My Name Is Lydia (Jack Nightingale short story) by Stephen Leather

 
    She woke up exactly at
two a.m. It was always easy to take control while the bitch slept, though in
time she would be able to overcome all resistance no matter what the time.
Enough moonlight filtered through the thin curtains to allow her to inspect the
naked body. The budding breasts were developing nicely, and she cupped each one
in turn, feeling the nipples harden. She ran her fingers between the legs,
lingering long enough to feel the moisture start to flow. This body would be so
much more fun, now that the transition to womanhood had begun. Still, time
enough for that later, once she’d started on the process of subjugation. And
spread a little more unhappiness. She took a slow, deep breath, enjoying the
feel of the warm night air entering and leaving her lungs. It was good to be
alive.
    She sat up and
stretched. She found the packet of cigarettes in the top drawer of the bedside
table, placed one between her lips and lit it with a plastic lighter. It had
been easy enough to persuade one of the Year Ten boys at school to buy them for
her, especially with the suggestion of a little reward to come. She inhaled
deeply and blew a smoke ring up towards the ceiling. The parents might smell
the smoke, but that would be the least of their worries. She smiled at the
thought of what was to come. She was going to have such fun.
    She crushed the last
of the cigarette out on the top of the clock-radio ,
which read 2.08. She swung her feet onto the floor and stood up, a little
unsteadily at first because being in control still took some getting used to.
She took a long look at the body in the mirrored door of the wardrobe. Yes, it
would do. It would certainly do, and it held the promise of much more to come.
    The room was warm, the
window open to the August night air, and she ignored the dressing gown hanging
behind the door. She turned the knob and walked out onto the landing, past the
door of the parents’ bedroom and on into the bathroom. She closed the door
behind her before turning on the light, then opened
the medicine cabinet over the basin. What she needed was on the top shelf, and
the eleven-year-old body wouldn’t stretch that far, so she pulled over the
wicker towel box and stood on it. She pushed aside the mother’s sleeping pills
and Prozac to ensure they wouldn’t fall as she reached for the father’s
Gillette Fusion razor and the box of spare blade cartridges. She stepped down
from the box and pushed it back to its usual place by the wall.
    She slipped off her
nightdress and sat on the edge of the bath as she loaded one of the cartridges
into the razor, just as she’d seen the father do many times before, as she’d
watched through the bitch’s eyes. She carefully ran the blade across the left
wrist, pressing just hard enough to open three shallow cuts that ran the whole
width of the arm. There was hardly any pain at all. Blood started to seep out,
and she transferred the razor to the left hand and repeated the procedure on
the right wrist. As the blood started to cover the wrists, she wiped them
across the breasts and stomach, leaving ragged red trails.
    She climbed into the
bath, leaned forward to put the plug into its hole, placed the lever of the
mixer tap into the middle position, then lifted it to start the flow of water
into the bath. She lay down in the deepening water and watched as it slowly turned red and waited. She didn’t think it would take long before
they heard and the fun would begin.
    She was right. Inside
two minutes, she heard the sound of the parents’ door opening and the pad of
slippers along the landing. The door knob rattled as the
father spoke. “Christine? Are you all right in there, sweetheart?”
    She said nothing, just
continued to watch as the reddening water crept slowly around the body.
    “Christine? What are
you doing in there? What’s the matter?”
    She heard another set
of feet as the mother joined him, and her voice rang out. “Christine? Open the
door, darling.