I Told His Mother His Flesh Was the True Cure

They said my wedding to Preston Ainsworth was a fairytale.
An orphan girl from nowhere, swept off her feet by the handsome scion of an old Vermont family.
The sprawling Ainsworth manor in Harrow s Glen, with its dark timber and endless corridors, was supposed to be my castle.
My sanctuary.
Now, it s my prison.
And my daughter, sleeping soundly in her crib, is my fellow inmate.
The door to the nursery creaked open, spilling a sliver of hallway light across the polished floorboards.
It was Beatrice, my mother-in-law.
She glided into the room, a phantom in a silk nightgown, her face a mask of serene benevolence.
In her hands, she held the breast pump.
The cold, sterile plastic gleamed under the soft glow of the nightlight.
Time to make nectar for Bee-Bee, dear, she whispered, her voice a cloying mix of honey and venom.
Everyone was supposed to call her Bee-Bee.
It was one of the first rules I learned.
My stomach churned.
He s already fed, Beatrice, I said, my voice barely a whisper, trying to keep it steady. He s sleeping.
I had started referring to my daughter as 'he' around them. A small, pathetic act of defiance.
Beatrice s smile didn t falter, but her eyes, ancient and sharp, narrowed slightly.
The baby s needs are met, Juliana. Now it s time for the family s needs.
She placed the pump on the changing table with a soft click that echoed like a gunshot in the silent room.
I was nothing more than livestock to them.
A prize-winning dairy cow.
My husband, Preston, had explained it all on our wedding night, his voice laced with the casual cruelty of the truly entitled.

It s our family s greatest secret, Julie. The Centennial Protocol. It s how the Ainsworths stay so& vibrant.
It was a ritual. A cult.
And I was its new, unwilling fountain of youth.
My mother hasn t had a fresh source in over a year, Preston had said, as if discussing the weather. She s so excited to have you.
Now, Beatrice s excitement was a physical presence in the room, a suffocating pressure on my chest.
I refused to move.
Her smile finally vanished.
Don t be difficult, dear. It s a great honor. Rhiannon, Garrett s wife, understood that.
Rhiannon. The ghost who haunted these halls with her cynical sighs and haunted eyes. I understood now.
No, I said, the word feeling foreign and powerful on my tongue.
Beatrice s face contorted into a mask of theatrical grief.
Oh, the poor baby! Bee-Bee is starving! This cruel woman won t feed her!
It was a performance, meant for an audience of one who was just arriving.
Preston appeared in the doorway, his face a thundercloud of disapproval.
Juliana, what are you doing to my mother?
He didn t wait for an answer.
He strode across the room, his larger frame blocking out the light.
This isn t a negotiation. It s our tradition. The family s future is in you, and you will not deny us.
He gestured to his mother, who rushed forward, her eyes gleaming with a disturbing, primal hunger.
I was pushed back onto the rocking chair, my arms pinned by my own husband.
Beatrice loomed over me, her hands reaching for the buttons of my nightgown.
The humiliation was a fire in my veins.
This is for the family, Preston murmured in my ear, his breath hot and sour. And you are part of this family now. You will learn your place.

They were monsters.
And I had willingly walked into their den.
As they took what they wanted, a cold, hard resolve began to crystallize in the pit of my stomach.
They thought they had broken me.
They were wrong.
They had just shown me the rules of their game.
And I would learn to play it better than they ever could.
The next few weeks were a living nightmare.
I was a prisoner in my own home, my body a resource to be plundered.
Twice a day, like clockwork, Bee-Bee would appear with her pump and her saccharine-sweet demands.
I tried to resist, but Preston s threats always hung in the air, a poison thicker than the cloying floral scent of his mother s perfume.
The threats were always about my daughter.
A baby needs its mother, he d say, stroking our daughter s cheek with one hand while his other gripped my arm. But a mother who doesn t contribute to the family& well, she might find herself unable to care for her child.
I learned to disassociate, to let my mind drift away to a place where I was free, while my body endured the violation.
I was playing the part of the docile, compliant wife.
But behind my empty eyes, a plan was beginning to form.
My first small victory came in the form of store-bought organic formula.
One evening, while Preston was out, I managed to swap one of the bags of pumped milk in the freezer with a bag of the prepared formula.
I watched through a crack in the door as Bee-Bee drank it later, closing her eyes in ecstasy.
Ah, such purity, she cooed to no one in particular. Juliana s life force is exceptionally strong.
The bitter taste of triumph mixed with my fear. It was a small win, but it proved they were fallible. They were fools.
But my deception was a temporary solution. I needed a way out.
The opportunity came from the most unexpected of sources: Rhiannon.

