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Everything came to a chaotic end the night I heard a shrill scream from the parlor room. I can remember every detail to this day. Her arms crossed, hands clutching at her rib cage within the candlelit room as Mother’s wild gaze glared up at my stepfather. The haunting words, "You will not take my daughter", seethed from between her teeth, over and over and over. I stayed hidden in the corridor from outside the space, waiting with bated breath to understand the disagreement they were entwined in. My stepbrothers were still enjoying their slumber while our parents’ argument ensued. Their conflict would soon reveal that this man, who was supposed to be my father figure and Mother’s doting spouse, was to sell me to one of his friends, and my mother was to be replaced by another, younger woman. My fourteen-year-old mind could not properly understand the information that was coming to light, no matter my fancy studies or the mature nature I carried. Nothing could prepare a child for that nefarious scenario.

But after that night, I was no longer a child. No.

For when my stepfather pushed my frantic mother to the ground and repeatedly bashed her beautiful face with a granite statue of Beethoven’s head, I screeched out in protest, but it only gave him warning that there was an observer to his crime. This is when color drained from my life, much like the blood that drained from her mangled form. When he attempted to lunge for me, I sidestepped, tripping him forward onto the ground. That is when I picked up the heavy granite statue with two hands, placed it over my head, then swung with all my might—cracking the statue into the back of his balding cranium. The distinct sound of bone crunching on impact echoed off the walls of the parlor room. What I can only imagine was the color crimson flowed like little rivers down his neck. I cannot recall how many times I delivered a blow, but it was enough to cave in his skull and see the mangled flesh of his cerebrum. What finally quelled my rage were the rasping breaths of my mother.

I rushed to her side, carefully placing my hands on her cheeks, murmuring that “Everything was to work out,” the biggest lie I had ever told her. Her form became weak within my grasp as she attempted to raise one hand to my cheek, but it slowly slid down to my collarbone as her eyes glassed over. Her last shaky words were, “I’m proud. I…love…love you.” Her body went still. I could feel her final exhale, a exhale that seeped into my bones and fueled the flames raging within my soul. I snuck into my stepbrothers’ rooms and killed them in the same bludgeoning fashion I had my stepfather. When I had finished blooding my hands with their souls, I lit the house aflame, setting a fire within nearly every individual room. Ensuring that nothing would be left but the ashes of their sins.

My stepfather caused the death of my mother.

The death of my father.

And the death of my childhood.

That is how I became the monster that I am today.

Pulling myself from the tragic memory, I shake my head softly, feeling the strands of my auburn hair brush across my collarbone. There is a constant ache that reminds me of the depraved, lonely person I have become. Though I have become this monster, I believe my mother would still be proud of me for standing up to these lewd and treacherous beings, but the cavernous black pit still grows within my soul.

My soul does not feel whole. I have not been whole for years.

2. I Am The Only Law - Olive

The Fountain

Weeks have passed, concluding the estate sale, the business transfer, and an exuberant amount of paperwork. The household staff and groundskeepers have new places of occupation, and Sicaro and Felix have absorbed and divided the shares of the export company among one another.

Standing on the foggy dock, I wave adieu to Felix while his ship slowly backs out of the harbor. His strong form stands near the forecastle, while a petite blonde stands next to him. She places her arm within his and waves back alongside him as they sink away into the dense fog. I hear footsteps approaching; and I turn to find Sicaro striding graciously in my direction. A warm smile pulls across my lips as she returns the endearing gesture.

“We shall be setting off shortly. Anything else I may assist with? Or is everything sorted regarding Franklin’s business dealings?” Her voice is smooth like silk, with a hint of her Jamaican accent. All of her travels and experiences in life have melded into a melodic tone of power and deadly sophistication.

“There are no other matters to conduct here. I shall leave shortly and return home.” Placing my hand within my dress pocket, I shift to find a pair of lace gloves crafted from Italy. Reaching my hand out, I gesture with the accessory to Sicaro. “Here, a gift. They will complement your wardrobe, which, I must add, has been on my mind ever since we began our venture. I must know where you purchase your skirts and gowns. They are divine.”

Sicaro’s smile spreads across her beautiful face. “I have a few seamstresses I favor in different parts of the world. Let me write their details down, and if you have a forwarding address, I’d love to begin an epistolary friendship, considering my travels.”

