Death Under The Velvet Skin

I accidentally ruined the designer beanbag chair his new girlfriend had bought.

To make it up to herto soothe her performative poutmy father shoved my mother inside the oversized velvet slipcover while she was pleading for my sake. He didnt just zip it shut; he took a heavy upholstery needle and stitched the opening closed, a twisted game to prove a point.

While he and the woman laughed and flirted in the bedroom, I crawled across the hardwood, my small fingers frantically searching for a zipper tab that wasn't there.

My mothers muffled pleas grew faint, then died into a terrifying silence. I hammered on my father's door, sobbing, but his voice came through the wood, sharp and impatient:

"Its just a damn slipcover, Daisy. Your mother is a grown woman. If she wants out, shell find a way out. Stop being dramatic."

The security detail held me back. I was forced to watch as the shape inside the velvet stopped struggling.

Five days later, on my birthday, my father returned. He tossed a cheap, generic teddy bear at me, his face a mask of irritation.

"I ended things with her. I hope your mother is happy now. Tell her to quit hiding and get out here."

I pointed at the heavy beanbag he was sitting on, my voice a hollow whisper. "Mommy is bleeding."

I stayed curled against the velvet, huddled in the ghost of my mothers presence for two days until the gnawing in my stomach became unbearable. I finally crept out to find food.

Joe, the neighborhood security guard, was at the gate. He started to wave, but as I drew closer, his face twisted into a mask of confusion and disgust.

"Kiddo? Whats that... whats that smell? And wheres your mom?"

I took his hand and pulled him toward the silent, cold house. I pointed to the beanbag in the center of the living room.

"Mommys trapped. She cant get out."

Joe muttered something under his breath about "rich people and their sick games," but when he stepped closer to the chair, the color drained from his face. He stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own boots.

The velvet had sagged, taking on the unmistakable, gruesome silhouette of a human form. The air was thick with the stench of decay. Joe lunged forward, shielding my eyes with one hand while his other trembled as he reached for his radio.

"This... this is a crime scene," he choked out.

I didn't understand. To me, Mommy was just resting. She had spoken to me only two days ago.

Joe carried me outside, running past the neighbors who were out walking their dogs or checking their mail. They recoiled from us, whispering behind manicured hedges.

"I heard David brought some trophy girl home last week. Claire hasn't been seen since."

"Typical. She had no family, no safety net. She probably just took the abuse to keep the lifestyle. For the sake of the money."

"Poor kid. Look at her. Abandoned in that mansion with no one to even give her a bath."

Joes tears were hot on my face. He kept whispering "God forgive them" as he handed me over to Mrs. Gable, the woman who lived in the townhouse behind ours. Then he ran back to his post to call the police.

I leaned against Mrs. Gables shoulder, watching my house grow smaller.

She cried as she scrubbed the grime and the smell of death from my skin. She made me a sandwich, and I ate half, tucking the other half into my pocket.

"Daisy, honey," she said, her voice breaking. "You don't have to save food. There's plenty."

I shook my head. "Mommy hasn't eaten in days. I have to bring her something."

Mrs. Gable dropped her fork. She pulled me into a hug so tight I could hear her heart thudding, and she sobbed into my hair. "Those monsters. Those absolute monsters."

I didn't cry. Mommy was waiting. She was the only one who ever truly loved me. I wouldn't leave her behind.

But when I returned home, the beanbag was gone.

The house was swarming with men in dark windbreakers with "POLICE" stenciled in yellow. Joe was there too, wiping his eyes.

I walked up to him and handed him the squashed half of my sandwich. "Don't cry, Joe. I'll be good."

Joes hand shook as he took the bread. He turned to one of the detectives. "Look at her. Look at this child. What happens to her now?"

A detective knelt in front of me, his expression soft but his eyes hard with repressed anger.

"Daisy, where is your father?"

I shook my head. "He left with the pretty lady. He hasn't come back."

The detectives hand on my shoulder trembled. I looked past him. "Can I see Mommy now? The food is getting cold. She has a sensitive stomach; she needs it warm."

The room went silent. Every officer looked at me with the same devastating pity. The detective lowered his head, his shoulders shaking.

After a long time, he looked up and whispered, "Sweetheart... do you have any other family? Anyone at all?"

I nodded.

Two days ago, before the silence took her, Mommy had whispered a string of numbers to me. Over and over. A phone number.

I took the detectives phone and dialed. It picked up on the second ringa deep, authoritative voice.

"So, you finally remembered you have a father? It took you long enough to call..."

I interrupted him, my voice small. "Are you my Grandpa?"

Grandpa was out of the country. He wouldn't reach the city until tomorrow at the earliest.

Mrs. Gable tried to take me home with her, but the police insisted on reaching my father first. When they finally got him on the line and explained the situation, I heard his voice crackle through the speakerderisive and cold.

