Chapter 4 - The Sins of the Mother
"Lily!" I screamed, my voice cracking into a raw, bleeding sound.
The toxic gas was filling the coal chute now, a heavy, sweet-smelling fog that made my vision blur and my head spin. Mark was coughing violently beside me, his hand still stuck through the broken glass of the door, his fingers desperately reaching for my father's limp hand.
"I can't... I can't reach it," Mark gasped, his eyes rolling back. "Rachel... I'm losing my grip."
"Let me," I muttered, my voice sounding incredibly distant to my own ears.
I shoved Mark aside with a strength I didn't know I possessed. The adrenaline was a cold fire in my veins. I squeezed my arm through the jagged, wire-toothed hole in the door. The sharp metal sliced through the sleeve of my jacket and deep into the flesh of my forearm, but I didn't feel it. I only felt the cold, dead air of the room inside.
My fingertips brushed the sleeve of my father's coat.
"Just a little more," I whimpered.
I leaned my shoulder hard against the broken glass, ignoring the agonizing pain as the metal shards dug into my collarbone. I stretched my fingers, my nails scratching against his palm.
I grabbed the key.
With a desperate yank, I pulled my arm back through the hole, tearing my skin to ribbons. The black brass key clutched in my bloody hand was slick, but I held on to it like it was a lifeline.
"Mark! The lock!" I screamed, thrusting the key into his hands.
Mark, barely conscious, fumbled with the padlock on our side of the door. The key turned with a heavy, grinding click.
The lock fell away.
I threw my weight against the heavy iron door. It groaned on its rusted hinges and swung inward, hitting the concrete floor with a deafening clang.
The air inside the room was thick with the sweet, suffocating gas. I stumbled over my father’s legs, my boots slipping on the concrete, and fell onto the mattress beside Lily.
She was cold. So cold. Her white hair was draped across her face like a shroud.
"Lily, please," I sobbed, lifting her small body into my arms. She felt as light as a bundle of dry twigs. "Please, baby, wake up. Mommy's here. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I let them take you."
I pressed my ear to her chest.
A faint, fluttering heartbeat. Like the wings of a trapped moth.
"She’s alive!" I yelled to Mark, who was slumped against the doorframe, trying to pull himself up. "Mark, help me!"
"We have to... we have to get her up the chute," Mark wheezed, his face gray. "The gas... it's settling. It’s heavier than air. We need to go up."
I lifted Lily, cradling her against my chest, and turned toward the coal chute.
But as I stepped toward the door, a figure blocked the light from the kitchen above.
It was my mother.
She was standing at the top of the coal chute, her face cast in shadow, holding a heavy red plastic gas can.
"I’m sorry, Rachel," she sobbed, her voice echoing down the narrow shaft. "I'm so, so sorry. But we can't let them find out. We can't let the neighbors see. The family name... your father’s legacy... everything we built."
She tipped the can.
The smell of gasoline immediately washed over us, drowning out the sweet smell of the hemlock gas. The clear, shimmering liquid splashed down the metal chute, soaking the brick walls, pooling at the bottom around our feet.
"Mom, no!" Mark screamed, trying to scramble up the slide, but his boots slipped on the wet gasoline. "Don't do this! We're your children!"
"You're ruined," my mother wailed from the top of the stairs. "You're all ruined. If the police find her, they’ll take everything. They’ll put us in prison. We’re too old for prison, Mark. We’re too old."
She reached into her purse and pulled out a gold Zippo lighter.
The flame flared in the darkness, a small, dancing yellow eye.
"Mom, please!" I begged, holding Lily tighter. "Look at her! She’s your granddaughter!"
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"She died ten years ago, Rachel," my mother said, her face hardening into a mask of pure, psychopathic grief. "You need to accept that."
She dropped the lighter.
