The woman quietly entered her kitchen through the back door, careful to shut and lock the door behind her. She flipped the light switch, bathing the room in soft light. The house, like her neighborhood, was blanketed in darkness and filled with stillness and quiet. The furnace kicking on confirmed what she already knew: the early morning was chilly on this dawning autumn day.

She carried a pair of running shoes in one hand; they were dirty and needed to be put in the washing machine. A quick glance at the hoodie and yoga pants she wore told her they needed to be tossed in as well. The woman didn’t like dirty clothes.

The girl’s eyes were squinted tightly against the fluorescent lighting as she was led from what was termed “the cubbyhole”, a small, tight closet with no light or toilet. She had been there for three days, and her meager clothing was soiled and stiff with urine and feces. Her voice was hoarse from screaming obscenities, crying, and wailing pleas for release. All of which had gone unheard.

Freeing her hair from the loose ponytail she had pulled it back in, she silently traversed her way into the adjoining washroom where she quickly stripped herself of the outerwear, placing the attire atop the waiting load in the washer. She liberally coated everything with detergent before setting the water temperature to cold and beginning the cycle.

Clad only in a pair of navy-blue boyshorts, she made her way back to the kitchen, pausing at one of the counters to pull a banana from a wooden bowl filled with fresh fruit. A glance at the microwave clock showed her it was just 5:30; she decided to prepare the day’s lunches. Chewing slowly on the fruit, the woman flipped a light switch before opening the refrigerator, her eyes surveying its contents.

Her husband would have last night’s meatloaf and mashed potatoes; the children would have deli meat sandwiches, chips, juice boxes. As she pulled the ingredients, the woman also made a mental note of what to add to her grocery list besides what she needed to make chicken tortilla soup for that night’s dinner.

They were low on milk and lunch meat; she planned on cooking her family a hot breakfast that morning, so more eggs and sausage. Juices. Pasta and sauce. Potatoes. Bread. Produce. Maybe a roast for Sunday dinner.

As she prepared the noon meals for her family, the woman looked around her cozy kitchen with satisfaction. Neat, clean, orderly and painted in a soft green color with gray accents, stainless steel appliances. The entire house had been painted in soft neutrals: beige, grays, greens; the woman didn’t like the color white.

The hospital had been all white: walls, floors, doors, sheets, uniforms. 

Straightjackets.

All gleaming harshly and austerely beneath 24-hour lighting.

Her gaze paused at the butcher’s block filled with knives. One was missing; she would need to replace it.

 Soon.

Once the lunches were prepared and packed away, she placed them on the top shelf of the refrigerator. She pulled out the eggs, placing the carton on the counter.

She looked around, making sure she hadn’t forgotten anything; the silver-colored dog bowls in the corner caught her attention. The woman absolutely loathed the dog; he ate her shoes and shitted all over the house. When outside, he tore into her azalea bushes and rummaged in the garbage cans.

Her family loved the animal.

She emptied the day-old food into a plastic bag, tying it tightly before placing it inside the kitchen trash can; the water she poured down the drain. She placed the bowls back where they belonged before exiting the room; she made sure to turn off the lights as she went.

She was a silhouette as she crossed through the living area, the only illumination coming from the streetlamps barely visible through the closed blinds. The woman passed the groupings of family photos on end tables and the fireplace mantle without glancing at them; she wanted to shower and dress before anyone else woke up.

In her bedroom, she paused in the doorway to stare at her still-sleeping husband. He lay on his side, facing her; his strong features were softened, almost vulnerable in repose. The stubble covering his jawline and chin was thicker. He would need to shave today; the woman would leave his razor on the sink’s ledge as a reminder.

In the bathroom, she opened the medicine cabinet for toothpaste; her medication stared back at her. The woman exhaled a small sigh; it was no longer as potent, as evidenced by her middle-of-the-night awakening and recurring dreams. She should tell her doctor, but she was fine. She had a real family now and was loved by them.

It was all she needed.

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The wooden frame house was engulfed in flames so bright, it lit the small community as if it were sunshine. Plumes of thick black smoke curled against the night sky, obliterating the stars. Firefighters battled the blaze while neighbors wondered if there were any survivors other than the young, barefoot teenage girl clad in a white cotton nightgown at the forefront of the crowd. Her hair hung in a straight curtain, framing her face and hiding the cruel smirk that curved her lips.

When questioned by local police officers the girl, through tears and in a quavering voice, cited a childhood filled with a promiscuous mother who subjected her to physical, emotional, and psychological abuse. She claimed her mother prostituted her out to the many men who passed through their doorway.

It was all a lie.

