Unwound
Unwound
By
Yolanda Olson
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Prologue
My life began with an idea and a stitch.
The brainchild of a deranged genius who sought to make only
perfection, not because she herself was perfect, but because she
knew she could achieve it. That one thought that ran constantly
through her mind was so simple and so deluded that it would only
make sense to someone like her.
At times I wondered what had made London into the monster
that she was. What had been done to her to drive her to such
madness? Whatever it was that she had endured must’ve been
something so hideous and traumatic, that creating us was her only
escape. I wondered how she had endured all these years; how her
anguish and pain had not yet driven her to take her own life.
Maybe by creating us as she did she would let the pain from deep
inside of her boil to the surface and take shape.
I feel a sharp whirring inside of me. This is something that
only happens when I become determined which is what I assume
to be my adrenaline surging. I never like the way that it feels
because I’m sometimes afraid that my insides will dislodge and
I’ll collapse into a junk heap.
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Truth be told, that’s what we all are; nothing more than junk
heaps.
I was the only one who survived in partial tact. She never
finished any of us because she would grow bored or run out of
material for her perfect dolls. She once told me she never finished me because she knew I would leave her once I was complete.
What she didn’t know was that I would leave her even as
unfinished as she left me. The tell-tale sign of my incompletion
was hidden behind a patch that a young boy had given me in a
random act of kindness. A pirate he called me after he placed it
on my head. I didn’t fault him for his words because of his
innocence but if only he know that I had escaped a real pirate. A
harvester of the most grotesque “parts” one could ever hope to
construct anything out of.
But she was still my mother and as long as she kept me
enslaved in her home, I loved her unconditionally. Even when she
found the boy and used him as material in one of her newer
designs which she had mockingly sent me pictures of.
Hidden by a sycamore tree close to the edge of her home, I
close my eyes as I wrap my fingers tightly around the iron fence
she had herself erected in one of her manic fits which she had
managed to build in the span of one night. My jaw tightens as my
breathing slows; I can hear the whirring inside of me. The
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constant reminder that I’m not real. Suddenly I’m back in the
room where she kept me prisoner. In the room where I was
subjected to many torments, and as I stand there reliving those
moments I am reminded why I’m standing here.
The book, I think to myself grimly. The truth behind who and
what I was and what had caused me to run so frantically from this
hell is what also caused me to come back. Opening my eyes, I
raise them to the window on the fourth floor that is still partially shut off to the world with wooden planks wishing I had never
found it. The ramblings and drawings of a genius destined to
make life out of death.
My grip tightens. The wounds of what we find out about
ourselves are as beautiful and deadly as an alpenrose. At first
glance it can seem so innocent, so delicate, so fragile looking, but upon deeper inspection such a horrifying truth hidden deep within.
The depths of things we cannot understand are greater than we
know.
I was not built to feel any emotion except pain, but I’ve come
back with new emotions. I’ve watched others; studied their faces
and their actions. Now I come back to my mother with anger and
hatred. My eyes now lower to the grand double doors at the main
entrance of the sprawling estate before me.
Inside is the reason I am here.
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Inside is the creator who tortured me mercilessly.
Inside is my mother; the one who gave me the gift of life
would be the one to whom I would grant the gift of death.
I’m here to challenge a monster, to end her life. My body
begins to tremble slightly, but it’s not because I’m afraid of her.
It’s because to destroy a monster, I myself, must become a
monster. I’ve mentally prepared for this moment since the day I
first opened my eyes. I knew I was an abomination which was
confirmed by the words in her book. I look down at the slight
scarring of stitches that surround my fingers and know that I
cannot become any more monstrous than I already am. Only one
thought shakes any fear of becoming like her from my mind.
Your only peace will come with her death.
I take a deep breath to steady myself.
Knowing that it’s time, I move away from the shelter and
seclusion of the sycamore and pull myself over the gate. It
doesn’t take me long to navigate the grounds hidden in the
shadows of the trees she had planted in such careless fashion.
Two trees that I passed where planted almost on top of each other
so they wound together and made one giant, mangled mess. They
were useful to me though as I stood behind them for a moment to
catch my breath.
