?"

Amy shrugs; the action seems too casual to carry out with a knife pointed at someone. "You killed Susmu, and you'll kill me too, and I'm not going to let that happen," she recites like an obedient parrot.

I feel a muscle jump in my jaw. "Did you see me kill my own dog, Amy?" I ask in a hard voice.

Amy nods. "With this very knife."

Is she saying that red stain ...?

Ugh. The thought's too repulsive to finish.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" I sound disgusted. Good.

Amy's face contorts bitterly. "What the hell's wrong with you?" she hisses.

That's it. My patience has been tested, and I've failed. "Amy," I say, my voice cold. "If you don't drop the knife right now, I really am going to kill you."

Her eyes widen to perfect round circles. My sister looks so shocked, that I might as well have slapped her hard right across the face. That's when I notice that the hand holding the knife is still trembling. Looking up at her, I see beads of perspiration donning Amy's temple, her skin sleek with a fine sheen of sweat glowing by the lamplight. I realize with a start: My sister is scared of me. No, make it: terrified. Yes. Amy is terrified of me.

I don't know how I feel about that.

"Amy," I say quietly, "have you taken your medicines?"

My sister frowns; it feels good to see that her face muscles still work. "What medicines?" she asks, genuinely confused.

I roll my eyes before I can stop myself. "Seriously? You're gonna play dumb? Again?"

Amy stutters for half-a-minute, before shaking her head fiercely. "I don't have to answer any of your questions."

"Oh yes, you do, little sister," I retort. "Because, unfortunately, you're still under eighteen, and I'm still older to you, and both our parents are still the world's biggest idiots, so I'm still responsible for you. And that gives me the right to know the answers to any question I ask you. Tell me, Amy. Have you taken your medicines?"

"What medicines?!" she yells.

The ones for mental instability. But what I say is: "The ones you take every night."

"I don't take any medicines," Amy replies, adamant.

"You do, and you're gonna take them, right now. No wonder you're acting weird."

I try to get up, but the knife freezes me mid-rise. "Don't," Amy warns in a shaky voice.

I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at her. "You won't do anything to harm your sister, Amy," I tell her, faking a smile. "Now, be a good girl, and let me get up. Seriously, Amy, my legs are killing me."

Sister releases a ragged breath, before shaking her head. "No."

"Amy," I say, "drop the knife."

"No."

"Amy, please drop the knife."

The knife still doesn't lower itself.

"Amy. Drop. The. Knife."

"No! NO! NO! NO! NO!!"

"DROP IT!" I yell, reaching for the knife, just as Amy tries to pull it out of my reach. I'm older and stronger, and once I get hold of the knife, I try to pry it out of her fingers, but all to no avail. My sister is surprisingly strong for a ten-year-old. I pull the knife toward myself, while Amy tries to hold onto it, and very soon, it's a tug-of-war with metal and two hysteric girls, where I'm losing, then winning, then losing again, trying not to let the knife slip through my fingers, watching as the knife's head points itself toward Amy on its own, realizing a little too late as to what will happen if I don't let go right now ...

"Oh." My sister's lips are shaped in a tiny O, like she can't believe what just happened.

And neither can I, as I watch the red stain blooming and blossoming in-between the floral-print of Amy's nightdress.

My shrill cry rings out in the quiet night:

"AMY!"

*  *  *

 

I wake up with a start. I think I might've dozed off, again.

The calender says: Saturday, 21 November, 2015. The bedside-clock reads: 21:00.

Sitting up in bed, I find my Mom at the window, pushing open the shutters. Her hair's a blond mess, her skin ringed in wrinkles that she constantly tries to get rid of.

"What are you doing in here?" I ask, stifling a yawn.

Mom smiles. "Opening the window, sweetie. It's stuffy in here."

Sweetie ... #gag. I frown at her. "Weren't you supposed to leave, like, two hours ago?"

Mom gives me a wayward glance, her smile confused and curious. "Our trip was cancelled, sweetie. Your Dad told you that in the morning."

"No, he did not." I get out of bed, put on my flip-flops, and go to the bathroom. I wash my face in the sink, then stare at the person in the mirror: It's a brunette ghost with a pixie-cut, and dark circles under her eyes, and cheeks hollowed for frightening little kids.

Mom's voice floats in through the open bathroom door. "Did you feed Susmu, dear?"

I scowl. "It's not my turn today, Mom. Dad's supposed to feed him."

Mom offers me a sympathetic smile when I come back to my room. "I know, sweetie. But your Dad's busy tonight, and Susmu's still whining, so I thought ... " She trails off.