I found her one afternoon in the garden, chain-smoking and staring at the dead rose bushes.
She had the look of a woman who had been hollowed out from the inside.
Enjoying the view? she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
What happened to you? I asked, my voice soft.
A humorless laugh escaped her lips. The Centennial Protocol happened to me. Five years of it. Until I couldn't produce another drop. Now I'm just& decorative.
I saw my future in her eyes, and it terrified me.
But I also saw an opening. A shared enemy.
A few days later, I accidentally left a medical website open on the library computer, detailing how grapefruit juice could have fatal interactions with common blood pressure medications.
I knew from Preston that his older brother, Garrett, had high blood pressure.
I saw Rhiannon glance at the screen later that day. Her expression was unreadable.
I had planted a seed. I could only wait to see if it would bear poisonous fruit.
The breaking point came on a Tuesday.
Preston stormed into my room, his face flushed with rage. He was holding a large, steaming bowl.
Your output is decreasing, he hissed. Mother is displeased. You need to nourish yourself.
The bowl contained the so-called Life-Force Broth, a greasy, foul-smelling concoction of bone and gristle.
I recoiled from the smell. I can t drink that.
You will, he said, his voice dangerously low.
He grabbed me, forcing the bowl towards my lips. I struggled, and the hot, oily liquid sloshed over my clothes, onto the pristine white carpet.
The waste sent him into a blind fury.
He threw the bowl against the wall, where it shattered.
You ungrateful bitch! he roared. You think you have a choice?
He disappeared for a moment and returned with a small, unlabeled vial and a glass of water.

If you won t do this the easy way, we ll do it the hard way.
He dissolved the contents of the vial into the water. I saw the faint lettering on the discarded packaging he d dropped. It was a black-market veterinary hormone. A drug for livestock.
Terror, cold and absolute, seized me.
He enlisted his mother and brother, Garrett, to hold me down.
They pinned me to the bed, their faces grim and determined.
Bee-Bee stroked my hair. Hush now, dear. This is for your own good. It s for the family.
Preston pried my jaw open.
The bitter, chemical-laced water flooded my throat. I gagged, choked, my body convulsing.
I was no longer a person. I was an animal being force-fed in a factory farm.
As the last drop went down, and they released me, leaving me gasping and weeping on the soiled bed, the last vestiges of the old Juliana died.
The woman who believed in reason, in love, in happily ever after, was gone.
In her place was something cold, sharp, and utterly ruthless.
They had wanted to turn me into a mindless animal.
Instead, they had created a monster.
Their monster.
And I would devour them all.
Two days later, the household was in chaos.
Garrett, the boorish, arrogant heir, was dead.
A massive heart attack, the paramedics said.
Rhiannon played the part of the grieving widow to perfection, her sobs echoing through the cavernous halls.
But when our eyes met over her husband s body bag, I saw a flicker of something else in their depths.
A terrifying, triumphant glint.

The seed I had planted had not only sprouted; it had consumed a man.
The family was so consumed with the sudden death that, for a few precious days, I was left alone.
No Bee-Bee. No pump. No broth.
The veterinary drug had made me violently ill, but I hid the worst of it. The constant nausea and cramping were a small price to pay for this reprieve.
I used the time to plan.
I knew Rhiannon was my unwilling accomplice, a weapon I could aim. But she was unstable. I needed more leverage.
I went to the hospital for a check-up, complaining of postpartum complications.
From the sterile safety of the examination room, I called Preston.
I need to talk to you, I said, my voice carefully modulated to sound weak and scared. Something is wrong.
He arrived with Rhiannon in tow, both of them looking wary.
I didn t give them a chance to speak.
The doctor says& the drug you gave me& I started to sob, forcing tears to well in my eyes. It s in my system. It s in the milk. He said it s& toxic.
Preston s face went pale.
What are you talking about? he stammered.
Garrett, I whispered, looking from him to Rhiannon. He had some of my milk in his coffee yesterday morning, didn t he, Rhiannon? Bee-Bee insisted.
It was a lie. A complete fabrication. But it was a beautiful one.
Rhiannon s eyes widened in panic. She understood instantly. I was linking his death to me, to the milk, to *all of them*.
And Bee-Bee& she s been drinking it every day, I continued, my voice trembling. Oh god, Preston, we re all poisoned! We re all going to die!
The effect was instantaneous and glorious.
Preston clutched his stomach, a guttural groan escaping his lips.
He started gagging, stumbling towards the small trash can in the corner, trying to force himself to vomit.
Rhiannon, not to be outdone, let out a piercing shriek and began to do the same.

The commotion brought a nurse running in.
She stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the sight of two well-dressed adults violently retching into a bin while I sat on the bed, the picture of a concerned, terrified victim.
It was a masterpiece of chaos.
My first real taste of power.
They were discharged with a diagnosis of acute anxiety and a recommendation for psychiatric counseling.
The story of the wealthy Ainsworths losing their minds in the county hospital spread like wildfire through the town s gossip mill.
For the first time since my wedding day, I felt the scales tipping.
I returned home from the hospital to an eerie silence.
Bee-Bee had locked herself in her room, refusing to see anyone. The fear I had planted had taken root.
Preston looked at me with a new expression: a mixture of fear and confusion.
The "poison" lie had neutralized them, for now.
I thought I had won myself some breathing room.
I was wrong.
My enemy was not just the family s bizarre tradition.
It was the simmering cauldron of resentment that was my sister-in-law.
Late one night, Preston burst into my room, his face contorted with a righteous fury I hadn't seen before.
He threw his phone onto the bed.
On the screen was a photograph.
It was of me, sleeping in my bed.
Beside me, there was a naked man. A stranger.
The photo was clearly staged, my body limp with sleep, the man artfully arranged to look like we were caught in a post-coital slumber.
You filthy, cheating whore! Preston screamed, his voice cracking. While my brother is in his grave, you bring men into my house? Into my bed?

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