Spoiler! :
Mama’s friends line the walls, climbing on lifeless trees, almost real but not quite. Their tails follow them up the broken bark of the wood. If they could move they would be higher, away from eyes, away from people. But they aren’t afraid. They stand frozen, climbing, their clawed feet digging into the tree.
Some crawl on the mantel where they have been for ten years, holding nuts to their tiny mouths, feet splayed out, like Superman, trying to sprint across the dark bricks. Their eyes look like tear drops, lopsided and sad, dark brown and endless. The glaze reflects light in a small square on the very top of the iris. Their ears stand straight up, awaiting that last sound that called for their attention. It is better in the kitchen. Only knick-knacks line the shelves above the cabinets. In there we know that they aren’t real, a glass reproduction instead of a stuffed mannequin.
But don’t say stuffed to Mama; it sets her off. I learned that early. They aren’t stuffed; mounted is what they are. She told each of us that on the first day. I pause and wonder if Mama knows that she killed me that first day.
***
My feet hit the carpet, my small eyes taking in the rooms soon to be mine. I could see the stuffed animals, fur still on the bodies, eyes following me around the room. I looked at my feet, pink sandals over soft, tan flesh. The bag in my hand was heavy; the new lady stood in front of me and my social worker, staring behind us at back of the door.
She looked old, not like the young woman the social worker told me about; they must have gotten her age wrong. Blonde hair, long and sprinkled with silver strands, she didn’t look like the picture I was shown. Her eyes didn’t look at me but she smiled off into the distance, nodding her head as my social worker, Ms. Ritcher, talked.
“She’s very bright,” Ms. Ritcher said, patting my shoulder and trying to get the lady to look at her. “But I’m not sure how she is going to adjust. The family before said that she was…stubborn. Locked herself in her room for a week. She worried them.”
“I think we’ll get along fine, won’t we, Lacie?” The lady asked. “You’ll like it here, honey. I have lots to teach you.” Her eyes looked at me, dark brown, pupil disappearing into her iris. She reached out her pale hand and grabbed my wrist, sharp claws of nails dug into soft flesh. My fingers opened, and my bag fell to the floor, Barbies without clothes and stuffed animals missing patches of fur tumbled out of the opening at the top.
The social worker glared. My face turned red as I tried to slip my hand out of the lady’s grasp. When I got free, I crouched down, picking up plastic people and dying bears, stuffing them back into the pink bag Ms. Ritcher gave me.
I stood up and looked at the lady, then at my social worker. The lady held my wrist, not as hard this time and Ms. Ritcher glanced around and into the room behind us. Her eyes stopped briefly at each creature on the walls and furniture behind us. Ms. Ritcher’s eyelids folded back, as she stared shocked at all of the animals.
“I think we can take it from here, Ms. Ritcher.” She smiled down at me. The social worker looked frazzled, confused, nodding her head quickly before she headed to the door. She never came back. There was always some one new who looked around downstairs then left without many words.
The lady guided me to her lab, the tiny room set up in the attic of the house. I stared, captivated by the glinting metal and bright lights reflecting back. They were spread out on tables as long as the walls, lamps dangling from thin chains attached to the ceiling. Cages sat on the floor, some big, standing almost to my knees, smaller ones to my ankles.
On a table in the back pushed against the wall, a little animal sat, with bright eyes and a tail that stuck straight up toward the ceiling. I stared at it while the lady looked around trying to figure out what to show me first. Her eyes were as bright as the animals’. I had seen the things before, climbing trees and hopping through grass outside of the orphanage. Squirrels, Ms. Ritcher used to point out.
But these animals weren’t breathing; they had no life in them and I wondered how they could stand without air. I wanted to ask but I hesitated, not knowing what to call this new mother. She looked at me like she had heard my thought and said quietly, “You can call me Mama.”
Mama made me watch as she took skin from a cage and soaked it in liquid. The smell was like bleach, burning my eyes and stinging my nose. The first three days of my life with her I breathed it in, the only fresh air coming from the second story window. Confined in the attic, marble eyes followed me in my nightmares. This house wasn’t like the others. Mama wasn’t like the other parents. I wasn’t sure she could love me at all.
***
Mama whispers that they are always here. They listen. We pay close attention, nodding our heads but silently disagreeing. After hearing what she did to me, the other kids make sure they don’t make her mad.
We hear the story every time a new kid walks through the big oak front door. I think she likes to remind us. I think she hears our whispers. We hate the squirrels. She knows because she knows everything.
