Free Beautiful Sorrows by Mercedes M. Yardley Page A

did.
    Some days she would take an orange from the concerned cook and walk with it to the pond in the middle of the gardens. She would peel it and sniff at the rind, watching the juice run down her arm before tossing it to the goldfish. Her hair thinned and began to fall out; she cropped it short in a sophisticated hairstyle that, after being published in the magazines, had hordes of others flocking to the salons to achieve the same effect. When her skin blanched, she left it, not attempting to tint it with colored plaster and caked crayons like other women. “Beautiful,” they breathed, and in the next issue of Beauty Magazine , tender, pale faces gazed alluringly at the camera.
    When her collarbones and hipbones jutted out, instantly the world began to diet, coveting that brittle look. “Gorgeous,” her father grinned, and winked, before leading a hungry girl with carefully tousled short hair upstairs to his room.
    Sometimes she ate a little bit of grass or thorns from the garden plants, or she chewed on a handful of garden dirt for the nutrients. Mostly she just sat at the edge of the pond, dangling her bare white legs in the water and thinking quietly about anything but food. It wasn’t at all hard.
    “You’re breathtaking, Sweetie,” her father said one day, admiring her cheekbones and translucent skin. “Just like your mother.”
    That night, she heard him crying upstairs, and it took him two hours before he went out searching for his woman. She was left alone in the garden once again, holding handfuls of dark earth. She cupped her hands together like she was bearing the world between them, the moon glistening and reflecting on the grains of mica and quartz. She stared at it for a long time, her lips nibbling at the air just above it, before letting it all slip through her fingers.
    She wiped her hands on her white dress and walked away.

 
    THE ABCs OF MURDER

    I got really tired of murdering Billy Cords.
    I know how that sounds, but I can’t help it. I’m a peaceful guy at heart, and the constant scheming and planning and carrying out murder after murder was really getting to me. To be honest, I’d rather be playing basketball. And I hate basketball.
    Besides, Billy was my best friend, a fact that he kept bringing up.
    “Hey, loser,” he said, popping up at the foot of my bed one evening. I sat up, clutching my bed sheet and screaming. This was most likely because we had buried Billy two days earlier.
    “Cripes, Jake, knock it off.” He covered his ears and bared his teeth. This was such a Billy move that it only made me scream harder. I heard pounding feet come tearing down the hall. Billy sighed and slid under my bed. My father flew into the room, wearing his boxers and wielding a golf club like a weapon. The way that my father played, that was most likely the case.
    “What’s wrong?” He sidled up to the window and peeked outside. I had stopped screaming and was hunched over, openmouthed. My dad looked at me.
    “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, son.” I winced. That line was so clichéd, I was embarrassed. Under the bed I heard a muffled snerk. Billy was trying his best to keep himself under control.
    “Dad, it was Billy. I saw Billy, he was right at the foot of my bed and—”
    Dad sat down, and his face was sad. He ran his hand over his balding head.
    “Jake,” he said, and didn’t seem to know what to say after that. I looked at him, waiting. I heard Billy squirm under the bed a bit and I felt the same way. Dad had acted like this when Mom died, and it was awkward enough the first time.
    My father swooped me into his arms for a punishing hug. I struggled, but he held me fast and used his chin to hold my shoulder in place. “I love you, son,” he said with feeling, and hugged me even tighter. I let myself go loose in his grip. Kinda like playing dead, but a little bit smarter.
    “I...love you too, Dad,” I said. My eyes narrowed as I heard another giggle from Billy, but I was