Turning the Tables

By Sally Simon

Note: Some elements of this story may be disturbing to sensitive readers.

I died at sixteen.

People said I committed suicide, but after my stepfather Manny had too many beers at my funeral and made a toast about how my curvy, young body must be pleasing the angels, murmurs rolled through the room.

The police chief ordered an autopsy. The medical examiner found arsenic in my system, a judge granted a search warrant, and police searched our house. My perfectly laid dominoes toppled into action, and I got to witness it spying from above.

I never knew when Manny was going to “visit.”

The first time it happened, I told Mom. But since the wedding, she had rose-colored glasses permanently implanted on her face and drank denial like it was morning coffee. “He was just tucking you in,” she said.

Manny used to visit when he was drunk or when Mom was away for work. But then he started visiting more often, even when mom was in the next room. Most nights, I closed my eyes and pretended I was at the doctor’s office. After he left, I stifled tears until I fell asleep.

It had to stop.

That’s when I found the old can of arsenic on a shelf in the barn. I’d seen movies where husbands poisoned their wives. I Googled the rest and created my plan.

I drank tainted tea every night before bed. Just enough to make me nauseous. The next time Manny visited, I puked. But he didn’t care. I strengthened the tea. Soon, my skin became blotched and saggy. Manny visited less and less. I thought my plan worked.

Then I caught Manny looking at my little sister the way he used to look at me. I had to alter the plan to make the monster pay.

I set up the dominoes.

One night, I wrote a note to Manny threatening to tell Mom and folded it into my journal. I double-dosed the tea, wiped off the can, and placed the arsenic under the front seat of his truck. To explain the lack of fingerprints, I put latex gloves in the glove compartment.

Then I hung myself.

Luckily the movies got the spirit world right. I floated above my room and witnessed Mom find me, watched a room of relatives I barely knew cry at my funeral, and settled into a forgotten corner of the living room to observe what would happen next. It didn’t take long before Mom sank into a wave of grief at my death. At first, that made me more nauseous than the arsenic. But really, it was her own fault. She should have listened to me when I was alive. She should have noticed. By the time the police dragged Manny from our house, Mom clinging to his leg, I’d lost all sympathy for her.

Hovering over the trial, I overheard a juror mumble “sick bastard” under his breath. The others agreed and sent Manny to rot in prison.

I let him settle in. You know, buddy up to his cellmate, hang a poster or two, smile in the mess hall to get an extra scoop of mashed potatoes.

Every day he claimed his innocence but appeared to have accepted his fate. That’s when I made my move.

Manny never knows when I’m going to visit. At night, he usually tosses and turns and mumbles my name until his cellmate threatens to slash his throat. Sometimes he lays there shaking. When he sees me, he pisses his pants.

I died at sixteen, but I’m here to stay.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sally Simon (ze/hir) lives in the Catskills of New York State. Hir writing has appeared in  Hobart, Truffles Literary Magazine, After the Pause, and elsewhere. She is a reader for Fractured Lit. When not writing, ze’s either traveling the world or stabbing people with hir epee.

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Author Website