"I checked it myself. It was a slipcover, for God's sake. Claire has nails like talons; if she wanted out, she would have clawed through the fabric."

I pulled on Joes sleeve and whispered, "It wasn't normal fabric."

The detective had told Joe earlierthe slipcover was industrial-grade, puncture-resistant synthetic velvet. It was designed to be indestructible. Even with a knife, it would have been a struggle. And with the zipper teeth intentionally jammed with adhesive, she never stood a chance.

My father must have heard me. He let out a sharp, jagged laugh.

"Daisy, stop it. I know your mother coached you to say this. Its pathetic."

Joe tried to argue, but my father cut him off.

"This is the last time Im dealing with this drama. Im at an awards gala with Tiffany. If you keep helping Claire lie to the police, Ill have your contract terminated the second I get back."

He hung up. Joe cursed under his breath, and the police allowed Mrs. Gable to take me for the night.

But in the middle of the night, I slipped out of her guest bed. I climbed through a window and walked back to my house. It still smelled like Mommys perfume. I curled up on the rug in the foyer and fell into a dreamless sleep.

I woke up to the sound of the front door slamming.

My father was standing over me, looking haggard and furious.

"I broke up with Tiffany. Are you happy now? Is your mother finally satisfied?"

He spat the words at me, then tossed the same ragged teddy bear from before at my feet.

"There. Happy birthday. Now, where is she? Why is the house a mess?"

I didn't answer. I just pointed to the spot on the floor where the beanbag had been.

"Mommy bled a lot."

He scoffed, but then he saw ita dark, brownish stain on the expensive hardwood where the fluids had pooled and seeped. He jumped back, his face contorting.

"Stop it, Daisy. You probably spilled some juice or used some animal blood to freak me out. Your mother is fine. Tiffany told me she bought a standard beanbag. Its impossible to suffocate in one of those."

He knew. He knew what it was, and he had still sewn her in.

I stared at the stain. I remembered the detectives using words like "excruciating" and "asphyxiation." I felt a sudden, sharp heat in my chest. I lunged at him, hitting his legs with my small fists.

"Bad daddy! Give her back! Give Mommy back!"

He had never had patience for me. He snarled, swinging his arm to shove me away.

"Knock it off!"

The force of his strike sent me flying. I crashed into someone entering the house behind him.

A woman shrieked, clutching her stomach as she stumbled. It was Tiffany. She looked at my father with watery, manipulative eyes.

"David... Im pregnant. I came back to tell you. Are you really going to throw me away?"

The fury on my father's face vanished, replaced by a look of manic joy. He kicked me aside to get to her, hovering over her stomach.

"Why didn't you tell me? Ive been miserable all night."

Tiffany gave a demure smile, but then she winced, pressing her hand harder against her belly.

"The doctor said the first trimester is fragile. When Daisy hit me just now... it really hurt, David."

Without a word, my father turned and backhanded me. Stars exploded in my vision. My ears rang with a high-pitched whine.

Tiffany pretended to look concerned, but the corners of her mouth were twitching upward.

I remembered that smile. It was the same smile she wore the day they sewed Mommy in. She had leaned down and whispered in my ear: Your mother cant win against me. And neither can you.

I forced myself to stand, staring at her. She let out another tiny whimper.

"David, maybe this is a mistake. Look at the way shes looking at me. Im scared of what shell do to our baby."

My fathers face turned purple. He unbuckled his leather belt.

The belt lashed across my arms and legs. I screamed, begging for him to stop.

But the more I screamed, the harder he swung. He started yelling toward the second floor:

"Claire! Do you hear this? If you don't come out right now, Im going to beat this brat half to death!"

But Mommy couldn't answer him.

He raised the belt again, but a thunderous voice shattered the air from the doorway.

"Stop! Drop that belt right now!"

Joe came charging in, pulling me into his arms, shielding me with his own body.

"David, for God's sake, she's a child! Are you trying to kill her too?"

My father lowered the belt, chest heaving. "Joe, youre fired. Get out of my house. Now."

"Fire me. I don't care," Joe shouted, pointing a finger at Tiffany. "This woman brought that death trap into this house. That fabric was reinforcedClaire never had a chance. My biggest regret is letting her in that gate."

Joe was sobbing. My father remained cold, a statue of denial.

"Tiffany is kind. Shes gentle. Shes nothing like Claire and her pathetic mind games. My daughter is my business. Get out."

He shoved Joe toward the door and turned back to me, the veins in his neck bulging. Tiffany sat on a small side chair, watching with a satisfied smirk as my father grabbed me by the collar, dragging me from room to room, searching for my mother.

The collar choked me. He was screaming her name now, his voice cracking, looking for her in closets, under beds, in the pantry.

When he found nothing, he pulled out his phone and dialed her number.

A ringtone began to play in the living room. My father found her phone under the sofa. He looked at the lock screena photo of the three of us from years ago. We were all smiling.

