Page 2 of Sweet SIN Slaughterhouse

“What?” I snark, annoyed.

“It’s time. She won’t make it past this evening,” my dad says, and instantly my heart sinks into the pit of my stomach. If it were up to him, he would have just taken her out long ago. Mom would have never allowed it, and surely she is the only reason he’s calling me now. Daddy is different; he truly tries when it comes to me and feelings, I’ve seen it, but he just doesn’t know any better.

Clearing my throat, I attempt to mask my emotions and respond, “Yeah. Okay. I’ll be there soon.” Then hang up. I’m not wanting to prolong the uncomfortable conversation. I know how hard even calling me about it was for the both of us.

Dropping the hook to the ground, it lands in a sea of crimson. Closing my eyes and lifting my mask off my face, I take a deep breath in, pinching my mouth shut. I keep it held in for as long as I can before exhaling. With my mask in hand, which now feels like the weight of the world, I walk to the table and place it down before sulking and looking over my shoulder. “Suppose you’re dead now too.”

Letting my raven black hair down from my high pony,it falls to just above my backside. And as I shake my hair out, a single tear escapes from my eye.

It’s the only piece of visual emotion I’ll ever allow.

Mumbling to my pest, I say, “I’ll have to hang you from the cathedral’s peak later.”

My heart aches in denial, and dare I say it’s finally time to go say the final goodbye.

2

SID

“Where’s your girlfriend, Brenda?”

“You know that’s not her fucking name, Blaise.”

“I do. But I don’t care.”

I won’t let my baby brother get to me today. No one will stomp on me publicly, even though internally I’m already crippled.

Standing outside, the breeze is warm as the summer sun begins to set. Wearing a vintage black velvet pillbox cap with a black lace veil that stops just above my chin; traditionally called a widow's cap, I turn my attention away from Blaise and toward the gravesite before us in my parents’ backyard.

“Why are you even dressed like that?” He can’t stand not being the center of attention. Rolling my eyes, I don't turn around or respond to his ignorant question. Alongwith my widow’s cap, I am dressed in a black Victorian mourning dress. A high neckline is latched together with a gold brooch that Greta gifted me on my eighteenth birthday. My lip quivers from the memory. My arms are covered, and the bodice is tight, a corset embroidered with intricate detailed lace overtop the flat black fabric. Looking down at my bare feet, the only part of bare skin visible on me, they peek out from under the long gown that flows from the corset, my toes curling against the earth, grounding me.

My lace-covered hands hold on to the two leashes just a little tighter, knowing how easy it is to lose a loved one.

My precious pink with black-spotted babies, Jack and Sally Jr., oink while digging their noses into the soil next to me. Flappy ears cover their eyes, and I often wonder how they are able to see, but they do. I spend hours watching them in the yard, my pride and joy.

Their parents, Millie and who I thought was Sally but turned out to be Sal, produced many heirs, but these two were the last of the bunch before Sal died just days before Greta gave me my brooch. Engraved into it is Sal’s face, so I can always keep him close. I raised them both since birth, and they will always be a part of me.

It’s been nearly two years, and I still get emotional over it.

Clearing my throat, I acknowledge Blaise. “Abi is at work. On a job. She hasn’t checked her phone… She doesn’t know.” Pausing, I know now is not the time to start an argument, but I poke the bear anyway. I suppose it’s to take my mind off the overwhelming grief that’s about to smack us all in the face, or knowing my family, only my mom and me.

“Why are you so miserable all the time?”

“Would the two of you shut up?” Dad yells from across the yard, shovel in hand, accompanied by his ‘and I will use it on you’ face.

I know he would never, as he’s been giving us this look since we were kids. Mom would kick his ass if anything happened to either of us. She’s always been our life insurance policy, and Greta’s.

Catching myself smirking, I shift my face back to a somber expression.

“Elijah Sinclair!” Mom shouts, walking behind Dad. He waves her off as if there is nothing to worry about, but I know in a mere three seconds there will be.

“Why didn’t you ever make Mom an official Sinclair?”

And here we go.

Closing my eyes, I brace myself, as I hear the scuffle take off behind me.

Dad likely has charged at my brother for insulting his queen. A pastime Blaise has gotten very good at. He doesn’t discriminate, though, no, he is very good at insulting all of us.

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