Page 113 of Souls and Sorrows

Her screams echo around the apartment, causing a crackling sound to grate inside of my eardrum. As she kicks and tries to free her arms, Kal shoves a metal device inside of her mouth, prying it wide open, and then slips the pliers inside.

They latch onto her slippery tongue, and blood begins flooding the cavity as he presses down, flicking his wrist and ripping a chunk of the organ out.

Crimson spurts everywhere, from her mangled tongue and her attempts at spitting toward us, and Kal goes in again, this time with a knife.

It takes him approximately forty-six seconds to sever the pink mass from her completely, and I watch as he pressed it against an eye socket, then pushes in with his thumb, shoving the tongue inside.

My stomach flips at the gore, but I don’t look away, afraid that he’ll make me stand in the hall if I do. Besides, it’s not like I’m totally new to this—it’s just he does it with such callousness, and such precision, that it’s a bit daunting.

But impressive and creative, I’ll give him that.

And I can’t help but revel in the symbolism of taking the voice away from the woman who so often stifled ours.

“Let’s get this over with,” he says over her mind-numbing sobs, bending to the floor and picking up the red gasoline can, handing it to me. “I want to get back in time to at least see Quincey in her tutu.”

Kal’s dedication to being a good father warms my heart; there’s still a pinprick of jealousy that prods at the organ, though it’s no longer directed at my niece, and more so at the universe. I would have loved to have parents who cared the way he does, and I don’t want to stand in the way of him trying.

The only way to be better is to try, and Kal Anderson seems determined to break end any toxic cycles with himself.

I swallow, uncapping the nozzle, and walk over to where Mamma’s started losing consciousness. Tipping the can, I pour the liquid directly onto her face, and she jolts from her half-asleep state, resuming her thrashing immediately.

Part of me thought there’d be a bit more fanfare than this, when I finally got to face her, but in truth, I don’t have the desire to gloat over a corpse to be. She gets to die knowing the two people she tried to ruin gave her a taste of her own medicine—the last taste she’ll ever get—and that’s enough for me.

I don’t need to monologue or ask for her last words.

I just want her gone.

Kal hands me the Zippo as I reach her feet, and I glance down at it, noting the initials engraved in the bottom right hand corner.

C.R.

The irony of this being her Zippo, the prized one she’s held on to for over a decade, is not lost on me, and I suppress a smile as I flip the top open and toss it onto the chair with her.

Brutal sounds tear out of her throat as flames spark around her, licking at her skin and engulfing her within seconds. The scent of melting flesh fills the air, and Kal and I make our way to the front door, watching the bane of our existence as she leaves this world.

And goes straight to hell, where she belongs.

Kal and I don’t speak on the ride home. He calls a friend, telling them about the fire and what they’ll need to take care of inside, and I spend the drive staring out the window, wondering if I look any different, now that I’m free.

Now that I don’t have to worry about seeing her, or listening to her spew vitriol, or sit around and wonder why she couldn’t love me the way mothers are supposed to love their daughters.

I don’t have to sit around and wonder about her at all, because now there’s no way of ever getting answers. My closure rests in the understanding that what I got was as good as it could ever be, and my mother wouldn’t have ever been able to give me an explanation that felt satisfying enough.

The same goes for Papa, too. I found out through a posthumously delivered letter that the anonymous texts were his doing from a burner phone in prison. He’d said it was his last-ditch effort to sow seeds of doubt, and maybe send me running away from this world, like Elena.

And while it was a nice gesture, in some ways, I don’t think it was enough.

It’s likely that it never would’ve been.

So even if I don’t look it, I feel a little less heavy as we pull into the parking garage of my building.

Kal puts his Lincoln in park, then glances over at me. “You okay?”

“I don’t feel bad, if that’s what you mean.”

He purses his lips, looking as if he wants to say something else—maybe, “Not yet,” or “Give it time.” Something wise and brotherly, that will take the emotional responsibility off him and place it back on me.

But he doesn’t say that at all. Instead, he gives a curt nod, and then the smallest, teensiest of smiles.

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