The tile was cold beneath her as she sat curled up in the corner of the kitchen. Her skirt had come up, so there was nothing between her butt and the white marble except a thin layer of cotton. She wriggled her toes a few times, enjoying the smooth feel of the stone flooring beneath her feet. The pleasure of the cold sensation seemed amplified by the fact that, for once, she was not standing on her feet doing work.

The veins in the marble were quite like veins in people, she mused. She plucked the silver Zippo from the breast pocket of her button-down shirt and flicked the top open. The scraping of metal on metal. A brisk grinding of the flint-wheel, and an almost imperceivable whoosh as the flame sprung to life. It wasn’t until she pulled out the hand-rolled that she realized her hands were shaking.

Well, she’d been working too much, she told herself. Working too many long hours for too many days in a row for this man with his unrealistic expectations. How could she be expected to keep up with all his “children”? It was laborious – not to mention disgusting – work, and she did the best she could. Did anyone ever thank her? Did he even bother to stop and take time to appreciate the way she’d arranged the flowers on the table? Or how the heavy blackout curtains in the living room were no longer wrinkled as they had been?

Of course not. He was a man with a mission, wrapped up in his work. Which also involved the children. One track mind, his had been, and when the yearn for fatherhood and the need for stable income had seemed to be at opposing ends of the spectrum? He had found a way for them to dovetail.

The cigarette smoke sat, harsh and burning, in the back of her throat and she exhaled a stream of it into the air. He’d be completely beside himself if he found her smoking indoors. But he wasn’t here to complain anymore, now was he?

Her cool, gray eyes followed the droplets of blood spattered on the white marble, growing larger until they met with the puddle just inside the kitchen doorway, around on the other side of the counter, just out of her view. But she knew it was there. She’d examined it with pride when it was done. Once she’d slashed his throat with the chef’s knife, she’d been overcome with shock. Not necessarily at the blood – she’d seen enough of that in her tenure at this house – but at the fact that she’d finally followed through on the fantasy that had been playing in her mind. And with how quickly he’d died.

She knew, scientifically speaking, how long it took for a person to die when their throat had been cut open. And yet, time had seemed to rush by. It happened too quickly. As though she were to be robbed of the pleasure of watching him slowly bleed out. He hadn’t even begged. The expression on his face as he fell… He seemed to know. As if he’d been expecting it.

She stubbed out the cigarette on the flat of the knife’s blade. It amused her that the smoldering embers sizzled even when being smothered with blood. It had taken years, but she’d finally found her sizzle whilst being smothered with blood, too. Bracing her hands on the tile, again that cool feeling making her smile, she pushed herself up to stand once more.

At the end of any other day, she would be cleaning up after dinner. She would clear the plates and scrape the leftover food into the trash, wash the dishes, clean the counters, sweep the floor. Typical housekeeping duties. In fact, she’d been prepping for dinner when he’d come in to the kitchen. She’d been slicing peppers and he’d come around the corner, calling her Mama again.

She had asked him many times to not do that.

But he hadn’t listened and these were the consequences. Now he was dead and the children were sitting silently at the table. None of them moving so much as an inch. None of them looking at her. But how could they move? How could they look at her? Dead bodies with their eyes gouged out and pieces missing were more like violently abused ventriloquist dummies propped up in their chairs. Incapable of speaking or hearing or seeing. Lifeless. Soulless.

She turned on the propane stove, but made sure it didn’t catch. All she wanted were the fumes. The undertaker wouldn’t get his proper burial. He didn’t deserve one, what with his stomach churning habits and making her play his twisted little game of house. She was his housekeeper, not his wife. He’d told her ten years ago he simply needed someone to help with cooking and cleaning. Not someone with whom he could play house when his mental instability and previous criminal record had warranted a court ordered sterilization, rendering him incapable of breeding.

And then he’d threatened to kill her if she ever told. If she tried to leave. If she breathed a word of the work he took home. So many years. Countless empty caskets. So much blood.

Parting with the Zippo was difficult – it had been her father’s – but she tossed it onto the burner. She jumped back when a massive flame roared to life, catching the cabinets above the hood vent on fire. Tongues of flame crawled across the wood as the curtains on the window next to the stove began to catch. It wouldn’t be long now before the whole thing was in flames.

Of everything, it was his insistence on calling her Mama that had finally been the breaking point. If he didn’t speak to her, she could detach from her work. Maintain a psychological distance. His calling her Mama made real her cooperation in the grotesque play. In the mutilation and dressing up of hundreds of dead bodies. Babies, juveniles, and sometimes various aunts and uncles or grand-relations would join the dinner table.

Not tonight. Not anymore. Her hands shook as she pulled out another hand-rolled cigarette. She pinched it between her lips and leaned into the flame. Smoky tobacco mingled with the smell of burning hair and close-to-sizzling flesh. As soon as she was able to take a drag, she backed up from the flames and strode for the door.

She pulled it open, then paused, her hand caressing the door frame one last time. The worn paint chipped beneath her touch. One last glance over her shoulder at the children around the table. One last meal.

“Now, you’ll say thank you.”

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