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Get to the door, I command myself. I put a hand to the double
tree and with everything left inside of me I push off it and run as fast as these legs would carry me. With the fatigue washing over
me, which was so frequent these past few weeks, I shove the
doors open and run down the long hallway until I reach the stairs
that lead down to her dungeon as I liked to call it.
Slowly, I open that door and stand at the top of the dimly lit,
stone staircase. In the distance I can hear a chair slowly creaking back and forth. Willing myself to stop hesitating, I make my way
quickly down the winding steps reaching the double wooden
doors that she always had so tightly closed, finding them cracked
open.
I see her. She’s in a large chair with her legs pulled up to her
chest, her arms wrapped around them. She’s talking to herself
softly.
I step inside the doors and pull them tightly close behind me.
No one would be leaving this room until the other was dead.
Looking around, I find a long metal pole and use it to pry the door shut.
*Cr
*C e
r ak,
e
cr
c e
r ak*
e
It was almost as if she didn’t realize or care to acknowledge
that I had entered into her private, hellish workstation. I remove 7
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the hooded jac
ket that I’m wearing and toss it aside revealing
what the last year of being away from this hell has done to me.
My skin has started to wither and fall off of me. The stitches
where she seamed my neck to my shoulders are now more
prominent and my face is gaunt. I was no longer the young
looking man I was when I left. I didn’t have much definition left
to me and I was running out of time.
“I knew you’d come back,” she finally says in a singsong
voice.
The creaking stops.
She slowly swivels the chair to face me and stares at me with
vacant eyes.
Now she’s humming.
Humming the song that would signal the sign that her
madness was going to burst into full bloom at any given moment.
“Don’t worry, this won’t hurt very much,” she says as she
rises from her chair with a seam ripper in her hand.
I steel myself as she comes charging at me, screaming in a
horrifying rage, the moment that I had wanted so badly was
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One
One year ago
London Blackhouse.
My mother.
The one who made me.
Nourished me.
Loved me.
Hated me.
Kept me locked away from the world in a room full of torture
and horror where my only friends were my own reflection
designed to torture me. Why? Mother never finished me which
was the obvious cruelty the mirrors inflicted on me day by day. I
couldn’t fault her for it though because I wasn’t the only thing she had that needed attending to. Most days she just would lock me in
my room; my only friends being the mirrors.
The mirrors.
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I hated them all.
I couldn’t take them anymore and how she loved to taunt me
with the mirrors. My reflection always stared back at me,
screaming at me that I was a fool just for looking.
But I still loved her.
Despite all her faults, she was a good mother. No, she is a
good mother.
I can’t fault her for being a genius.
I can’t fault her for caring enough to make so many children.
I can’t fault her for… for any of it.
I know she loves me.
She has too.
As I look around my room I know I can’t stay here anymore. I
don’t want to leave her, but I can’t stay. Not with the way she’s
been lately; not with all the torture and anger. Not how she sits in her room at nights, humming to herself. The sounds of the wheels
and drills spinning. The sounds of cloth tearing and being sewn
back together. I knew better though. What she referred to as cloth was something completely different and horrible.
I didn’t let myself think about that. I shoved the terrible truth
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from my mind and got to my feet. The pain that shot through me
from that simple gesture was horrendous. Not because of any
reason other than the broken shards of glass, nails, sewing pins,
and other little torturous items she had weaved together in some
netting and laid out along the floor like it was some kind of
precious, valuable carpeting.
Gritting my teeth, I walked barefoot quickly to the other side
of the room. Even though I knew I wouldn’t and couldn’t bleed,
she made sure that I would be able to feel pain. I remembered the
night I asked her why.
“Good boys don’t need to bleed. Blood does not make you
who you are. Pain however, is a necessity to survive in life. If you don’t feel pain you can never excel and become great. Trust me. I
know this more than anyone,” she had said, in a sing song voice,
grinning maliciously. Before I could ask any more questions, she
had then used her screwdriver to start digging up her fingernails, pulling them straight from their beds and exposing the flesh
beneath them. As they poured blood, she laughed hysterically and
then screamed at me to leave her in peace.
Mother always had work to do.