The faded bruises and open wounds on the child’s body were determined to be self-inflicted, and a gynecological examination found the girl to still be a virgin. Her mother was happily married to her college sweetheart, the girl’s father.

The girl was sentenced to the county’s psychiatric hospital for the criminally insane until such time she could stand trial.

The woman was toweling off when her husband appeared through mango-scented steam. She smiled brightly at him.

“Good morning!”

He dutifully kissed her cheek, but his expression was troubled. “You left the bed at 3am. I thought you were taking the sleeping pills?”

He had no idea her sleeping pills were actually a grade-A level anti-psychosis medication to suppress her homicidal rages. The woman took great care to ensure he would never know.

Her eyes searched his face quickly. “I forgot last night,” she lied. “I woke up wide awake and couldn’t get back to sleep. Decided to go for a run.”

Her husband nodded slowly. “You’ll take it tonight? We both know rest is important to you.”

She nodded. “I will. Promise.” She gave him a quick kiss on his lips.

The woman felt a sliver of fear coil in her belly. She loved her husband, loved her children. She didn’t want to lose them, lose the security being a wife and mother offered her.

It was a good life, for the most part: Friday night football games at the neighborhood high school, followed by pizza and ice cream; chores on Saturday, and church on Sunday. Backyard barbecues, bike riding in the nearby park, family game nights.

This house was their fourth move in six years; she and her husband both liked and enjoyed the home immensely as well as the neighborhood: lots of children, leafy trees, friendly people, and close to necessities and amenities. But just as in their previous neighborhoods, incidents began happening.

Missing pets, small fires, vandalism upon neighboring houses.

Her husband hadn’t heard the rumors and whispers, thank God. He was a trusting man, not a stupid one.

Abruptly she turned, pressing her naked body close to his as she wrapped her arms around him. She sighed in relief when she felt him return her hug. She wasn’t ready to let go of what she had built.

But she was prepared to.

While her husband showered, the woman hastily dressed and made their bed. She took care to tuck the fitted sheet closer to her side of the mattress than usual. Her husband trusted her implicitly, but so had others. And still she had been found out.

A half-hour later, her family was seated at the kitchen table, eating their hot breakfast of sausage links, scrambled eggs, grits, and toast. The children were giving their father one-word grunts in answer to his questions about what would be happening at school that day. He soon gave up and continued to eat his meal quickly and quietly.

Her daughter looked around in puzzlement. “Mom, where’s Toodles?”

Toodles was the dog.

The inquiry caused her father and brother to look around the room expectantly, anticipating the pet to appear at hearing his name.

The woman was rummaging in the fridge for the lunch sacks. “He ran out when I went for a jog this morning. He’ll return at some point.”

“What if he gets hurt?” her daughter asked in a panicked voice.

“He won’t. He’s smart,” the woman assured.

Her husband rose from the table, preparing to leave out. His wife admonished her children to hurry up, the school bus would be arriving soon before following her spouse to the front porch. She kissed him sweetly, with just a touch of tongue. He returned the kiss, a tad more deeply.

“You get some rest today. I’ll bring home dinner.”

She nodded, a small smile playing about her lips. “Chinese?” she asked hopefully.

“You got it, kid,” he winked at her over his shoulder.

The woman stood on the porch, watching his dark blue Maxima back down the hilly driveway. He had just pulled off up the street when her kids came tumbling through the doorway, shrugging backpacks over their shoulders.

Her eyes darted between her son and daughter.

“Homework?”

The children nodded affirmatively.

“Lunches?”

Again, they nodded.

She held her arms out to give them hugs and kisses. “You are brave and kind and smart and good-looking. Have a GREAT day!”

The kids gave her kisses on her cheek before walking down the incline the house sat on; her son looked back uneasily at his mother; the woman watched carefully from a porch chair as her children talked and joked with the neighborhood kids as all waited for the big yellow bus. As she always did, the woman waited until she saw her children board the bus, and the bus turn the corner before entering the house.

She locked the door behind her and turned on the television to a local new station for background noise. She placed pans, plates, utensils, and glasses in the dishwasher before wiping down counters and the kitchen table. She wrote out her grocery list, deciding she would go to the store tomorrow after the kids were off to school.

As she did her tasks, the woman decided she didn’t need to call the doctor; despite her body’s newly-found complacency with the medication, she was still fine. Nearly fifteen years since her release, and she was both wife and mother to a family that was very much alive and well, happy and healthy.

No, she didn’t need to call the doctor for herself.

But her son was a different story ...

She yawned heavily; she was beginning to feel tired. A daytime nap would be a good thing.

But first, she had to bury the damn dog and dispose of the missing knife.

She was a good mother.