Bentley Little - Dominion

She did leave, going to the bathroom and taking a hot shower, and when she'd gone into the kitchen afterward to get a drink of water, she'd heard her mothers talking in the living room. Their voices were low, cautious, almost conspiratorial, as if they were afraid of being overheard, and the clandestine tone of the conversation caused Penelope to tread softly and to halt in the hallway outside the door, listening.

"She's our daughter," she heard Mother Felice say.

"That doesn't matter anymore." Mother Margaret.

She moved away from the doorway, not wanting to hear any more, her heart pounding, the blood racing through her veins. She hurried up the stairs to her bedroom, closed the door and locked it.

She had not been able to fall asleep since.

Now she reached next to her, felt for her watch on the nightstand, held its vaguely luminescent face next to her eyes.

One o'clock.

She put the watch down, stared up into the blackness. More than anything, she wanted to sneak down the hall to Mother Felice's room, to crawl into her favorite mother's bed the way she used to, to find out what was wrong, what was happening, what they'd been talking about That doesn't matter anymore --but that was not possible. Even though she knew her mother supported her, even though she'd heard her mother defend her, she could not be entirely certain that her mother's sympathies were completely on her side. Mother Felice loved her, yes, but she was one of them too, and perhaps those loyalties were stronger.

One of them.

When had it become that? When had it turned into us versus them!

She wasn't sure. But it was probably something that had been building for a while. She'd noticed, many times before, that although her feelings for Mother Felice had remained constant, she seemed to like her other mothers less and less as she grew older. She had never been sure if that was because she was changing or because they had changed. They had all seemed equally nice to her as a child, she had loved them all, but as she'd grown she'd begun to see the differences between them. And the difference between what they were like and what^ she had thought they were like. Mother Margeaux's strength and focus began to seem bossy to her, her once admirable iron will autocratic and dictatorial. Mother Janine's free spiritedness seemed for a while flighty and irresponsible, then self-destructive, then just plain crazy. Mother Margaret's dispassionate intellectualism became cold, Mother Sheila's single-minded study of the science of the grape annoying and nerdily fanatic.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe this was something all children went through. Teenage rebellion and all that crap.

Maybe.

But she didn't think so.

The one thing which had not changed was that they all had equal power over her. If there were divisions of labor within the business, a hierarchical order with Mother Margeaux at the top, there was no such structure in their family life. At least not in regard to her. They were all her mothers, and if there were ever conflicting orders or requests or restrictions, it was up to her to resolve them. She had learned early on that it was impossible to pit one mother against another. They always took one another's side.

Which was why she could not ask Mother Felice.

It was Dion's influence too, she thought She had become much more assertive since she'd met him, more willing to stand up for herself and to openly disagree with or disobey her mothers. She saw her life now as he would see it, looked at it as an outsider would, and although she had always done that to a certain extent, it seemed as though now she was able to see, to know, to understand how truly strange her lifestyle was.

She didn't fit into her own life.

That was the truth of it. She had been raised this way, but it hadn't taken. She often felt like an outsider amongst her peers, but now she felt just as much an outsider around her mothers.

What would things be like if her father had lived?

She wondered about that more and more often lately. How would her life be different? How would she be different?

She wished she remembered her father, but she'd been too young when he died and everything she knew of him had come from her mothers. Even his appearance would have been a mystery had it not been for the photograph.

If he had only lived a little longer ... She could remember nearly everything, almost all the way back to her birth, and if her father had lived a few months longer, she would probably have retained a memory of him as well. She clearly remembered lying in the crib, in the nursery when she was only a few months old, although, to be fair, her memory was probably not as accurate as she believed it to be, comprised as it probably was of not only real events but events imagined during childhood, the visualization of extrapolations from her mothers'

stories, a recollection of things she had thought about rather than seen. But the images, all of them, were so vivid, so real, that they seemed like things that had happened, not things that she had imagined later or heard about secondhand.

Only many of the things she remembered did not correspond to what her mothers told her.

That scared her.

In one clearly remembered dream image or flash of recollection, she saw Mother Janine, laughing, naked, covered with catsup, dancing in the moonlight in front of the nursery window. But that couldn't be right, could it? That couldn't have happened.

Maybe it could have.

That's what frightened her.

She thought of those dreams of her father. Had that happened too? She could see in her mind a particularly vivid image that had recurred in several nightmares: her father, naked, screaming, held down by the rest of her mothers while Mother Margeaux licked the blood from a gaping wound in his chest.

She sat up in bed. Her mouth was dry. She reached next to her, felt around on the top of the nightstand for her glass of water, but she'd forgotten to bring it into the bedroom with her.

She kicked off the blanket and got out of bed. She could get a drink of water from the bathroom--the cup she used when she brushed her teeth was in there--but she did not like drinking bathroom water. She'd rinse her mouth out with it, but she would not swallow it. She knew that the sink water came from the same pipe as the water in the kitchen, but somehow the fact that it was in the same room as the toilet tainted it for her.

She'd go down to the kitchen.

Penelope opened her bedroom door as quietly as she could and stepped into the hall. The house was dark, and she noticed for the first time that it was completely silent. In the morning, in the afternoon, in the evening, someone was always doing something, and there was activity, movement, sound, noise. But now her mothers were all asleep, all of the lights were off, and the dark silence seemed eerily oppressive.

She didn't want to wake her mothers, so she didn't turn on any lights but felt her way along the wall to the staircase. From somewhere below, from one of the shadeless windows in the kitchen perhaps, came a diffuse blue illumination that served to make the surrounding blackness darker.

There were chills on her arms, and she almost turned around and went back into her bedroom. There was something spooky about the house tonight, and though she'd lived in it all her life, though she'd gone up and down these stairs thousands of times, it felt different to her now.

She forced herself to start down the stairs. She was just being a baby, afraid of the dark. There was nothing here that wasn't here in the daytime. And their security system made the house probably the safest structure west of the Pentagon. No one could be hiding in here. No one could have broken in.

She was not afraid of someone breaking in.

No, she had to admit, she wasn't. She was trying to look at the situation logically, but her uneasiness was anything but logical. There was no sound basis for it, no reason why it should be there.