So far I was the only one of her “experiments” that had
survived. I had hoped that it would make her treat me better, but I don’t think she knew how to love or maybe this was her form of
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love.
I pondered this as I walked quickly to the closet that she had
chained and then decided to dismiss this. Trying to understand her would probably only prove to make me as mad as she was.
I reached into the pocket of the old tattered pants she had
given me to sleep in, made of a similar material that almost
matched my skin tone completely, and pulled out one of her
beloved tools. As I held it up to inspect it, it shimmered in the
moonlight that was pouring through the wooden board she had
crookedly hammered onto the windows. She never wanted me to
see the outside world for what it was worth, because she only
wanted me to know what she taught me. She said I would be
corrupted if I knew what happened outside of the window and she
would press my face against the planks and try to catch a glimpse
of the world beyond my room.
Feeling a smile starting to creep across my weathered lips, I
closed my eyes for a moment and thought of the one night that I
caught a small glimpse of life go by. It was something small that
seemed to go in and out of view so quickly. The colors on it
where brilliant and beautiful and I watched it in awe whenever it
came into my line of sight. That night I had crossed the carpeting to the wall on the far left side of the room and sat down on the
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netting of torture. I remembered rapping quietly three times on
the wall and putting my ear against, listening for any sign that
there would be an answer.
I held my breath for what seemed like hours until I finally got
the three taps returned faintly to me. I whispered as loudly as I
dared about what I had seen in the outer world and in response, a
piece of old paper was slid under the slight crack under the wall
to me, with a soft whisper back to draw what I had seen. I always
kept some kind of drawing tool near that wall for the one behind
it. I grabbed what Mother had once called a graphing pencil and
began to intricately draw what I had seen.
Forcing myself not to let a single detail slip, I first drew the
small body of what had been so busily flittering about. I then
decided to shade in the darker parts of it as well as the small
ruffles around its body. At least I thought they were ruffles. I
drew the two tiny protruding parts that it had tucked into self as it flittered. Then I drew the long, what I could only think of as a
spike, that came from the front of its face under its tiny eyes.
Detailing the sleek little body to the best of my ability, I let my hands skillfully slide over the paper until I found myself to be
satisfied that I could remember no more. Confident that I had
captured the creature as best as I could, I folded the piece of paper in half and I slid it back under through minuscule
opening,
leaving just enough on my side to know that it was taken by
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whomever lived in the next room.
For a moment there was no movement, but then I watched as
it was slowly retrieved. I heard the small puffs of effort to pull the paper to the other side and began to nervously chew on my
fingernails. One more grunt of effort from the other side of the
wall and I knew that it had my drawing. I sat down and leaned my
head against the wall waiting for a response.
My eyes fluttered closed, the sound of clocks ticking quietly
in the distance, the sound of Mother working away in her
basement with her drills and hammers were somehow so serene to
me that I felt myself slipping into a deep slumber.
I don’t know how long I was asleep for because I don’t dream.
We aren’t designed to dream.
I was woken by the sound of the other pounding on the wall
and mumbling loudly to get my attention. I rubbed my eye; the
only one she gave me that worked, and looked down. The paper
was dancing almost frantically. I reached down for it and pulled it out the other’s single fingered grip and got to my feet. I made my way painfully to the window and used the small slits in the planks to examine the answer that was scrawled out for me.
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Sparrow
I had never in my life heard that word before; not that I had
been “alive” very long. Looking back down at the word that had
been the response to my drawing, I shook the thought away. I
didn’t like thinking about how little of the world I knew. Of how
little time I had been here. Of how lucky I had been that she had
decided I was worth letting live.
I took the paper carefully in my hand and crossed the
carpeting again until I reached the closet door she always kept so protected from me. Folding it into four folds, I slid it in the
waistband of my bottoms and retrieved the tool again.
I promised myself that one day I would come back for the
other. I would make sure that they would know the same freedom
that I was determined to know.
Standing there for a moment holding one of Mother’s
precious instruments made me wonder if the other was like me.
Was it created or was it born? And if either was the answer, why
could it not speak? I didn’t know much of a world outside these
walls that imprisoned me my whole life other than Mother.
My poor, dangerous, deranged creator.
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