The Heart of Hannen

                                                                     1

I just tried to kill my sister!

    Gripping tightly to the sides of the porcelain sink, Christine steadied herself. A dozen mini bulbs running the length of the vanity cast harsh light on her pallid, hollow-eyed reflection. The cloying lilac scent of the bathroom deodorizer clawed menacingly at her stomach, and the papered walls, splashed with tiny trails of green ivy, seemed to crowd closer with every pulsing second. Her own breaths, rapid and shallow, seemed amazingly loud in her ears.

    Pressing her palms against the cool linoleum counter, she leaned closer to the mirror, her face mere inches from the glass so that she could look long and deep. She needed to find it. It had to be there—in the eyes.

    Mirrors to the soul, isn’t that what they say?

    If this was true, the explanation should be there. She focused on the miniature face, her own image reflected so perfectly in one tiny black pupil. She had no doubts that were she able, somehow, to peer into the pupil of the miniature eye in that miniature face, she would find yet another miniature face with yet another miniature reflected self, on and on, an infinity of tiny aqueous mirrors, each wearing an expression a tad more dangerous than the one before. With each new reflection the eyes would become more narrow, the lips would grow thinner, the brows more tightly knit. Ultimately, deep at her core, the face would hold feral eyes, cruel and glaring, thin blue lips pursed tightly, a face contorted wickedly. Radiating tendrils of hair would blaze copiously, reflecting the torrid inferno within. This inner reflection would be the true reflection, the face of a soul steeped in rage.

    She knew that the rage was there, deep down where she kept it buried, dormant but ready to erupt at a moment’s notice. Like a malignancy, it festered there, pulsating, hot. Not ordinary anger. What lay rotting within Christine Clavin went much deeper than mere anger. It was a blinding rage, violent, uncontrollable.

    Fumbling for the pearl-handled knob, she wrenched on the cold water and leaned over the sink to dip her face into the cool pool within her cupped palms. As the water dripped from her face, she studied the two trembling hands held before her, small hands, pale, delicate even.

    Shuddering, she choked back the bile that rose in her throat and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, aghast at the deepest of crimsons that had suddenly coated her palms. "It’s not blood! Not blood," she chanted. "It’s water, water, water, water, you pathetic psycho!"

    With wrenching trepidation, she forced her eyes open, and then shuddered a sigh of relief at the sight of her hands dripping only with water, cool and clear. Turning the spigot off, she snatched up a towel to blot at her face while she struggled to hold back the threatening tears. "I’m a good person, damn it!" she insisted. The sound of her own voice, shaky and whining, grated on her frayed nerves.

    She’d always striven to be kind. Didn’t go around kicking dogs or anything. She was actually a big animal lover. And she was honest. That had to account for something. But even so, she knew that most people considered her to be cold and aloof. There had once been a time when she’d blamed this on her shyness. Sometimes people could mistake one for the other. But she couldn’t delude herself any longer. Maybe they couldn’t see it, but people could sense it, the face contorted in rage, the innermost reflection. There were times when she feared they might actually smell it, as if a rancid effusion of malevolence seeped from her very pores.

    With a deep sigh, she faced off with her own reflection yet again. The girl looking back at her didn’t look as if she was infected by the black plague. She looked like your average seventeen-year-old. In fact, at the risk of seeming terribly immodest, she had to admit that most would consider the girl looking back at her to be quite attractive. Her skin was clear, very fair with a fine smattering of tiny freckles running across high cheekbones and over the bridge of a small nose. Her eyes were light blue. Perhaps a tad too light. Too cold. Her best feature was her hair. It was long, almost to her waist, the natural curl giving it a thick luxurious appearance. And it possessed a color that most women could only find in a bottle, one bearing an exotic name such as Flaming Goddess or Fiery Sunset. She’d once gone so far as to dye her hair to a neutral brown, thinking that perhaps people connoted bitchy to the hair color. But it made no difference. She remained unapproachable.

