Cracking up

Skulls don’t crack like you’d expect them to. Like nuts. You used to fixate on walnuts, how they shatter in a closed fist and scatter in dust and shards.

The feeling of their skulls cracking beneath your heel felt more irrelevant. Similar to walking, thoughtlessly cracking sticks underfoot — no value to the wider world. The vibration snaps up your leg and thigh. You hear the sound, glance to see the damage. Just another twig in a forest of them.

They lay there, prostrate, and you want to find out how they’ll crack. Will it be different this time. Will there be that satisfaction of a proper shattering. It’s hard to focus on where their heads are when you don’t even know where your own is. The forest has a chill that encourages you on. You imagine there might be voices, dogs perhaps, even police. You are the purge, but also the hunted. The threat spurs you to act too soon; foot on the forehead, sole above that soft arch of the nose… in that moment, the single face below is clear to you. No longer a blur of three different bodies but a mouth, flesh. Bones.

This one feels wrong too. There is no crack. The bone collapses in a soft, simple snap. It takes force, a few tries, but it doesn’t crack.

Pulling away is always the worst part, because now their faces look wrong too. Their forehead protrudes, their nose is disfigured. The break dips so deep, the bone protrudes through the soft tip on their once-button nose. It pulls their lips high in a grotesque smile that sickens you. The eyes are the worst part, so awful you covered them first this time. Before, they popped. Or dislodged or —once — slowly deflated, as if some bone or another had punctured them. The blindfold is loose now with no skull to hold it, so you can see an eye has come out the socket.

There wasn’t even any blood. Disappointed again, you leave them there. They deserve it.

On the journey home, you envision their face blowing back up to their fullest vitality. They were fine. Your breath puffs out a weak cloud. This may be last of the autumn nights. You’re about a mile from home, and halfway there you drop to your knees. Pick a tree. The wet mud sucks at your knees, it makes you think of soft insides, guts. The small-town police can’t afford dogs. Something about digging with your hands feels visceral, dragging through the hard soil in the darkness like an animal. Once you’ve dug a few inches beneath the tree’s root, you peel off your gloves and discard them. You use your foot to shove the dirt back into place, pack it down, shove a few fallen leaves over. You can’t leave a trace. Mud has stained your clothes, but you know how to clean.

In the time that takes, their face has returned to normal in your mind. The long blonde hair isn’t muddied and strewn everywhere. They have class tomorrow. On Wednesdays, food tech and gym are on the same day. They might paint their nails, because they aren’t cracked and bloody from trying to crawl away. They’ll be green you think, not red. They are always fine, so you are too. There’s no vomit around their mouth and chest, because they didn’t overdose on the antipsychotics you put in their water. You’d left the bottle behind. You didn’t want it. The pills were useless to you. You take comfort knowing they deserved it anyway.

The last stretch home is up-lifting. That one didn’t crack properly, but the next will. You were doing the town justice while finding that satisfaction. One day, a skull will crack properly. They’re so rude. This was a lesson, to them and their parents. Mothers just didn’t raise girls right today.

Closer to home, the fallen sticks start to pile up. The gales catch them better here where the trees are spaced out. The feeling, the crack crack crack underfoot is jarring. It irritates you. It mocks you, for not cracking their skull properly. The wind catches your coat, whips the tip of your nose. Crack. Another stick. The itch that needs to be scratched returns.

There wasn’t any blood, but you shower anyway. You’ll feel different tomorrow, you know the feeling is coming. You must prep for the return to normality. Hair is conditioned, nails filed. It’s lavishing, but you use the nice perfume before bed. No one else is awake. Sliding under the duvet, the body beside you shifts with the movement. Then they settle. No one is awake. No one is in the woods.

***

Going about her routine, Maggie considers taking an extra pill. Just for a little boost. She lays them out on the bathroom sink – neatly, as she typically does. The little white, blue, and brown tablets look so harmless against the porcelain. Recently she’s been toying with what would happen if she stopped taking them, gave her body a break. She’s been thinking of clearing her head for some time now.

She’s been on them since the incident when she was fifteen, and now that her daughter is coming up for that age, she considers completely freeing herself of them more. Having her own head back.

Today, though, is a bad day. She knocks back all her pills in one. They scrape down her throat, dry. The murders have become more frequent over the past week, totalling three. It’s made her emotions erratic. Behind her the bedroom TV scratches through the latest police report. They use lots of calming phrases: Everyone is safe. The situation is under control. Please come forward with any information. We have suspects. But Maggie still worries for her daughter. She’s changed recently. Made friends, which is new. She decides she will pop another Seroquel, swallows it dry. She shouldn’t self-medicate; it was meant to be a short-term solution. She’ll ask the doctor for another prescription. Opening the cabinet drawer, she throws the packets and pots back into their pile of chaos. She’s spent half her life living trailer to trailer, so tidiness isn’t her forte. She especially never organises her pills. There is no time to be so particular with all her other concerns, like raising a good daughter.

