Page 363 of Phobia

Songbird

Victoria Woods

Chapter 1

Haiti – 1725

“Can’t you do anything right, cunt? How the fuck am I supposed to eat when my teeth can’t get through the meat?”

Papa’s voice went from his usual volume of seven to a blaring ten from across the table. He had walked through the door not fifteen minutes earlier and was already drunk. I could smell the pungent, yeasty scent of ale in the spittle that rained over me from his scream. He must have hit the bottle on the job to be this far gone already. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

“I’m sorry, Hugo. Let me cut off the edges for you.” Maman moved swiftly to ease the tension and remove the burned bits of chicken from his plate.

I gripped my chair under the table, prepared for what I already knew was going to happen.

Papa grabbed Maman’s hand, holding her in place, as his fist slammed into her eye. Maman’s scream rivaled the clatter of my chair against the floor as I jumped away.

Maman stumbled backward, her hands cupping her eye as she wailed.

“Shut your mouth, bitch, or else I’ll blacken that other eye to match your shit excuse for dinner.” Ferocity flushed red down his thick neck.

Maman bit her lip to keep it from quivering.

“Leave her alone,” I warned.

Papa turned his attention, the threat of violence dedicated to me lurking just beneath his brutal glare. “What did you say?”

“You heard me.” I was sick of seeing the same scene play out every other night—this sick dance of family dysfunction where Papa spiraled into an alcoholic rage and Maman cowered in the corner like a kicked puppy.

He shot to his feet, his short stature rivaling my own.

“Foolish girl. You’re stupider than your mother to talk to me that way. Bring me my strap. I’ll beat your hide.”

“No,” Maman gasped, but I knew it was more at my overt insolence than Papa’s threat.

Papa inched toward me, swaying as he walked. The reflection of the candle flames flickered wildly in his eyes, like angry fireballs. “How dare you challenge me.”

My eyes darted to the door. If I made a run for it, he’d never be able to catch me with how inebriated he was. I’d have to go alone because Maman would never leave with me. I had tried to urge her away in the past, but she always stayed.

He lunged toward me, but I jerked away faster than he could move. His thick body landed on the ground with a thud. Maman cried out, “Run, Rosalie. Run.”

And so, I did. I threw off my heavy robe, needing the precious seconds its weight would cost me, and ran straight out the door, knowing that I was safer outside the walls of my home. Papa would forget everything by the time he greeted me good morning tomorrow and I could find some peace during the daylight hours, but tonight, I couldn’t stay under the same roof as him—not when he was looking to draw blood.

My bare feet mashed against the wet dirt as I bolted around the wooden porch of our one-story home—or rather, “house of horrors.” My lungs squeezed in the hot, humid air. The loud chirping of bush crickets grated my ears as the hem of my white nightgown stuck to my ankles with the mud it had accumulated. But still, I ran. I ran to my favorite place, the only place where I was ever truly safe from the nightmares of reality.

It was dark, but I knew the route well and didn’t need eyes to steer me. I sensed I was close. The familiar, sumptuous scent of mango, followed by the scrape of the fern leaves on my arm. A right turn until the sweet but astringent aroma of hibiscus perfumed the air. The mound of weeds that I needed to jump over before I’d have made it.

I took a moment to catch my breath before finding my spot.

Most would find it odd that a girl sought refuge in a graveyard, but I wasn’t like most girls. The solace of sitting amongst those who were asleep for eternity calmed me. It was the living that I found strange—all the fighting, concern for what others thought, gossip. I didn’t care about any of it. All of it stimulated my brain to the point of a migraine. I longed for stillness—for darkness.

I weaved between the tombstones, to find my usual spot next to the boulder. The cemetery seemed darker than usual under the new moon.

I settled on the ground and pulled the shawl that I had left behind over my shoulders. It was wickedly warm out and I was sweaty from sprinting, but I somehow felt better curled up in the comfort of the soft fabric. Using my arm as a pillow, I tucked my knees to my chest into a ball on my side and tried to trace the outline of the gray stones below me as I drifted off into slumber.

Unfortunately, my peace was interrupted by the unmistakable scent of smoke, prompting me to sit up. I searched the distance but couldn’t spot the source anywhere. If a fire had started, someone needed to put it out immediately or it could quickly spread to the neighboring homes.

I followed the musty aroma. The more I breathed it in, the more I realized it wasn’t fire smoke. It was tobacco smoke, and its owner was sitting against the tree on the highest slope that overlooked the cemetery.