    Drawing her lips back in a forced smile, she examined the small and even teeth, these thanks to three years of braces. As if those early adolescent years weren’t awkward enough, she’d had to go through them with a mouth full of metal. She’d found it highly convenient to blame her ‘metal-mouth’ for the fact that she had never been approached by one single boy in high-school. But, of course, deep down she knew better. It wasn’t the braces or the hair color, or the cold eyes, or the shyness. She couldn’t blame her lack of popularity on what happened in her sophomore year, either. That had just been the final nail in her social coffin. From that day forward she’d become a complete and total outcast. Sam, her brother,—God—he had more friends and admirers than one could count. And Kimmy didn’t seem to have any trouble making friends.

    At the thought of her sister, a knife of guilt twisted in her gut.

    "I’m so sorry, Kimmy," she spoke weakly to the pale reflection.

    If she’d done to any other person what she’d done to her sister today, she’d probably be facing time for attempted murder, assault at the very least. Kimmy, though two years younger, was already five foot ten inches at age fifteen and more than a hundred and forty-five pounds. She had nearly seven inches and thirty pounds over Christine and there were times, such as today, when she thought that she could throw that extra weight around, and in her older sister’s direction. Most of the time Christine could deal with it. A few deep breaths, a few seconds of teeth gnashing, a few choice words. But tonight—tonight she’d done it again, tapped that pit of blackness. That rage cloistered deep within had erupted and the filth had spewed, the thick lava of putrescence infesting all that had the misfortune of coming within contact. She didn’t remember much. Just Sam prying at her hands to stop them from throttling her frightened flailing sister—throttling for all they were worth. It didn’t matter that Sam was twice her size. It didn’t matter that he could bench press three hundred pounds like it was twenty, or that he could do a hundred one-armed pushups and then dab fleetingly at a barely dampened brow before proceeding to match the number with his other arm. He’d had quite a time dislodging her hands from Kimmy’s throat. And he’d nearly dislocated her shoulders in the process.

    Pulling her sleeves up, Christine checked the bruises that were already forming on both upper arms, four distinct finger impressions complete with thumbs wrapped around, Sam’s grip imprinted clearly on her flesh. They were only a light burgundy color at present, but she knew that by morning her arms would be black and blue.

    Hanging her head, she shuddered, appalled that she could have done such a thing to Kim. "Jesus, Christine, that was your own sister, you moron, your own flesh and blood. Not like—like…"

    She started at the small drop of crimson that suddenly stained the stark-white porcelain sink before her. Thin veins like striking rays of a bloodied sun striated outward, traveling from one bead of water to the next.

    Turning on the water, she watched the crimson sun disappear beneath the brisk stream, but even as she exhaled a slow sigh of relief, the faucet sputtered. The water clouded, a light pinkish hue at first, and then a bright strawberry. Finally, a thick, dark, clotted substance gurgled from where only water should flow.

    A thin keening escaped through a constricted throat as she stumbled backward. Bumping roughly against the wall, she squeezed her eyes tightly closed.

    He was there—on top of her. She could smell him—soured alcohol, stale sweat, dirty hair, something rotten on his breath—could feel him pressing her down, his forearm crushing her throat. She was struggling for breath, striking at his face. A good blow landed—his temple. He struck her hard across the face in retaliation, and then again, this time his fist—a loud popping—her own cheekbone splintering.

    From what seemed like a great distance, she could hear the faucet still, gurgling—sputtering…

    He was snickering at her, his breath soured by alcohol and something foul like rotting meat. "How’s bout a kisssssy, Chrisssssy." His mouth was on hers, his tongue—sickening—a big fat slug trying to worm its way in. She tasted blood…

    Blood. Realizing that she was biting her lip, she unclenched her teeth. "Water, water, water," she chanted. "Fuck you, Sanchez! It’s water, so fuck you!"

    Holding her breath, she forced her eyes open to peer at the faucet, and then brought a hand to her mouth to stifle the ragged sob. It was water, pure and sparkling H²O, not a spigot gushing blood.

    Sliding slowly down the wall to the cold tiled floor, she cradled her head in her hands, the sobs eerily silent.

(For next chapters, please click on my picture to go to My Room)