All seven pills don’t feel like enough. Opening the drawer again, she selects another Olanzapine. That should settle her anxiety.

The rest of the week is a breeze. Maggie wakes, takes her dose. She cracks eggs and fries them for her daughter. They go to school. She asks to spend time at the canal after school. Again. Maggie says she’ll think about it. She won’t. Maggie wanders town, sees the laundromat, and reminds herself to buy detergent. There’s been so much washing recently. It is infuriating. Her daughter must learn to help more. One day it rains. The man comes back to her bed, on the wet days. It grates at her – his rudeness. There’s a pale line around his empty ring finger. His heating doesn’t work, but the voice in her head tells her he loves her. The leaves finish falling and suddenly the world is white. It blankets the mess of fallen twigs. Maggie likes the tidiness. It feels like a purification. The snow makes the morning school run harder, the walk along the canal treacherous with black ice. Her daughter starts going there anyway. Maggie lets it go. She warns her daughter to start wearing boots. No more murders take place. With Christmas only a month away, it feels like no one even died. Police reports stop. Fairy lights go up in their street. Her daughter starts to walk the canal home again, because that’s where the cool kids go, Mum. The school has promised to salt the ground there now because the parent-teacher rep petitioned. Maggie’s daughter isn’t a cool kid, but she doesn’t care enough to wonder what she does at the canal. It’s just teen angst. The need to fit in. Maggie worries for her safety, even without murders.

***

You watch the girl skid over the ice in her attempt to get away. She doesn’t scream, nor does she shout for help. She pants so fast there is a cloud of warm air around her. She slips, cracks her knee on the concrete. You don’t hear anything but you imagine the pain.

Co-mon, darling, jus leh a man co-hp a feel ey

He makes these comments indifferently, slumped over from a cocktail of substances. Half of them weren’t his fault, you know, but the alcohol was. The leering was too. No drug could make him do that — not even the ones for psychotics like you. It was easy for you to spike his drink while he spoke to the girls; men like him are always starved for attention. It distracts them. They take anything they can get. They take even what they can’t get, like this girl.

The gap from wall to canal isn’t wide. As she’s down, he reaches to rest a hand on her shoulder. Misses the first time, clawing air. Catches her second. Runs it down her spine. She flinches away, struggling to her feet, so he grabs the back of her neck. Now she screams.

He let’s go like she’s burnt him, shaking his hand out. Knee forgotten, the girl is up in a flurry of grey skirt pleats and limbs. Her elbow catches him on the nose. She can’t be strong, but he stumbles back hard, swearing.

Fu- uk! You-h bi-htch

The dark has swallowed her whole, and he stands to assess the damage in her absence. You notice how silent the cold makes this active place. He dabs his nose frequently, runs his hands over himself to check he’s still there. You know the feeling. The unsteadiness, the difficultly speaking. It could just be the alcohol, but these are also neuroleptic symptoms. He’s lost his head, but still smooths out the tie he loosened back in the pub. It lays crooked over his un-ironed shirt, so the effort is pointless. He didn’t look this lost in the pub. You’ve removed the animal from its habitat. There, he sat poised on a well-used bar stool. One arm relaxed on the counter, so that his pressed French cuff might raise to better show his watch. You know it’s worth showing. If you were another kind of person, you might want that Patek Philippe for yourself. You watched his parade as he plundered drink after drink like he was celebrating. Every time I’m half empty, Boss, fill me up another pint. You saw the girl, too, had watched her escape the cold with her four matching clones of various rolled-up-skirt lengths. The girls requested a variety of soft drinks, their youth was obvious, yet Patek Phillippe watched them too. Offered her a straw with an edge to his eye, flirtation in his fingers as he gave the lemonade in her hand a mix. You couldn’t hear him, but you heard their refusals.

The pub was otherwise empty, and three of the five clones finished off cranberries – on the rocks – before brief hugs goodbye. You sidled up to the bar. The girls were still polite, but Patek Phillipe apparently didn’t understand social cues and continued to offer them a round. Not of lemonade. He was snappy with Boss too, distracted now. You ordered a pint of Guinness, drank until it was just slightly below a third full. You’d had enough of his rudeness. He excused himself for the toilet. The girls agreed it was the time to strike, one left and the other waited to pay. The card reader was by the wall and old enough that you slipped a whole tub of outdated Risperidone into the Guinness. You even had time to stir it with a straw.

