The Andruchek home, Etobicoke, Ontario.....

She looked in the mirror. If she didn't know better she would have thought the young lady smiling back at her had just come from a board meeting or power lunch. Her silk suit almost glistened in the bathroom light; subtle silver and black stripes vertically traversed the charcoal jacket and skirt, giving the suit a very professional appearance. Her silver silk blouse hung open further than any professional might find acceptable, but the image was pleasing nonetheless.

She pulled on the black pumps and stretched and peered behind her, admiring her calf muscles. She actually had considered charcoal seamed stockings, but went for the more subtle taupe seamless hose instead. Her hair was perfectly coifed, thanks to a stylist in Hong Kong who had done a superb job with her brunette locks. Her makeup was subtle; almost non-existent, but her clear smooth skin left her with no need for foundation or blush, and the hint of shadow and minimal mascara gave her a business by day - fun by night look.

She had gotten past any worry about intrusions; she had calculated the timing almost down to the second, and nothing seemed out of place that day. She was ready, but she walked to the bedroom window to check. The neighborhood seemed even quieter than she had hoped for. Taking stock of her image in the mirror on front of the closet door; she was as ready as she'd ever be.

Some make the decision out of fear and weakness; not weakness in the critical sense. They have no strength to continue, and they use their only remaining reserves to end a struggle. Some make the decision out of grief and despair; losing loved ones who still live may be the most painful grief anyone can endure. Others decide out of defiance; I'll show them. Any attempt to understand without explanation or knowledge can be futile, and certainly leads to guilt. Maybe today would be the day where mutilation gives way to finality and peace.

“I don’t care anymore,” she said as she squeezed tears from her eyes. “I don’t care” is really “I can’t bear this pain...this horror...this unmanageable burden...please help me;” shouted to unhearing ears like the falling tree in the forest.

Stevie looked in the mirror, and instead of seeing the slick, professional businesswoman with the come fuck me pumps and power lingerie, saw instead the seventeen year old boy standing nervously in the middle of his mother's bedroom wearing her clothes; the same clothes she wore the first time she invited him to share her bed. She hadn't worn the suit in years, and she had yet to realize that Stevie had been sharing her wardrobe for the past year.

Every single game in his collection had been purchased used; the difference going to the cost of the wig and the lingerie he'd purchased on line. His allowance. The sacrifice had been worth it; his mother saw no change in him outwardly; he remained the same game geek she had raised. The same boy who stayed at home with few interests and fewer friends lived in house unchanged, and she saw what she wanted to see. Neglected day in and day out and used night after night. If she could only see him now.

He bore an uncanny resemblance to his mother, and the wig only served to enhance that similarity; he smiled as his mother eerily smiled back at him. Her image knew exactly what was going to happen even as her real self sat in a board meeting in downtown Toronto, clueless. He walked back into the bathroom and looked once more in the mirror. She smiled at him, completely clueless as to what was going to take place; no urgency or fear or worry.

Reaching down, she opened the bottom drawer of the vanity and pulled out the eyeglass case from under the hair dryer accessories. Opening it up, she pulled out the straight razor; the only tangible link to her father...

There would be no valiant, slow Romanesque death. She wore her mother's suit; she was her mother for all intents and purposes. No slow painless sleep....she had every intent of making her mother pay for the horror she endured. She took the razor and walked into the living room. Setting it down on the coffee table she quickly walked to the kitchen to retrieve the chilled champagne she had taken out of the supply at her mother's last party.

Grabbing the crystal flute from the china cabinet on her way back, she settled onto the couch, where she poured herself a glass of champagne for a final toast. Lifting the glass, she smiled and licked her lips, savoring the taste of her mother's lipstick. The moment of decision. Would today be more than just hurt? Would pain finally give way to release? She paused in thought before saying to herself,

"To Stephanie Elizabeth Waters. I love you, Mommy! Not today...not yet!”

She quickly downed the champagne and set the empty glass on the table. Taking the razor in her left hand...her mother was left-handed; of course...she placed the blade side down against her right wrist. Old scars would give way to new; once again punished for being too much like someone else and not enough of herself. She stared at her hand for several seconds before withdrawing it. The cuts almost seemed thinner this time, but the blood flowed freely. She took the towel that had wrapped the champagne and pressed it against her wrist to staunch the blood; another challenge met successfully as the blood never reached the sleeve of her blouse.

Her blouse and her suit. A game she played from time to time to punish her mother. But her mother remained oblivious; sitting in her meeting in Toronto while the pain came to Stevie even as she wrapped her wrist in the bandages. No psychic Corsican link, her mother remained cold and calculating and cruel while Stevie sat at home feeling only powerful enough to hurt herself once again.

She looked at the razor in her hand; her hand...the hand in control...the instrument of power. More than once she had looked below, but she was too cowardly to end the miserable existence of hers. Another time and place perhaps, but the hated appendage would remain intact for yet another day. Blood would surge and flow and intrude, making her feel dirty and scared. Another night of lying still while being loved. Love? For whom? She would be used and discarded for the moment after it was over, her favorite nightgown useless in covering her shame. Her cheeks would burn red as she would lie awake remembering every horrible moment while her lover would sleep soundly in a drunken stupor.

The razor fell loudly on the glass coffee table as she began to weep. She wasn’t a child any longer even though she had yet to emerge completely from her childhood. She wasn’t a boy any longer; that part of her ended long ago before the horror began. But she wasn’t a girl either; her innocence ripped away by a victim who gave into her own fears and shame and became something cruel and inhuman.

Stevie looked at her hand...her left hand. It shook, almost as if trying to detach itself to end the destruction. But she picked up the razor. She thought about using it elsewhere; a quick swipe and it would be over. But that would be wrong. Someone had to pay for the sin in the house. She thought about beginning again, but the pain was too much. No more today; plenty of guilt remained, assuring this atonement would return another day, maybe for the last time.

She stood up suddenly but then walked slowly back to the bathroom, where she placed the razor back in the eyeglass case and replaced it in the drawer. Another day?

Next: Corie's Story