Page 81 of My Girl

I bare my teeth at her. Both of us leer at each other, the rage firing within us.

I never asked to be her adopted son, and yet she treats me like I’m her burden to carry. An outsider. A monster she has to keep in a cage.

One day, I’ll tear her to shreds.

“Call me that name again, and I will make sure you regret it,” she says in a low voice. She turns back to the steering wheel and puts the car into drive.

Once we’re at the house, she forces me to walk in front of her. In the kitchen, she unlocks the basement door.

The butter knife is near the wall. I just need to get her near it.

“Come down with me,” I say, using my thickest, saddest tone of voice. “Please, Mrs. Galloway. I don’t want to be alone?—”

She opens the door and kicks the back of my leg. I fall to my hands and knees. The door slams shut. The key twists in the lock.

Her shadow moves across the opening at the bottom of the door.

I stay on the landing for a while. My insides vibrate with frustration.

I need to stay calm. To be good. To stop giving her excuses to keep me down here. I need to play along and be the son she wants.

It’s hard though.

A rat scurries across the cement; its steps soft like rain. There are so many of them in the basement, but she blames the ruined electrical cords on me. Alwaysme.I’m the problem she needs to fix.

I need to fix her.

I walk down the stairs slowly, so as not to disturb the rats. When they think I’m one of them, they forget me. Ignore me. It makes catching them more fun.

I need to do the same with Mrs. Galloway. Make her think I’m an obedient, loving son. That way, she doesn’t suspect what’s coming next.

I run my hand along the floor and grab the butter knife. The blade scrapes my palm, but it doesn’t even scratch me. It won’t hurt Mrs. Galloway.

But an ax will.

* * *

Age 15

In the backyard, Mrs. Galloway stares off into the desert. I wash our dishes in the kitchen sink, just like she told me to. That way, I can watch her from the window.

We’re alone. Mr. Galloway and Gage are shopping for new uniforms. Gage keeps growing. He’s tall, like Mrs. Galloway. Even though I’ve been good for a while now, they still get my clothes from the lost and found bin at school.

The small crowbar sticks out of my back pocket like a second spine. The ax is already outside. I check the silencer on my gun. It’s funny how much you can get in a hardware store without the cashier batting an eye. An ax. A crowbar. Bolt cutters. The gun was trickier, but that was expected. The same gun seller gave me a discount on the hunting knife too.

I’m ready.

Easing through the back door, I creep forward, careful with my steps, using the same weight distribution that I do with the rats. You keep silent, and they keep to themselves, just like Mrs. Galloway. She’s an infestation, a disease that’s rotting inside of me. A sickness that contaminates everything around it.

I’m close now—close enough that I can smell her perfume.

A rock crunches under my foot.

Mrs. Galloway moves to turn her head.

I swing the crowbar into the back of her skull. She falls to the ground, the crushing thud of her body reminiscent of a teenage boy falling down the basement stairs.

I drag her by the hair, bringing her to the giant stone. It’s flat and brown, an eyesore that she could never get Mr. Galloway to take care of. Back when we were little, Gage and I used to play with our toy soldiers on it. Knocking each of them down. Kill the soldiers. One by one.