Chapter 4 - The Concussion

When Vanessa returned from the hospital two days later, she was a shadow of her former arrogant self. She wore a thick neck brace, her right eye was swollen shut, and a white bandage wrapped tightly around her head.

Brandon practically carried her through the front door, glaring daggers at me as I stood quietly by the staircase holding a feather duster.

“You did this,” Vanessa slurred, her painkillers making her voice thick and clumsy. She pointed a trembling, manicured finger at me. “You threw the soup on the floor on purpose. You tried to kill me.”

“Vanessa, please,” I said softly, looking at my shoes. “It was an accident. You were moving so fast.”

“Shut up!” Brandon snapped, guiding her toward the couch. “Don’t speak to her. In fact, don’t come out of your room unless we tell you to. I’m contacting a real estate agent tomorrow. We’re selling this house and moving to a modern condo downtown. You’re going to a nursing home, Mom. A cheap one. I’m done dealing with your incompetence.”

“You can’t sell the house, Brandon,” I whispered, my voice trembling perfectly. “It’s your father’s legacy.”

“It’s my house now, Mom! I control the trust!” he barked, his face turning an ugly shade of red. “I can do whatever the hell I want!”

He stormed into the kitchen to get Vanessa her medication, leaving the two of us alone in the living room.

I walked slowly over to the couch where Vanessa lay groaning. I leaned down, my face just inches from her swollen, bruised ear. The terrified, senile old woman persona instantly vanished from my eyes.

“You should have learned how to cook your own soup, Vanessa,” I whispered, my voice as cold and sharp as a scalpel.

Her good eye snapped open, widening in sheer terror as she saw the predatory calmness in my expression. She tried to speak, to yell for Brandon, but the words caught in her throat.

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“Scream all you want, dear,” I murmured, straightening my posture. “But enjoy the leather couch while you can. It won't belong to you much longer.”

Before she could process what I had said, I turned and slowly shuffled up the stairs, my shoulders hunched, playing the perfect, broken victim once again.