Unwound (2 page)

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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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Many were the nights that she would sit in her room or in her

dungeon or anywhere she chose in her home and I would hear the

machines whirring and her maniacal laughter drifting toward me.

Some nights that would go on non-stop until she tired and then

the silence would take over the home for a day or two. She would

work so hard on her creations and she never wanted to stop, but I

guess the human body can only take so much. One thing I learned

quickly in her nights of torment where she forced herself to keep

working was her telltale sign that she would soon be resting for as long as she could stand it. She would sing a song. She would sing

London Bridge is Falling Down as quickly as she could at first.

Then it would slow to a normal pace, until finally it became but a whisper coming from her and then the sound of a body hitting the

floor and the sounds of tools and metal clanking around the room.

And then the silence. How I longed for those nights of silence

where I wouldn’t hear the materials tearing, where I wouldn’t

hear the sounds of metal clanging around, where I wouldn’t hear

her laughter or her screams of frustration. But I also feared for her in those moments too, never knowing if she died in her hysteria

and if it would be too dangerous to check on her. I never was

allowed in her work spaces or her private living quarters; she had made that very clear that she would take the life she gave me if I ever invaded her spaces. I wondered how many before me, if

there were any before me, that had crossed her before and that’s

why I was the only one that she kept alive. If I am the only one, I 16

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thought as my eyes flickered back toward the wall that divided

me from the other.

I looked back at the task at hand and taking a deep breath, I

grit my teeth as I slid it between the lock and the chain and started the painstaking task of trying to pry the two apart. I grunted with effort and immediately reminded myself that I had to be quite.

Any loud sound would bring Mother to my door to find out what I

was doing. Taking a deep breath, I bit my lip as hard as I could

and gave all my effort into relieving the chain from the lock that was holding on to it so dearly like a devoted love.

With one final yank, the lock finally gave way. I stood there

breathing heavily for a moment as I let Mother’s tool drop to the

ground. Shaking away my fatigue, I quietly undid the chain and

pulled the somewhat broken doors open slowly. I don’t know why

but I steeled myself for whatever I might find in there. I reached a hand in slowly, without looking, and pulled out the first thing I

was able to get my hands on.

It was book of some sort which I could tell because of the

shape. Curiosity got the better of me, because Mother would

never allow me to have a book so I creaked open the door a little

more and I pulled it out. It was covered in dust so I blew it off and examined the cover. Emblazoned on the front of it was “three two

five seven”.

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Something about that number seemed to bother me for some

reason. But I set the book aside. For now it wasn’t of importance

to me. Pulling open the doors as widely as I could I study the

contents that Mother had so desperately protected and found

myself wondering why?

Inside was a pair of dark pants, a dark shirt, and an over shirt

(or at least that’s what I had assumed it to be) made out of

materials that I had never seen before. Mother would never use

anything that wasn’t alive at one point to make things.

I pulled the clothes from the closet and quickly dressed

myself. Everything fit so well and so comfortably, almost as if

they were meant for me, and even though I loved her dearly, I

knew she would never be this kind to me or any of the others. If

any of the others would have survived anyway, I thought to

myself again.

As quietly as I could, I closed the doors and looked around for

the book which had caused a curiosity to rise in me.

Picking it up again, I held it for a moment in my hands

wondering why that number sounded as familiar as it did. As I

shrugged, I opened it to the first page and almost dropped it.

Inside was a sketch that Mother had made that she had named

three two five seven. I stared at the picture for a moment, my

mouth dry, because I knew what it was.

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I studied it in disbelief.

The cogs and wheels on the first diagram with a detailed

explanation of what she intended to do with them. I knew them

well. I heard them with every breath I took. When I laid my head

down at night to rest, I would feel them slow down.

Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to continue examining

the book.

On the next page was the second diagram; a myriad of words

and a semi constructed being; more so than the first page. The

chest of the being was a gaping wound, showing how the inside

would be put together. The eyes closed in a peaceful silence.

I ran my fingers down the tracing of three two five seven.

I pulled the book closer to my face and squinted at some

writing that had been scrawled onto three two five seven’s “arm”.

I began to shake.

The shape of the body was so oddly familiar.

I flipped to the third diagram. The strong hands that had been

attached to three two five seven were so haunting. Scrawled next

to the out turned hands were the words to let me know where she

had obtained them. “Butcher’s hands”, was scrawled out on either

side of the drawing on three two five seven.

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The fourth diagram detailed the face. The strong, young face

that had been so lovingly pieced together. She chronologically

wrote of how she had manipulated the stitching so that the scars

would never show on its face. It took her 11 days to get the face

looking “normal and perfect” she wrote.

The eyes, they struck me the most; so dead and unfinished.

One eye was open and showing no signs of life. The other did

not exist. In the hole that should be an eye socket that housed a

beacon of vision was a small series of cogs.

I felt the world starting to spin underneath me.

It was almost as if she never intended on finishing me.

I took a deep breath to steady myself and flipped through the

pages until I reached the last drawing she had made in this

macabre how-to book.

Gasping, I let the book fall from my hands. I didn’t care if she

would be able to hear it or if it made a sound.

The last page was the most haunting. It detailed all the

materials that went into three two five seven. It named the most

grotesque things imaginable and the most common things only a

genius like Mother would think to put together.

The smile. Oh God, the smile I had seen in my “youth” so

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many times when I looked into the mirrors. When I didn’t mind

looking into the mirrors. When they didn’t taunt me the way they

do now.

Smiling back at me on the last page was what Mother had

deemed “My Masterpiece.”

I wanted to kick the book away from me. I didn’t want to face

the truth of what I was seeing. I didn’t want to, but it was so

taunting.

I picked up the book again and stared at how she had colored

in the teeth on the yellowed paper so brightly and white. She had

once told me she had picked the son of a dentist when she was

thinking of the perfect smile she wanted to give the perfect boy.

She told me how she had sedated him and began the painstaking

task of carefully removing each tooth so that they wouldn’t break

or be marred in anyway. She told me how she had to fish through

the blood that came pouring out of the torn gums to get the teeth

by the root. She told me how the medication she had given him

had worn off and how every time he yelled out in pain, she would

laugh just a little bit harder. She told me that he had no chance of escape because of how tightly she had fastened him down to the

dentist’s chair making sure that he could not so much as move his

fingers. She told me of how she was determined to give the

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failed to create so many times before.

Those were the kinds of stories Mother would lull me to sleep

with.

Not ones of heroes slaying dragons for a beautiful princess.

Not ones of where the world was in Utopia.

No.

Mother’s bedtime stories would be of how she destroyed

things, unknowing, beautiful, and innocent things, to create me.

Shoving away from my mind the nightmares I suffered as a

child because of her stories, I forced myself to look at the finished diagram again.

I felt the air leave my body because I knew what I held.

I knew who he was. I didn’t want to believe her stories, but

now I couldn’t deny them. Not with the proof in my hands. I

locked eyes with the diagram and I couldn’t fight the horrible

truth anymore.

Smiling back at me was three two five seven.

Three two five seven was me.

As I wished at this moment that I had been given the ability to

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