For a second, his resolve flickered. He rubbed his eyes, then knelt in front of me, gripping my shoulders too hard.

"Daisy. Where. Is. She?"

Tiffany started to speak, but the doorbell rang again.

Two detectives entered, carrying a small, heavy box. Their eyes immediately landed on my bruised, bleeding skin.

"Are you the father?" the lead detective asked, his voice like ice.

My father stared at them, then started to laugh. He pinched my arm hard and looked at the officers.

"Claire is good. Ill give her that. Hiring actors to come to the house? Brilliant."

He shoved me toward them. "Im not her father. Im just an actor she hired, just like you. If you see her, tell her she owes me for the overtime."

The detectives looked at him with utter confusion. Then they looked at me.

After a long silence, I spoke. "Hes not my daddy."

My father died the day Mommy did.

The detectives sighed, looking pained. They handed the small box to me. "Sweetheart, these are your mothers ashes. We will get her justice. We promise."

I clutched the box to my chest. It was cold, but I imagined I could feel her warmth through the wood.

After they left, I walked out to the garden alone.

I wanted to bury her here, among the flowers she loved. She always told me that when she and Dad were starting with nothing, his first gift to her was a rosebush hed planted himself. He used to tell her that as long as the roses bloomed, hed be by her side.

Now, he had discarded us for a woman and a lie.

My tears hit the dirt as I dug. The soil was loose. I pulled something outa handmade doll. It had Mommys birthday written on it in black ink.

And it was stuck full of sewing needles.

"I knew it," a sharp voice snapped behind me. I turned to see Tiffany clutching her stomach, sinking to the grass. She pointed at the doll in my hand, her voice shrill. "I knew I felt a curse! Shes trying to kill my baby from the grave!"

"But this doll has Mommy's birthday on it..."

Before I could finish, my fathers hand clamped over my mouth.

His face was a mask of iron. He didn't even look at the doll. "Claire, you're a monster."

"You couldn't give me a son, so you try to kill Tiffany's? I can't believe I ever loved a woman so vile."

He glared at me. "And I can't believe I fathered this little brat."

He snatched the urn from my hands and hurled it against the ground.

I screameda sound that didn't feel like it came from a childas I watched the grey dust scatter like rain over the dying roses. Without Mommy to water them, they were wilting, just like everything else in this house.

"Pathos. Is she really cursing herself now? What kind of actress commits this hard?" my father muttered, looking at the empty box.

Tiffany let out another cry. She had moved the needle-stuck doll so it sat right next to my hand.

"David, it hurts... Ive never done anything to her, but she hates me. She hates our son!"

My father abandoned the urn and gathered Tiffany into his arms. "Don't cry. You're the most important thing in this family now. No one will touch you."

Tiffany smiled. She ground her designer heel into the dirt, mixing Mommys ashes with the mud. Then she picked up the doll and whispered something into my father's ear.

He hesitated, then nodded.

Tiffany took my handher grip was like a viceand led me into the house.

I was numb. I was still thinking about the ashes in the dirt.

Then, a sharp, white-hot pain flared in my palm.

My father and Tiffany held me down. They took the needles from the doll and began to drive them into my hands.

"Tell us where she is, Daisy! Stop the games!" my father roared, pushing a needle into my skin.

Tiffany was worse. She drove a long steel pin under my fingernail. As I shrieked in agony, she leaned in, her breath smelling of peppermint and malice.

"Your mother deserved it. She was in my way. And youre just a nuisance. Join her, or learn to serve me. Those are your only choices."

I couldn't take it anymore. I lunged forward and bit down on her ear as hard as I could.

Tiffany screamed, a raw, ugly sound. It took my father slamming my jaw shut to make me let go.

Her ear was a jagged, bloody mess. I looked at her with a cold, hollow satisfaction.

My father looked at me as if I were a demon. "What did she turn you into?"

I looked at him, slowly pulling the needles out of my hands, one by one.

"Mommy only taught me to love you," I said. "But you killed her. You aren't my daddy anymore."

"When my Grandpa gets here, hes going to destroy you."

My father froze for a second, then burst into a jagged laugh.

"Grandpa? Daisy, your mother was a nobody from a backwater town. She had no family. She had no one but me."

His eyes turned dark and predatory. He dragged me to the corner of the room and tied my wrists to a radiator pipe. Then he went to the hall closet and pulled out a baseball bat.

"Lets see how long your mother can watch this."

The first blow hit my ribs. The world went white. Through the haze of pain, I saw Mommy. She was smiling at me.

"Mommy... are you here to take me home?" I whispered.

Something warm and metallic leaked from the corner of my mouth.

My father hesitated, the bat trembling in his hand. He reached out to touch me, but a massive hand caught his wrist and twisted.

I was lifted into a pair of strong, trembling arms. A voice, deep and resonant with ancient fury, boomed through the house.

"My daughter is dead, and you think I will let you touch her child?"