Yeah, play with my emotions, Mom. "Fine," I say, taking my black coat off the hook behind the door. "I'll go. Just don't tell me to give Amy her nightly medicines. She always plays dumb when I ask her 'bout them."

"What medicines?" she asks distractedly, as she pokes 'round my stationery.

I shake my head. "Not you, too," I mutter, rolling my eyes as I walk out of my room.

___

Dad's in the kitchen, marinating a huge ugly piece of chicken meat. Good way of keeping busy, Dad.

He glances at me, when he sees me passing by. "James!" he calls, gleefully.

James ... #double_gag. "If you don't start calling me by my proper name, you guys will stop getting any reply, you know." I enter the kitchen, grab Susmu's bowl, and a pack of doggie-food. "I'll be fine on my own."

"Sure, you would." Dad smiles at me, tilting his head toward the bowl of gravy. "Want some?"

I eye the red froth of oil, spices and amateur efforts. "I think I'll pass."

Dad shrugs nonchalantly, as if it doesn't bother him one bit that I refused his imperial creation. "Fine. Just know this." He points the bloody butcher's knife he used to piece the chicken. "This is all you'll be getting for dinner."

I groan, as I head out of the house.

Outside, it's chilly; you can feel the approaching winter in the fallen leaves, in the bare branches, in the thin mist hanging in the air. I rub my palms, blow out a breath, watch it create a smoke-ring. Then, with long strides, walk round the lawn to the back of our house.

The Sycamore tree greets me, waving its wiry branches in a silent waltz. Looking up, I find the shorter branches scratching at the inner shutters of my bedroom's window - precisely why I always keep the windows closed.

Susmu sits at the base of the tree. He's an adorable dog, our Susmu. Golden fur, long outgrowing ears, a perpetually-wagging tail, droopy eyes - he's the epitome of cuteness that always makes you go: Awwwww...

Right now, he stares at me with greedy eyes as I approach him. "Don't look so obvious, boy." I smile, kneeling down in front of him. With my free hand, I scratch him behind the ears, and watch him as he whines softly. "That's a good boy."

Unhooking the collar from round his neck, I place the green bowl in front of him, and shake out some crackers mixed with God-knows-what into it. Susmu seems to love it, though, as he ravenously devours what appears to me biege fodder.

I watch him for a while, patting him on the head, before getting up to stretch my legs.

And that's when the lights go out in the house. What the ..?

I turn to the darkened house with a frown. I can't see a thing through the closed downfloor window; the only source is the pale flickering light filtering through the window panes from the streetlamps outside.

I sigh, as I walk round the house to the front porch.

Dad's voice floats from the kitchen. "Somebody light the candles, for God's sake!" This is followed by thunderous stomping as Mom comes downstairs to search for the candles. That's my and Dad's cue to forget all about the candles; Mom's never going to find the candles before the current comes back.

Returning to Susmu, I find he's done with his meal. "Huh." I look at him appreciatively. "That was fast."

I kneel in front of him once again, and put the collar back in its place. With a careful hand, I test whether the leash is firmly attached to the collar, as Susmu nibbles at my fingers, and whines mournfully.

"There, now. I'm gonna see you in the morning, buddy. Don't feel - "

I never get to finish my sentence.

A bloodcurdling scream erupts from inside the house.

In the dark, I can't tell if it's my Mom or my sister.

The next few moments are a blur, all the motions captured in small little frames in my head: Me, racing into the house. Me, running up the stairs. Dad, as he follows me upstairs. Both of us, throwing open the door to my room, only to find it empty. Then, running over to Amy's room. Finding Mom, as she sits on the bed, shaking Amy furiously as though she's a little rag doll. And, in her floral-printed nightdress, that's exactly what she looks like: A non-living, non-breathing rag doll.

"She's not waking up, Will, she's not waking up!" Mom's voice sounds like it's coming from somewhere fifty miles below sea-level.

Dad rushes over to the bed, gathering his younger daughter in his lap. "Amy. Amy! Wake up, Amy!" He takes her by the chin, and shakes her. He slaps her hard across her pale face. My sister's only response is the lolling of her head. "Amy!" Dad presses the first two fingers against her neck, falling silent for a while. Then - "I can feel her pulse. She's alright. Why isn't she opening her eyes? God, what the hell's happened to her?!"

