Karen Townsend                                                                                                       

Blind

She didn’t want to kill this one. To all the others, she was the pretty little nanny, no more than an opportunity. David saw her soul.

The cliffs overlooked the sea, edged with trees and a well-worn trail, and the afternoon sun spilled warmth across their faces as she and David walked side by side along the familiar path. Mara inhaled the blended scents of crisp cypress and sea brine—land and ocean. She resented both, belonged in neither.

“Not much to say today,” David remarked. “Thinking about anything in particular?”

Mara had worked for the family nearly two months now, and her afternoon walks with David had become the best part of her day. She couldn’t speak to him unless she brought the baby with her, and today they walked at naptime. She remained silent.

At first, Mara had assumed David was like every other man. But in the weeks that followed, she found him gentle. Kind. Generous in his estimation of her. He found her curiosity refreshing—took her seriously and gave honest answers. He even asked her questions in return, building conversations of substance that captivated her mind. No one had ever been interested in her thoughts before—only her physical attributes.

Mara slipped her small white hand into his. He couldn’t see its contrast against his sun-bronzed skin, but he could feel more than most, and drew a quick breath when he felt the porcelain texture of her hand against the raised veins of his forearm. His fingers tightened gently around hers. He stopped walking and turned to face her, staring into the space just above her eyes. “I love you, Mara,” he whispered. “Surely you know this by now.”

She had wondered. But unlike the pointed stares of the others, his eyes took in none of her body. If he loved her, it wasn’t the way the others had. She’d grown used to the hunger in their eyes as they tried to feign disinterest, the need behind their gaze that slid across each of her curves. She was no more than a stranger, and yet they did the most ridiculous things to prove themselves worthy of her attention. She found them stupid, hungering for someone they knew nothing about. Her dainty physique made them feel masculine, her delicate sensibilities made them feel needed, her quiet nature intrigued them. They felt powerful even as they sacrificed everything beneath the altar of her smile. She liked letting them believe in their power. She relished the shock in their eyes when they discovered they were at her mercy—and she had none to give.

The wind swept Mara’s dark hair back from her shoulders, and David reached a tentative hand to her face, placed his palm on her cheek. She closed her eyes, savoring the whisper of his touch.

”So delicate,” he said, cradling her chin. “Small and strong—fierce.” He sighed. “Somehow you manage to hold it all inside,” he said. “Your self-control is astounding.”

Control. She had long since mastered control. But self-control? She was still working on that. Everyone who could confirm this about her was dead.

When she’d arrived at the estate, word of her past employers’ scandals had already reached the family ahead of her. No one ever thought to connect the obvious dots—Mara was small, wide-eyed, and she’d polished her sweet demeanor until it glowed like the silver on their tables. She rarely spoke, and when she did, her voice was so melodious and childlike that her innocence was undeniable. Clearly, she knew nothing of the world’s evils except the trauma of the deaths on those estates. Her employers pitied her for the weight she’d been forced to carry—orphaned and alone in the world, haunted by too much death, followed by the bad luck of position after position filled with the drama that seemed to plague so many generationally-wealthy families.

They were always gentle during the interview process, rarely pushing for deeper answers. And if she allowed her eyes to fill with tears, they dropped the matter altogether, not wanting to further injure a traumatized girl. Here she would find no such horrors, they’d assure her. Here she would be safe. They praised her for finding a way out, seeking another position—so impressed by her courage. Former nannies had been weary, unable to cope with sleepless nights, colicky infants, tantrummy toddlers. But in Mara’s arms, babies quieted immediately, toddlers grew wide-eyed and silently well-behaved. She was best with the very young—able to quiet the fussiest of infants with her sweet voice.

David’s voice softened, returned her to the present. “Anger is grief with no answer,” he whispered. “You’ve never told me why you’re angry.”

She was angry because she remembered. A siren’s memory is fully formed at birth, and Mara remembered it all. The disgust on the faces of her people when they saw her human legs. The shame in her mother’s eyes when her baby’s body exposed her for betraying her people with a man. A siren with no tail belonged nowhere—least of all in the sea. They’d left her on the beach to shrivel in the sun. Deformed. Unfit for siren life.

