Revanchist Blade

feb 2026

original oct 2024:

Photo by Jean-Luc Picard on Unsplash

I see them. On the shelf.

The blonde one. The mom. She is staring. Eyes am… different today. Look like Mom's eyes. My Mom's eyes. Sad. Afraid.

I am hiding. I am Julia. I am 13. Mom and I live in Washington. State, not DC. Near Seattle, by boat. Lived in San Jose before. Too noisy, too busy. Mom moved us here. Quiet and remote. Peaceful.

Dad left when Julia was 6. Left me. Am too weird, too stupid, for him. Can't talk. Won't talk.

Fuck him.

I am hiding because of dolls. Mom bought them at antique store. Mom and Daughter dolls. Mom thought they were cute. I know better. Those dolls am scary. I hear them. Not still, like objects. Vibrating. Alive. I hear more than most people.

Dolls am bad. Evil.

I hear Mom. No. Not-Mom. The doll is inside Mom. Controlling Mom. Not-Mom is looking for me. For Julia. She— no. It. It is upstairs. Not a person. "Julia, honey. Why don't you want to play with your doll? We can play together?"

Sounds like Mom. But not Mom. I hear the difference. Voice is lower pitch. Slower. Rougher. No kindness. I hear more than most people.

I am hiding. Inside the washing machine. Smell of mildew in here. Can't think straight. Heart am pounding so loudly I'm afraid it will hear. Been crying. Quietly. I wipe my eyes.

Time to be a big girl. Time to be brave.

I get out slowly. I take a deep breath. I count, 1. 2. 3. I exit the laundry room door. Outside, it's so bright. Eyes burning. The air on my skin is cold and damp. I hear the water trickle in the creek. Going to rain in three days. I feel it in my head and in my teeth.

I let the door fall closed. No, I slam it a little. I want Not-Mom to hear. That's the plan.

But I don't run to the creek. I move right. Sneak around the corner, into the kitchen, through back door. I stay low, I move quiet. I hate this place. Loud noises, strong smells, bad memories. Try not to think about that. Work to do.

I hear Not-Mom. It walks different. Mom moves fast and efficient. Quick, light feet. Not-Mom lands heavy. Threatening. Coming down the stairs and out to the backyard, following me.

It thinks.

I take the pan, black and heavy. Cast iron. Breathing shaky. Julia hates the kitchen. Said that, sorry. Burned once, 5 years old. Touched hot cookie sheet. Hurt so bad. Little scar on hand. I rub it. Mom says kitchen is dangerous. I believe her. Not-Mom won't expect me here.

Pour oil in pan. Olive oil. Low flash point. Burns easy. Turn burner on high. I put baking soda on counter. I watch lots of safety videos, on iPad. Fire scary, told myself never getting burned again. Except maybe today.

Hear Not-Mom calling me outside. Have to hurry.

Go to fireplace. The girl doll, I hear it. "Come play with me, Julia." It whispers. Sickly. Awful. So scared wanna throw up. Cold sweat. I stand on toes and take the two dolls. Back to kitchen.

Not-Mom is at the door. Oh no. No no no no. Not yet.

"Julia, you've been a naughty girl. But I see you have the dollies. Let's play together. Forever." Dead dolly eyes. Too black, not blinking. Terrible wide smile. Its teeth am grinding. Ears hurt. Not mommy!! You're not my mommy!! I grunt. I hate my voice.

Oil smoking. I smell it from here. Bitter. I don't know what to do! Think. I can't run backwards. Have to stay. Have to be brave.

Not-Mom coming closer. Heavy steps. I hold both dolls in left hand. Grab broom in right hand and swing it. Not-Mom still smiling. Want to cry. It getting closer.

Not-Mom grabs broom and throws it away. The oil is on fire. I see it. Not-Mom tries to grab me. I scream. Hurts my throat, hurts my own ears.

Fighting Not-Mom. She is bigger and stronger. And still my Mom! Don't want to hurt her. But she wants the dolls. I see Pikachu cup from breakfast, on table. I have an idea. A bad idea. But my only idea.

I move closer to table. Then I let her win. Let her take the daughter doll from me. She stumbles, towards oven.

I throw the cup at the fire, past Not-Mom. The water still in the cup spills into fire.

Huge fire. Fireball. Loud, and hot, and terrible. I let myself be scared. More scared than ever in my life. I touch the scar. I was burned once, when I was 5. Then I move.

Not-Mom fell from the fireball. Maybe burned. She dropped the daughter doll. I grab it and throw both in the fire. Another fireball. Knocks me back too.

The fire turns purple. Not normal. Like a movie. I see the dolls turning black. Not-Mom shrieks. Will never forget. In pain, but not human. Like a monster. Flames touch the ceiling. House might burn. I remember the baking soda, on the counter.

I stand and move closer. Everything slow-motion. Smoky and hot. The dolls are all burned up. Like witches. I am so afraid of the fire. I could die. I could really die. Not today, I'm not ready —

I grab the box. I am sweating. Cough. A flame jumps out. My sleeve is on fire. OW OW OW! It hurts! I throw baking soda on the fire. I slap my left arm. I am crying. The pain. But the fire is dying out.

I fall down on the tile. So much smoke. I can't breathe good. Coughing. I look at my Mom. Also lying still. Going dark.

i am sorry i am so sorry mom i hope i made you proud i know you want to hear me say it you waited my whole life but i cant but i love you so much i

---

My eyes sting. I remember now, from the smoke. The fire. But I'm not in the kitchen anymore. I'm outside. It's bright on an overcast day, my eyelids are orange with the daylight behind them. I hear the birds chirping and I feel the brisk air on my face. The ground beneath me is cold, I feel it through my shirt. Thoughts are still now, no more fight-or-flight. Maybe I'm dead. Maybe this is heaven.

Ow, my goddamn arm.

There's a hand on my cheek. It's warm and soft. I smell vanilla hand soap and the lavender hand creme I bought for Christmas. It's familiar, and it's home, and I know who it is without seeing her. "I thought I lost you, baby," Mom says, choking through sobs. I know it's her voice this time. I trust it. I don't know if I mentioned this, but I can hear more than most people. My right hand comes up to land over hers.

I open my eyes, squinting, adjusting to the brightness. And I see my mother's face. She's a mess. Wild hair, cheeks caked with soot and ash. She doesn't have dead, lifeless doll eyes anymore. They are hers. Caring, weary, and brimming with tears. She starts to cry and the hot salty tears fall on my face.

Then I realize I'm crying too. I can hear it, our hearts beating. So happy to be alive. I don't need my AAC to communicate what I'm feeling.