Page 34 of Peak Cruelty
Vance
T he bleach smell still clings to the air. Not strong enough to be a warning, but sharp enough to crawl up the sinuses and linger behind the eyes. The garage is silent, save for the soft tick of the overhead light cooling.
I wipe my palms down my jeans and pull the laptop toward me.
Rachel’s face loads before I finish typing. That’s how often I check.
New post. Caption says: “ Back at the hospital. Missing her Aunt more every day.”
Another day. Same lie.
Ava’s hair is pulled back this time, cheeks too pale, expression blank. There’s a stuffed bunny in her lap—gray, fraying at the seams.
The comments roll in fast. Hearts. Prayers. Accusations soft as questions.
“I’m so sorry.”
“No news?”
“Praying for you both.”
“I can’t believe they haven’t figured it out by now.”
I click the video.
Rachel’s crying again. Makeup neat. Framed just right.
“I just want this to be over,” she says.
Not “ I want Marlowe home. ” Not “ I miss my sister.”
Just this.
I pause the video. Zoom in.
Ava’s stuffed bunny sits on the edge of the bed.
Left there like a trophy.
My jaw locks.
She’s doing it again.
But I can’t do anything about it. Because I’m here.
Because I fucked up. Because I let my rules flex for five fucking seconds.
I slam the laptop shut.
The sound ricochets.
My hand’s already twitching. I pull it into a fist. Hold it there.
Ava is not safe. Rachel needs to pay.
And I’m here pretending to be on vacation.
The bleach is in my nose now, lodged like a splinter behind my eyes. Not strong enough to burn, just enough to make everything itch. It’s the same kind of clean that never actually is. The same kind she used.
That chemical sharpness, sweet around the edges—like something rotting under perfume.
It hits the back of my throat and pulls something up with it.
I was six when my mother tried to boil me.
She woke me up in the middle of the night, whispering, “You’re sweating. You’re burning up.” I wasn’t.
I wasn’t sick. But the thermometer she used said 103.
She dragged me to the bathroom. Drew the bath hot enough to fog the mirrors while I stood barefoot on tile. Steam curled like fingers around the curtain rod.
She added something sharp to the water—vinegar maybe, or bleach.
“Don’t cry,” she said. “The heat will fix it. The fever will burn off. It has to.”
I told her it was too hot. She didn’t answer. She just lifted me in—clothes and all.
I screamed when my toes hit the water.
She said that meant it was working.
When I tried to get out, she pushed me back in, didn’t let go. She held me there. Let the water reach my chest.
“If I don’t keep you clean, they’ll take you from me,” she whispered, rocking on the edge of the tub, knuckles white. “You’ll sweat it out. You have to sweat it out or they’ll come for us.”
When I finally screamed, she sobbed harder. “Why are you doing this to me?”
She held me there, hands pressing down on my shoulders, until my skin started to blister.
“Look what you made me do,” she said. “I don’t know why you’re always getting sick.”
She took me out and rubbed me with lavender oil as if that would fix it. Wrapped me in a towel, laid me on the floor, and whispered instructions into my ear like bedtime stories.
“You spilled the kettle,” she told me. “Say it. You spilled the kettle.”
I didn’t say it. Not at first.
She held my face, said the fever was getting to me. Maybe I needed to get back in the water.
“ I spilled the kettle.”
“Louder.”
“I spilled the kettle.”
“Good boy.”
A notification pings.
Sharp. Hollow. Too modern to belong in that bathroom.
It cuts across the memory like a scalpel.
Just like that, I’m back.
The laptop’s awake again.
Cursor blinking.
Waiting.
I don’t touch it.
Just sit there, hand on the mouse, not moving. The bleach smell’s back. Heated by memory, maybe. Or just the way the air thickens as morning bleeds into afternoon.
I open a new tab.
Search: #MomOfAFighter
Scroll.
#MiracleBaby
#WarriorMom
#MyHeroWearsDiapers
#ChronicIllnessWarrior
It’s the same script, different cast. Photos of women posing next to monitors, captioning their posts with acronyms I know too well. PICU. NG. EEG. A tube taped to a cheek. A mother smiling as though she didn’t ask for any of it.
Some of them might even be real.
But not Rachel.
Not Ava.
I pull up Rachel’s feed again. Stare at Ava's face. At Rachel’s hollow eyes.
There is no justice. Just good lies and bad ones.
I close the browser.
Stand.
The hose is already coiled by the door. I unkink the line, turn the nozzle, start at the corner.
There’s nothing on the floor, but I rinse it anyway. Watch the water spread, then pull back into the drain. No blood. No bleach. Just a surface that pretends it hasn’t seen anything.
When I’m done, I shut the water off.
The floor’s clean.
It still isn’t right. I’ll fix it later.
I walk back toward the house. The day’s heating up. Memory clings like sweat.
Through the kitchen window, I see her.
Still damp from the shower. Wearing another one of my shirts. No bra.
She’s not looking at me—she’s watching the ocean like it’s saying something only she can hear. Arms loose. One knee bent as though she’s weighing something.
She shifts.
Doesn’t know I’m watching.
I stand there too long.
Then I go inside.
There’s a mug in the sink. Hers.
Washed, but not well. Coffee stain still on the rim.
I adjust the handle so it’s facing the right direction. Leave it.
Rachel’s still out there. Killing her kid slowly.
But she’s not the only one I need to keep an eye on.
I need to fix this. I know that.
Just not today.
Today, I watch the door.
To see if Marlowe tries to run.
To see if I let her. Or what happens if I don’t.