Read Online Dollenganger 06 My Sweet Audrina by V. C. Andrews - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: V. C. Andrews
Tags: Horror
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my mother sat down to nibble on a dainty sandwich.
I stared at the picture of a woman I didn't remember ever meeting, though Momma said I had known her when I was four. She appeared to be very wealthy. Diamonds hung from her ears, neck, studded her fingers. The fur trimming on her suit collar made her face seem to sit on her shoulders. Often I imagined that if she rose, she'd have fur about long, full sleeves and rimming the edge of her skirt, like a medieval queen.
Mercy Marie had traveled all the way to Africa: in hopes of salvaging a few heathen souls and converting them to Christianity. Now she was part of the heathens, eaten, hopefully, after she was killed and cooked.
According to everything I'd learned from attending these teatimes, Aunt Mercy Marie once had ridiculous fondness for cucumber and lettuce sandwiches made with the thinnest possible cheese bread. In order to do this, my mother had to bake the bread, trim off the crust and flatten the bread with her rolling pin. The bread was then cut with cookie cutters into fancy shapes.
"Really, Mercy Marie," said my aunt in her harsh way, "ham, cheese, chicken or tuna is not as tacky as you think. We eat food like that all the time. . . don't we, Lucietta?"
Momma scowled. I hated to hear what she'd say next, something cruel and biting. "If Mercy Marie adores dainty cucumber and lettuce sandwiches, Ellie, why don't you let her eat a few, instead of hogging them all for yourself? Don't be such a pig. Learn to share."
"Lucietta, darling," spoke up the shrill voice from the piano, this time donated by my aunt, "please show your older sister the respect due her. You give her such tiny portions at mealtimes, she has to make up for your stinginess by eating the sandwiches I adore."
"Oh, Mercy, you are such a dear, so gracious. Of course I should know my sister's appetite can never be satisfied. A bottomless pit could hold no more than Ellie's stomach. Perhaps she tries to fill the great emptiness of her life with food. Perhaps for her it replaces love."
On and on went the memorial teatime, while the perfumed candles -- burned and the fire spat red sparks, and Aunt Ellie consumed all the sandwiches, even those with chicken liver pate, which I liked very much--and so did Vera. I nibbled on a sandwich I hated. This kind always tasted like Aunt Mercy Marie might have: damp, grassy and soggy.
"Really, Lucietta," said Aunt Ellsbeth, ring the voice of the dear departed, casting me a grievous look for so obviously disliking what Mercy Marie meet have loved most. "You should do something about that child's appetite. She's nothing but skin and bones and huge haunted eyes. And that ridiculous mop of hair. Why does she look so spooked? From the looks of her some dry wind could blow her away--if she doesn't lose her mind first. Lucietta, what are you doing to that child?"
About this time I heard the squeak of the side door opening, and in a few seconds Vera crawled into the room. She hid herself behind a potted fern so our mothers wouldn't see her and put her finger to her lips when I looked her way. She had with her a huge medical encyclopedia that had cardboard front pieces made of both the female and male body--without clothes on.
I cringed. Behind me Vera giggled. I shrank into that small hiding place in my brain where I could feel safe and unafraid, but that place felt like a cage. I always felt caged when Aunt Mercy Marie's spiteful ghost came to our front salon. She was dead and unreal, but somehow or other she still made me feel like a shadow without substance. Not real in the same way other girls were real. My hand fluttered nervously to feel my "haunted" eyes, to touch my "gaunt" cheeks, for sooner or later she'd get around to mentioning those things, too.
"Mercy," spoke my mother chastisingly, "how can you be so insensitive in front of my daughter?" She stood, looking tall and willowy in her soft, flowing dress.
I stared at that dress, confused. Surely she'd walked into this room
I stared at the picture of a woman I didn't remember ever meeting, though Momma said I had known her when I was four. She appeared to be very wealthy. Diamonds hung from her ears, neck, studded her fingers. The fur trimming on her suit collar made her face seem to sit on her shoulders. Often I imagined that if she rose, she'd have fur about long, full sleeves and rimming the edge of her skirt, like a medieval queen.
Mercy Marie had traveled all the way to Africa: in hopes of salvaging a few heathen souls and converting them to Christianity. Now she was part of the heathens, eaten, hopefully, after she was killed and cooked.
According to everything I'd learned from attending these teatimes, Aunt Mercy Marie once had ridiculous fondness for cucumber and lettuce sandwiches made with the thinnest possible cheese bread. In order to do this, my mother had to bake the bread, trim off the crust and flatten the bread with her rolling pin. The bread was then cut with cookie cutters into fancy shapes.
"Really, Mercy Marie," said my aunt in her harsh way, "ham, cheese, chicken or tuna is not as tacky as you think. We eat food like that all the time. . . don't we, Lucietta?"
Momma scowled. I hated to hear what she'd say next, something cruel and biting. "If Mercy Marie adores dainty cucumber and lettuce sandwiches, Ellie, why don't you let her eat a few, instead of hogging them all for yourself? Don't be such a pig. Learn to share."
"Lucietta, darling," spoke up the shrill voice from the piano, this time donated by my aunt, "please show your older sister the respect due her. You give her such tiny portions at mealtimes, she has to make up for your stinginess by eating the sandwiches I adore."
"Oh, Mercy, you are such a dear, so gracious. Of course I should know my sister's appetite can never be satisfied. A bottomless pit could hold no more than Ellie's stomach. Perhaps she tries to fill the great emptiness of her life with food. Perhaps for her it replaces love."
On and on went the memorial teatime, while the perfumed candles -- burned and the fire spat red sparks, and Aunt Ellie consumed all the sandwiches, even those with chicken liver pate, which I liked very much--and so did Vera. I nibbled on a sandwich I hated. This kind always tasted like Aunt Mercy Marie might have: damp, grassy and soggy.
"Really, Lucietta," said Aunt Ellsbeth, ring the voice of the dear departed, casting me a grievous look for so obviously disliking what Mercy Marie meet have loved most. "You should do something about that child's appetite. She's nothing but skin and bones and huge haunted eyes. And that ridiculous mop of hair. Why does she look so spooked? From the looks of her some dry wind could blow her away--if she doesn't lose her mind first. Lucietta, what are you doing to that child?"
About this time I heard the squeak of the side door opening, and in a few seconds Vera crawled into the room. She hid herself behind a potted fern so our mothers wouldn't see her and put her finger to her lips when I looked her way. She had with her a huge medical encyclopedia that had cardboard front pieces made of both the female and male body--without clothes on.
I cringed. Behind me Vera giggled. I shrank into that small hiding place in my brain where I could feel safe and unafraid, but that place felt like a cage. I always felt caged when Aunt Mercy Marie's spiteful ghost came to our front salon. She was dead and unreal, but somehow or other she still made me feel like a shadow without substance. Not real in the same way other girls were real. My hand fluttered nervously to feel my "haunted" eyes, to touch my "gaunt" cheeks, for sooner or later she'd get around to mentioning those things, too.
"Mercy," spoke my mother chastisingly, "how can you be so insensitive in front of my daughter?" She stood, looking tall and willowy in her soft, flowing dress.
I stared at that dress, confused. Surely she'd walked into this room
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