Mara had no room for grief. Anger was power. No one but this blind man had ever guessed she was angry, and now that he’d named it, she felt strangely exposed. He loved her for the strength in her silence. She loved him for seeing beneath her surface. She had no past in his eyes—only future. Others wanted the version of her they’d imagined to be true. Once they knew her, there was nothing but fear. Did she want David to know her?

Lydia hadn’t feared her—not at first. She’d spoken lovingly into the infant’s eyes as she rocked her, told her how she’d stood on the beach every morning longing for the baby girl she’d lost, and the sea had granted her another child. She took Mara in, held her to her breast, used her to replace the baby she’d buried beneath the waves. The painful nursing grew more intense as Mara grew. Lydia’s milk had mixed with blood, and she’d given all she had to satisfy Mara’s relentless thirst. No one suspected the woman had been drained by a child—a toddler. Mara could go months without feeding, but if it was offered . . . 

She regretted Lydia’s death. She couldn’t forget Mama’s vacant gaze, the release of her arms and the way she’d slumped to the floor, twitched once, then moved no more. Mara had enjoyed the way Mama treasured her—hadn’t meant to hurt her. The pain of being alone again had built a scream in her throat that, without a voice, had no release and lodged in her stomach instead. But the guilt that used to nag Mara produced nothing useful, so one afternoon she’d let it go. Now Mama was no more than a distant memory.

Mara laid her head against David’s chest, and he wrapped her in his arms, enveloping her in his warmth. “Grief fades in time,” he murmured. “I wish I could’ve spared you the trauma.” He didn’t have to say it out loud. Dead men. Dead children. Everywhere Mara went, death seemed to follow. He shifted his weight and leaned back against a cypress trunk, holding her close.

It wasn’t hard for Mara to find work. All nine families had recommended her highly, raving about her comforting presence with children, their fussiest infants always quiet in her arms. Parents just wanted the crying to stop, wanted the serenity of their households to be restored. When little ones hushed in her presence, families hired her on the spot.

If David had known why the children were quiet, would he still view her the same? Would he understand how she needed them—how she borrowed their voices? Would he consider it theft? She hadn’t killed a child in years, and she always gave the voices back.

She kissed the back of his hand, released herself from his embrace, and tugged on his arm. He smiled, followed her lead. They walked hand-in-hand along the ridge as the sun sagged on the western horizon, the fragrance of the cypress fading as their path began to slope toward the sea. David tightened his grip, and Mara instinctively steadied him as the soil grew sandy beneath their feet. It was a comfortable silence despite the rage building in Mara as she cast her eyes over the ocean. Everyone assumed a quiet girl to be gentle. But her calm surface belied a turbulent undertow.

There were always extenuating circumstances—tight alibis. She’d made sure of it. The first two had been infants. The next three toddlers. As her strength had increased, she’d needed greater supply. The teenage girl had been interesting. But the last three—the men . . . she liked men best of all. They tasted of strength. Power. The first man was a challenge. A risk. A plunge out of boredom. She suppressed a smile at the memory. That craving he’d awakened in her—no longer a need for sustenance, but a thirst to feel it again—the way he’d crumbled at her command. His helplessness as she’d compelled him closer. It was intoxicating.

Men were . . . unkind. Roger, who’d found her alone at the edge of the pond that day. Jeremy, who’d stayed in the jacuzzi long after everyone else had left. Frank, who’d begged her for a night swim until finally, she could resist her craving no longer. Each one hungry. Forceful. They deserved what they got.

“None of it was your fault,” David whispered into her hair.

No one had ever seen her so accurately. He was right. She’d had no say in any of this. No voice. All vestiges of shame had long evaporated in the pleasure of the game.

She was a toddler when she stole a voice for the first time. Mama told her no—she couldn’t go near the water; it was too dangerous. But Mara ran from her, toppling into the tide as she tripped on the uneven sand. Mama rushed to right her, and when Mama’s feet touched the waves, Mara felt the jolt—the pulse of Mama’s aura. Her voice elongated, weaving toward Mara in the water like threads floating in the current. Mara reached for them with her own pulse and caught Mama’s scream in her mouth, and suddenly she was laughing, playing with the sound of Mama’s voice in her own throat. The shock on Mama’s face was the most fun of all. But when Mama moved her lips to scold Mara, there was no sound. Mara babbled toddler talk in Mama’s rich alto, laughing with delight, and Mama’s eyes grew wide with fright. She scooped up the child and rushed her to their cottage where she dried her off and put her to bed, regaining her voice just in time to sing her nightly lullaby. It was softer that night, but Mara heard it quiver.

