Gabrielangela Anastasia Adji- Secondary 2

Auntie Marjorie is a strict, righteous old hag , but she is all Dell has. That is what she reminds herself whenever she's scolded for wearing red, asking about family, or straying to close to that strange old door. She's overbearing, that's all. Coping from the accident. That fateful day.

Auntie's pudgy, blowfish face perks up, as if she can read Dell's thoughts "What's on your mind girl?" The air is still and tense. The afternoon shimmer glares through the heavy plastic binds.

"I'm famished. Macaroni is not enough, macaroni today, yesterday, for as long as I can remember." Dell pauses, contemplating her next question, "Why don't we have knives in the kitchen?" Auntie's misty eyes narrow. She's broken another rule. "Ungrateful. Your Ma and Pa must be glad they don't have to deal with you anymore." It stings, but Dell doesn't remember them well enough to know if it's true. "Fix the blinds, can't risk any peekers." Dell dutifully, begrudgingly does so. The room dims, devoid of light but for the ancient paraffin lamp Auntie keeps by the leather couch. It's 3, and Dell should be outside having a normal life. But there's no normal anymore. There's only crouching in the dark until Auntie dozes off.

She does within minutes. Bad people with secrets crave sleep, to escape the horrors they've done. Dell doesn't know for sure if Auntie is just bad or senile, but today is the eighth anniversary of her parents' death, or disappearance, or whatever bluff she's been told. Today is the day to find out.

Dell gingerly takes the lamp and inches to the mahogany door in the knife-less kitchen. It's grand and out of place, like it's been stolen, dropped somewhere it shouldn't be. Like Dell. She has leaned on the door before, just to hear the nasty creak it elicits, but has never entered. That's Auntie's rules of rules, one even reckless, curious Dell hasn't broken yet : no peeking. It's too late now.

It's too late. Dell is nearly knocked out by the odour of rot and iron. She raises the lamp, trembling. Knives upon knives, glimmering where they're fixed to the narrow corridor. They all point to a lumpy sack, discarded on the cold, speckled ground.

It's soaked red.

She realises now. You don't need knives to make macaroni, do you?

'Your ma and pa broke rules, too. Peeked too much for their own good.' Dell feels gnarled hands on her shoulders. 'Want to see where that got them?'