Mr. Patek’s stumbled return has left him offended. The girl types her pin in and her hand shakes. She has to do it twice before she gets it right. He questions her repeatedly; where the friends are, where she’s going, why won’t she stay. His voice grates in a way that reminds you of a balloon wheezing out air. The girl is out the door. He finishes his drink in three gulps, so that he might catch her. You leave yours, a third full.

You followed him here, far enough from the pub that the quiet echoes. You wondered if the pills would work fast enough. It’s good to know that a higher dose speeds up the results. He reminds you of other bad men. Bad apples. This one is familiar, so you know he tastes rotten.

You walk up to him, a little spring in your step. This crack will be good. You feel it in your bones. A single lamp casts a ring of light under the bridge, illuminating the water and just enough of the pathway. It’s one of those energy saver bulbs, so the light is dim. There are no rails — it’s only a canal. He stands just inside the frigid white glow. Like an interrogation room. He’s already bent at the knees, like he might heave any moment. All it takes is a shove, and he’s in.

You watch him struggle with the shock for a moment. The water must be freezing. He makes no noise, just the splashing. Doesn’t scream. The whites of his eyes are huge, over-pronounced. He gets a hand on the slick mossy edge of the pathway. He’s so exhausted he can barely float, just a bobbing head and a single hand. You make sure he sees your face as you reach for his neck. Dig your nails in. He gasps, sucking in black water. You shove him under, and the water really is freezing. You avoid getting your skirt wet. In this weather, it could freeze.

He’s struggling again, it must be the fight kicking in. You hope the adrenaline doesn’t overwhelm the antipsychotics. 15mg of Risperidone is a very high dose. He did the six pints all by himself — really, it’s comeuppance. He’s still under, but you shove him further for good measure. You want to dig your nails deeper, rip his throat straight out, but you refrain. That’s not what you’re here for.

A seizure kicks in, and you regret giving him the extra pill. You went too far. It was indulgent. Now you’re holding the weight of his body, trying to keep him near the surface. You don’t want to lose the best part. His face is white, luminescent underneath the water, the jerks of his body unsettling in your grip. Your arm is starting to ache with the effort of it all. He arches back his head unnaturally far, bears his throat to you. He wants you to crack him. You smile, it’s sweet.

Dragging his body out is the hardest part. You struggle for a while, water splashing everywhere. You’re completely soaked through. He’s lying on the pathway now, and your shoe has slipped off his skull not once, nor twice, but four times. You’re frustrated. It’s not going right. Suddenly you’re burning so hot with anger you don’t care about the crack. You pull your knee high and slam down on his face, and all the bones give way. It would’ve been the perfect crack if you’d just waited. 

The thought, the disappointment, it tears at you. You draw back your leg and stomp repeatedly. Furious, you roll him over and set his teeth against the pathway edge. You stomp on the back of his head; you want it to sever completely.

A breeze hits you, caught and made stronger through the wind tunnel. It catches your wet clothes. Chills you so completely the anger dissipates. You see what you’ve done. There’s blood, everywhere. It’s all over you. Something shimmers on top of the water like oil, too. You’ve made such a mess. You try and shove his body in the water, but either he’s soaked it all up like a sponge or you’ve gone weak. You want to shower. You want to sleep. You can feel a change coming, but it’s too soon. You leave him there, half floating with his legs on the pavement. You hope the water takes him away, but you know it won’t. It isn't tidal, there’s not a strong current.

You walk, and he’s fine. He’s learnt his lesson. There was no ring on his finger, but you saw the pale mark of one recently removed. How could anyone love him? He probably lost his job today, that’s why he was drinking on a Monday. He deserved it. More than even that, he’s rude to women. He’s a letch.

You get home and the house is dark. It’s freezing, so you turn up the heating. The kitchen counter has a pile of cracked walnuts next to the sink. Upstairs, you shower. Close your eyes against the blood. Was there even any — It’s hard to know. You want your head back. You’re not sure which one. Who were you again? You cut the shower early and towel dry just enough to crawl into bed. It’s still cold, you hope you don’t wake with a fever.

***

Maggie keeps her routine. It’s good for her. She keeps her higher dose but doesn’t tell anyone. Tidy, drink, pills, eat. The pills are decades outdated but she can’t find the time to collect new ones. More cleaning, endless tidying. The life of a mother.

It’s a Saturday, which makes it another washing day. Reaching into the dirty basket, she pulls out a soaked outfit. It’s her daughter’s uniform. The grey skirt looks like it’s been through a storm. Shaking her head, Maggie shouts for her to come downstairs. After the usual debate — she’s just so busy with work — she stomps down.

