edith lincoln | one | fin

I know you want me the most
Want me in an altered state
I've been sleeping with ghosts
And I swallow medication

I don't remember when it started. Or stopped, I guess. One winter, the numbness reached a bit further than my fingertips and I just forgot. But I've gotten so good at pretending that I sometimes frighten myself.

It happens in flashes, or when I’m bored. I’ll tighten my throat up, gasp for breath like I’m being choked. Just long enough for tears to well up in my eyes and pour down my cheeks. It’s all methodical; I don’t think I’ve felt genuine emotion for years. But there are times when the tears come too easily, when I smile despite no one being around to see it, and I wonder if I’m all better.

I come from a place where it's easier to pay other people to fix your problems than to fix them yourself. That's why Mom sends me to therapy. She gets to sit at home and wait on me while someone tells me everything I'm doing wrong; I guess I'm supposed to want to fix it. She's a good mom, I think. She tries her hardest, and after Dad died she was the one who saved his business and our home. I just think she gets so caught up with running everything that she forgets to notice me unless I'm doing something she doesn't approve of.

When it comes to my mental health, she can't be bothered, but she draws the line at hair dye.

The truth is, I'm not all that bothered. Probably, it's more of a social cue I picked up that people my age aren't supposed to get along with their parents. For the most part, she goes to work and I go to the fancy boarding school she pays extra for. She bakes during the winter and cans fruits in the summer; I help.

I think we were content with the routine of everything for a while. She was concerned about me and my life. Or, rather, my lack thereof. As I grew older, the girls I walked to school with seemed to walk a bit more quickly when I was around, I slept more, I didn't shower as much. She got me this cat, this really cute, defenseless orange cat whom I named Leo. He would sit on my lap while I read, and follow me when I went on walks. He never seemed to notice how different I was, and if he did, he clearly didn't mind.

He loved to climb the chimney. In fact, he thought it was much more efficient than using the cat door Mom had installed. More than a handful of times, he got stuck up there, meowing all night, and it was always me who had to walk out to the balcony and shimmy my way to him.

I guess one night, he thought he could make it without me. He didn't.

He did break both of his front legs, though, which made it super hard for him to walk. The vet said they would need to do surgery if he was ever going to make it. And my mother, ever the fake sympathist, couldn't stomach the idea of poor Leo going to sleep and never waking up.

You see, that's the problem with you normal people. You've all forgotten about sacrifice. You've all forgotten about risk and reward. Life isn't some sacred thing all of the time. If a person is in pain, someone is supposed to take that pain away. If someone is causing others pain, someone is supposed to take that person away. It's only logical. Mom refused to pay for it and she refused to let me sell any of the dresses she'd bought me so I could pay for it myself. And Leo looked miserable, even for a cat. I know I can't really feel all that well on my own, but I've spent enough time studying facial expressions and social cues to know the difference. Besides, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to discern that a newly-crippled cat probably isn't in the best of spirits.

He was in pain; I took that pain away.

It was humane, despite the rumors that followed. Did you know I almost got arrested for animal cruelty when Mom told my therapist about it? And all the kids at school look the other way when I walk in, like I'm a second away from pulling out a knife and attacking. I didn't want to kill Leo. But he was suffering, and no one who was supposed to help would.

In a way, it felt right that it was me. I took care of him while he was alive, and I got to see him when he faded away.

A lot of people called me a lot of names for that. What few friends I had sort of disappeared, and school became a place where I wasn't learning anymore, so much as fighting with girls in the bathroom and getting suspended. I fell behind in my studies and, as is in-character for her, Mom hired tutor after tutor. Money speaks when Mommy can't. They were usually old. There was one lady who smelled weirdly similar to formaldehyde all the time. And one woman quit when she found out that I was that crazy girl who went to school with her grandson. The last one I had was a middle-aged man named Kurt and he drank himself to death. Mom really knows how to scout the best influences for me, you know.

"You're going to have to like one of them, Edie. You have to get back on track with your studies."

I peered up at her from my book. She looked genuinely concerned, hand on her hip in that you-aren't-in-trouble-but-this-is-serious way.

"Fine. Can you hire someone with a pulse this time, then?"

She offered a humorless smile.

"Deal."

I mimicked her.

"Deal."

And I'm giving in to your fever touch
Let it all begin when the fire starts
You're the darkness in me