Mama feared her after that. She tried to act the same, but Mara felt the truth.

Mara tugged on David’s hand, leading him toward the water, but he balked. “It’s not safe, Mara—I can’t swim,” he warned. “I could accidentally pull you under.” But his naivete only deepened her desire. She reached for his face, stroked his jaw with one small hand, and he closed his eyes, swallowed. “I can’t,” he whispered. “Let’s walk back to the house.” She knew the accident had left him blind. He didn’t like being around water.

But Mara did. In the water she felt the aura of a person’s energy. Normally, she’d lure her victims into water to steal their voices, suck away their strength, compel them to do her bidding. Water intensified her thirst. Revenge against men. Revenge against the humans that had tainted her blood. Revenge for never being given a choice. For having no voice.

It was different with David. If she could get him into the water, she would feel him in a whole new way, and he would see her even more clearly. Men always saw her differently in the water. It swirled around them with the aura of her essence. And once she knew they’d seen her true intentions—that’s when she’d compel them. They did everything she wanted before she drained them dry. They were always alarmed when her voice was their own, stolen from their throats without their consent. That was her favorite part—the shock on their faces. That moment they realized they were prey. That final emotion—terror edged with desire. They died wanting her, enraptured even as she fed. Sometimes, their blood still wet on her lips, she sang to them in their own voice as they faded—mute as their lives ebbed away. Once she took a man’s voice, she never gave it back. The voice died on her lips as the body grew cold.

All she wanted this time was to feel David’s aura, for him to feel hers. The water was the only way. She tugged on his hand, pulling him off balance, and he took one step forward to steady himself, foot splashing into the froth as the wave drew back from the shore. He gasped and she felt the tremor in his fingers. His fear was endearing, charmed her. She wanted him to trust her. She would never let him drown.

She pulled again, and a second foot splashed into the edge of the ocean. His heart was pounding now—the sound made her salivate. Warm blood surged and throbbed beneath his skin—a network of flavorful veins with only a thin layer of skin to separate him from her.

But the voice was all that mattered. She felt the water connecting them as they stood thigh-deep in the sea, the vibration of his voice pulsing with each heartbeat—unbelievably sexy. Unbelievably mouth-watering.

“Don’t worry,” she said, commandeering his voice.

David’s mouth dropped open and one hand flew to his throat, feeling for the missing sound. His blank eyes darted aimlessly with growing awareness. He was afraid now. She giggled. “I said don’t worry,” she said again in his rich baritone.

He tried to speak, clutching at his throat, but there was no sound—only panic blanching his face. She wouldn’t need to explain; he would see her truest self when he came deeper—love her even more passionately. He was the only one who deserved to—the only one who’d ever wanted to. The realization was exhilarating and filled her with a new kind of thirst. “Deeper,” she said. But he was frozen in place, one hand at his neck, the other trying to extricate itself from hers.

Desperately attempting to untangle their fingers.

He was trying to leave her.

Leave. Her.

She raised one quivering hand to her hair and ran her trembling fingers through it.

Not him. Not David.

Anger surged to overtake her in one unstoppable wave.

“Come.” She commanded him with his own voice.

And he obeyed.

He didn’t struggle as he sank beneath the moonlit surface, arms encircling her waist. He didn’t even close his eyes. They remained open as she found his jugular, sank her teeth into his throat. He stared straight ahead through the kelp as she fed, frenzied, so desperately in love as she consumed him.

When it was over, she hovered before him in the current, swallowing the last of his warm blood, and her eyes anchored themselves on his dead stare. His voice disintegrated in her mouth as she opened it to scream.

Karen Townsend explores the deep sea of the human psyche through speculative fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction. She has an MFA in Creative Writing and a hunger to build creative community in Virginia where she explores personality theory and looks for her next adventure.