Sicaro reaches into her leather satchel to pull out a pen and paper, writing down her various dates of visitation and their accompanying addresses.

“At times, I too may not be able to respond for a while. For I will be onto my next marriage venture,” I explain while writing down the address to the cabaret.

“I will not have any adverse thoughts at a prolonged absence between responses,” she replies. “However, if the delay is more than a few months. I may worry and seek you out just to assess if you are well. I apologize for my boldness, but I have grown quite fond of you and respect your line of work.” Her words cause me to chuckle as we exchange parcels.

“I’ve enjoyed our time together and admire how much you’ve developed on your own. A bloody one-woman army, creating your own exporting empire across the Atlantic.” I gesture toward her vast vessel and out to the fog-swallowed harbor.

Sicaro shrugs her shoulders, gazing toward the abyss of the ocean. “Well, it did not come without challenge,” she said, her tone dropping into something serious as her face paints a picture of a woman reflecting upon what I can only assume is hardship or heartbreak.

“Well,” I reply, bringing her gaze back to me. “I will thoroughly enjoy a long letter detailing your encounters and how you became the mogul you are today.” I reach out, placing my hands to her upper arms, and give a loving squeeze.

“Ma’am, we must be going!” Sicaro’s assistant calls from the vessel. She nods in understanding toward him, then turns to me, giving my frame a quick but endearing embrace.

“Take care of yourself. Stay safe and stay sharp!” she heeds with another beautiful smile. I focus on the sound of her footsteps as her laced boots click upon the harbor wood. I make a mental note of her elegant ambiance. A dainty, dark-colored flowerpot hat sits atop her head, with garnished lace sewn into the hat band. Her side pin, I’m guessing, is made of pure silver, the markings of a skull and crossbones etched into the piece. Her long, shaded, pinstripe skirt sways from side to side as she marches onto the ship and is swallowed by the fog.

Once I am finally home in Lockham, my shoulders feel like they may cease their tensive hold and I may take a full breath of air with ease. While embarking on my malicious marital adventures, I am not myself. I must wear a poised mask, playing the part of a doting wife enthused and exaggeratedly in love with an egotistical prat. It is a fun strategical game, but it wears down the spirit, and at times the lost soul trapped in the recesses of my mind believes that each person I kill will inadvertently send me to another level of Hell. Once that notion pops into the forefront of my mind, I reason with myself that I am already headed for Hades after death, and thus, what difference does it make if I continue my lethal game? I’m also ridding the world of terrible people and enacting my own reasonable justice.

Moving my arms above my head, I take a long, languid stretch, feeling the satin sheets slide over the top of my feet. Then I rub my eyes with closed fists, feeling my long-sleeved silken nightgown move with my arms. I place my face into my palms, keeping my eyes shut, recollecting the tasks I have to complete today. One item that comes to mind is visiting Le Havre, a four-story complex with steeply pitched roofs and cathedral-style architecture, with granite flooring and overlay. It is my pride and joy, next to the cabaret, La Sirene. Le Havre has two L-shaped buildings opposite one another, with an enormous courtyard encompassed within the grounds surrounded by a large iron gate. I began the first building as Un Havre de Paix, a shelter for battered women and children, at the ripe age of nineteen. Something extremely rare for a woman to do on her own, but possible through building enough essential relationships and advancing your social standings with the money you have.

They didn’t need to know exactly how I’d gained that money. They only cared that they were paid and their businesses had an investor.

As time moved on, my partners and I constructed the second building, naming it Le Havre, to allow safe areas to explore sexual desires, but in a reputable manner. As well, I added the cabaret, La Sirene, to one section of the building. Everything expanded so quickly I ended up building a residence within this compound, a place where I could conclude business. I learned quickly that there was always business to attend to. Questions to answer, items to fix, and customers who needed to be taught how to respect my workers.

Le Havre is not like Whitechapel, London, where those that fulfill carnal desires become vulnerable populations; succumbing to drugs, violence, and other misfortunes that force their field to become dangerous. My establishment provides a safe avenue, encouraging respect and dignity, something myself and my partners find paramount. Sex is not just a swift pleasurable act as others may portray it to be. Intercourse is a dance between two bodies, allowing two souls to submit to one another and become one. It should be held in respect.