Do you take me for a joke.

Her daughter is lost. She catches the clothes in her hand, shakes her head. Before she speaks, Maggie quips out another remark. She knows they jar her daughter, but she can’t help it. We all become our mothers.

Did you shower fully dressed or something?

It rained last week, remember?

Maggie can’t remember. She doesn’t exactly know when last week was. Most of her life is a blur of mundane tasks. As all mothers did. Instead of admitting she is wrong, or worse, apologising for the mistake, she shakes her head. Scoffs. Makes another remark, or two. Her daughter should start doing her own washing. Perhaps then she’d respect her more.

Maggie’s daughter is out at the library, so she takes her clean washing upstairs for her. Neatly folded. She places the clothes on her bed. It was hard to get the mud stains out, but bicarbonate soda and some gloves work magic.

In her own room, Maggie tidies. Only enough for order. The wardrobe is a lost cause. Making her bed, she shakes uncontrollably.

She thinks of her man. He hasn’t returned to her bed for some time, but it also hasn’t rained. Had it? She tries not to think why. Who may know of their affair. Perhaps he will never come back — maybe his heating has been fixed. Maggie finds it hard to know if that bothers her, with the pills rattling around her skull. She’ll lower her dose. When did she last take them? She’s certain it was recently. How recent? She can’t stop shaking. Withdrawal? She goes to the bathroom drawer, takes another handful. This packet is half empty and says Risperidone (atypical antipsychotic). 01.01.78. Take once a day.

Her ensuite is internal, so she misses the sun going down. She’s been at the bathroom sink counting pills for hours. Many of the bottles are out of date. She never noticed before. Schizophrenia was so new when Maggie was a teenager. Drugs only started working in the 60’s, so over the decades she’d been on a whole host. Illnesses were often misdiagnosed. At one point, they suspected it was bipolar disorder. Her mother likely had it, undiagnosed. Bipolar is a hereditary disorder. They diagnosed her with a new illness each time she went. Last, it was schizophrenia. That was some time ago. Many of the packets she kept were first generation antipsychotics. She doesn’t know why she still has them. She isn't unwell anymore.

Mum

Maggie jumps, startled by her daughter. She glances at her in the mirror, the TV flickering deeper in her bedroom. She’s not ashamed of the pills, her daughter knows about them.

A clean, folded skirt dangles from one hand. With the other, she gestures wildly with her phone. Someone is still on the call. There’s some sass in the way she pops her hip. It’s new.

This must be yours. It isn’t mine.

She throws it at Maggie, and she’s shocked. Her daughter spins, not waiting for a reply, and strops out the room. It must be all the stress – one of her peers was murdered after all. Not that they were friends. If anything, the dead girl had been a bully. She’ll have a word with her daughter later, anyway. Rudeness isn’t tolerated in this household.

***

The police are frantic. It is all over the news. A man was found dead. You know this because the TV won’t stop repeating it over and over in the other room. New curfew announced. Stay indoors. Everything is under control. Nothing is under control. 

Except – this. This is judgement. You are. Not the You that lives in this house, but this other you. You’ve been taking the pills to appease your other self, but you know they don’t work. Not out-of-date. They’re only good for punishment. For making the crack better. The older they were, the more unstable.  Like you, perhaps. You act. Unstable antipsychotics erode bones, in high doses.

She lays here, prostrate, and you want to find out how she’ll crack.

The phone continues to vibrate, discarded somewhere near the bed. The drugs are in her system and they’re in yours too. You’re connected in this way, like you’re connected by blood and spirit and everything else. Despite this, she still must learn. When you were younger, you learnt too. You play doctor; Olanzapine as a sedative, Risperidone for muscle weakness, Aripiprazole for impaired vision… because you play doctor, you know it takes sixteen pounds of force to crack a skull. Harder than a nut, for sure, but feasible.

Her hair is fanned out around her on the carpet, and she blinks lazily. Rocks her head side to side in a no action. Her mouth opens and closes, like she’s trying to speak. She’s done enough speaking. You can’t even look at her. When you do, she is unrecognisable. You’ve lived here a lifetime together. She is not who she was then, when you were younger. So innocent. Small.

You place your foot on the dip of her nose. It’s the same as the one on your face. You draw back your leg, and she opens her eyes at you. They’re huge, doll-like. Pink lips parted. Making incoherent noises. Her skin is dewy with sweat. It’s perfectly untouched by makeup, for once.You remember another time she was this vulnerable. Before she became so rude. Just big eyes, long lashes, covered in fresh blood and a soft blanket. Osteoporosis is a common side effect of antipsychotic medication, so you know this is the one. The perfect crack.