"Sylvie is a stain on this family, turning my son against me every chance she gets. His death is on her hands too." —Clovis Bray I
Your mother screams in horror. "No! Il torture ma fille aussi? Elsie, say it's not you; say it's not! Say he hasn't locked you up in that walking lazaretto to die!"
"Mom. Mom, please. Je vais bien; je ne suis pas comme mon père, inshallah!" you say, but she won't believe it. You don't know what to say, because you only remember her as a warm feeling. She sobs, and you smell the amino ketones and aromatic acids in her tears. The salty opioids glisten on her skin. You want to hide your face, to hood yourself. Every time she looks at you, she screams and cries harder.
Finally, you give up and resign to settling into the little guest bed. The house is full of reminders of your father, who died in a body just like yours. Sylvie really loved him, your sisters told you. And Clovis II really loved her. Even after he was unfaithful.
Sleep finally comes but is still discomforting. You dream of murder and hot blood and a mannequin body made of knives. You remember forcing your way through a tower of prison cells, slashing through prisoner after prisoner in order to get to the top.
You wake up screaming, practically fall out of bed, but Mom is there to catch you. "Hush, hush, it's all right. It's just a dream."
You cling to her, and it is your turn to sob. Nothing comes out of your eyes as you try to explain the dream. "Everyone I knew was in those cells," you gasp. "You, and Dad, and Willa, and Ana, and Alton…"
"Oh, my sweet," your mother whispers. "Of course you dreamt about killing us. Your grandfather made you this way. And he kills everything he touches."