That's when I remember how to move my muscles again. With slow steps, I approach my sister. Some instinct is pushing me forward, I know, because right now I feel slightly dazed. My thoughts aren't clear, head isn't cool, yet I know I must move forward, and ...

Tenderly, I raise the floral-printed shirt to reveal my sister's bare torso.

A dark wound of blood and puss gleams against the white skin.

A shuddering breath escapes my Mom. "What is that?" she whispers.

I don't know, I've no idea, it was an instinct, most of the time instincts have no logic whatsoever ...

My sister sleeps peacefully, dreaming of whichever land she's in, now.

"Amy," I whisper ...

*  *  *

 

I wake up with a start. I think I might've dozed off, again.

The calender says: Saturday, 21 November, 2015. The bedside-clock reads: 21:00.

I get out of bed ... clutch onto the bedside table to keep myself from falling ... bang my head against the door, but - it doesn't hurt ... Nothing can hurt this me, nothing can kill this me ... The house is dark ... I frown; I distinctly remember ... what? What was it I remember..? It seems useless, somehow, in the grand scheme of things ...

The hallway outside is so dark, like an ... abyss, is it? I walk down the stairs - my steps are ... slow, or else I'll fall, I know. The glass panels are wide open, letting in the ... chilly night air ... A dead dog lies on the freshly mown grass of the lawn - beside it, a bloody knife ... My vision, it ... blears, for a second, but then it clears, and I walk into the kitchen, whose floor is adorned with scattered leaves - all dry, all dead. Winter will be here, soon ... Dad stands in front of the microwave, his hand frozen mid-air holding the marinated meat ... his eyes, they - they are glazed, like mine. I smile. Reaching across him, I pull open a white cabinet, and ... Where's the medicine? Where is Amy's medicine? She needs it, now ... I find it, at last, behind numerous other ... stuff. Clutching the small bottle between my hands, I ... what do I do, now? I look around the drawing room ... my eyes fall on the lit lamp ... I frown. Why is it on? I sway toward it, feet unsteady, and flick it off. I don't like the light, I like ... the dark, is it?

Upstairs, Amy's room is locked. I knock at the door, once, then twice, then ... Bang! Bang! Bang! ... The door remains shut. I frown. I distinctly ... Amy needs her medicine, she needs it, right now! I knock, again and again and again, until the knob turns ...

Amy stares at me through sleepy, hooded eyes, wearing a floral-printed nightdress.

"James?" Her voice sounds naïve and dumb. "What are you doing here, brother?"

I smile at her ... Her medicine ...

I hold up the little blue bottle. "Your medicine, sweetie."

Amy frowns. "What medicine?" she asks. She looks at the little blue bottle. "That's rat-poison you're holding, brother."

She always plays dumb. Always.

I enter her room. "You need this," I say.

Amy rubs her eyes. She's so ... pale. "James, it's one in the morning. Mom and Dad will be here by seven, and I don't want to sleep in and miss them, you know. Just ... go back to your room, okay, James?"

Always so kind ... Always so concerned about me ... I'm not mad! I'm not insane! ... They don't understand that, nobody ever understands that ...

Amy needs the medicine, not me ...

I shut the door behind me. "My name is Jamie. Not James. My name is Jamie Finnicky ... "

*  *  *

 

I wake up with a start. I think I might've dozed off, again.

The calender says: Saturday, 21 November, 2015. The bedside-clock reads: 21:00....

*  *  *

Author's Note

Split-personality disorder and schizophrenia are two of the deadliest psychological disorders. Imagine not being able to tell apart reality from imagination ...

Suggestions would be most welcome.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Powerful and well written tale. You brought me in and made the characters thoughts and life come alive with good description. I like how you set-up each situation. You are a good example of the how, when, who, why and how of every scene. Thank you for sharing the outstanding story.
Coyote

[Sally Hope]

Thank you for liking the descriptions. I pay great attention to detail, for I believe them to be extremely essential in creating the world. It feels good to know I've succeeded.

[Coyote Poetry]

They are. We must make the character, location, dress and thoughts alive to the reader. You do and you are welcome.

[Laura Almeida]

Very well written. Very catchy since the begining I was really into the story and the plot line!
It took me deep into the loop and his confusion of what is going on.
This was one of my favorite reads of the whole day.

Very very nice

Regards, Laura

[Robert Parlange]

Good story. You are an excellent writer. You take the reader into the mind of a disturbed individual with skill. It is easy to write about reality but more difficult when trying to describe madness. You succeeded in this story.

You are a skilled writer. Keep writing.

[Sally Hope]

Thanks for the encouragement.