Three of us can repeat the story by heart, but the twins will learn. Recalling the details of Mama’s childhood here in Alabama, how the squirrels loved living near this house deep in the woods. Mama did, too. She always talks about the farm house, the family…her family that had been there since before she was born. She says her love is genetic. Each of the women with Maxwell blood flowing in their purple veins has a passion about animals that the rest of us can hardly wrap our brains around. Mama is the most enamored.
In the hallway the clock cuckoos—a contraption with many different things carved in the wood. It’s difficult to see the squirrels until they pop out of the center. In one of the bedrooms, a baby cries. I jump, not sure which one it is.
Above the crib, squirrels scurry through the air, moving clockwise on a mobile. Through the dark wood bars I can see Connor’s face, red, puffy from crying his tiny eyes out. His little fist curls together like a boxer’s. It reminds me of the pictures Mama likes to show. The famous ones with the warring squirrels locked into death match. She wants to be that famous someday, to create something that is that well known to the people who like having dead animals in their house.
Connor is heavy, heavier than Caroline, his twin, sleeping next to him and twice as loud. I prop him on my shoulder, holding the back of his head, his hair soft under my fingers. His chubby cheek rests against my shoulder and I turn to leave his sister whose eyelids flutter quickly while tiny squirrels dance in her dreams.
His little fists yank my hair, pulling long blond strands into his fat fingers. I bite my tongue, forcing myself not to scold him as I pry his hand open. When we walk into the living room I can hear the creak of the floor boards above, where Mama does all of her work. There is a ribbon tied around the bottom of the stairs, the sign that she is waiting. I shiver thinking of what she is probably going to have me do, what she is going to teach me.
Luke is in the living room, his blond hair curls around his ears. He looks out the window, not at the television. There is a blue ribbon in his hand, exactly like the one that was on the stairs for me. Mama wants him, too.
The TV blares, scenes from Up flashing on the screen. I don’t listen to it. I can’t stay to watch, not when Mama is waiting. I hear the sounds rise, the volume turned up like a concert or a theater. I pass Connor to Amber who is ten, old enough to watch the twins, to keep them quiet. She doesn’t notice as I motion for Luke to come with me. He presses the volume button one more time raising the voices of the Pixar characters to an almost deafening level, but we don’t want the babies to cry.
I stop before descending the stairs, remembering little Caroline still sleeping in the crib. The door opens slowly but when I see through the rails that she is still sleeping I don’t bother her. My hand reaches for the baby monitor, the other end of it stuck to the wood of the crib. I pass it to Amber before I go upstairs.
The crimson ribbon twirls around my fingers, sweaty and almost shaking as I walk up the steps. Under the door I can see glow from Mama’s lights. She has to be able to see everything.
A cage lies on the floor, lined on the inside with a tarp, shielding the animal from the dangerous bars. If the fur is damaged it’s no good. I can hear it, the creature crying, and I panic thinking about little Caroline. I should have taken her to the other kids, let one of them hold her in case she hears what we are about to do. It thrashes about, kicking the wire box, trying to fight its way out.
Luke is already there, pellet gun in hand; behind him Mama smiles.
“This is your big day,” she says, looking at Luke, eyes wide with excitement. It scares me, makes me wonder if this is what she loves, not the animals. Luke has been practicing, shooting bulls-eyes painted on Coke cans and peanuts off the picnic table outside. But this will be the first time he’s done anything for Mama, anything to a living being.
I can still hear his voice, it plays back like a record, old and hard to erase.
***
“Just aim and shoot; it’s already loaded.” I said. Luke looked at me, squinting at my face in the sun.
“It can’t be that easy; what if I miss?” He lowered the gun, not even attempting to aim.
“Then you miss, who cares? You do realize this is just practice, right?” I laughed at his face, serious and offended.
“I bet you cared when you missed. So why can’t I?”
“I cared because Mama was the one watching me. I’m not her so you don’t have to worry about it. I don’t care if you miss. Actually, I take that back. I hope you do.”
He stared at me as his hair fell into his eyes. He scrunched up his nose as he studied the heavy metal in his left hand. “If you don’t care then why do I even have to try? She won’t know if I don’t. She won’t know, will she?”
“Duh, she’ll know. She’s inside the house, it’s not like she’s in another city. Guns make noise, remember?” I paused, thinking of Mama in that room upstairs. She could probably see us from the window but I didn’t mention that.
“It’s just a Coke can,” I reassured him, but he looked at the ground, pellet gun dangling from his limp fingers.
“But it won’t always be. You said—”
“Shut up. I don’t even want to think about it. And if you tell Mama I told you, Luke, I swear—”
“You swear you’ll what? I was gonna find out sooner or later. It’s not a big secret; even Amber knows she’s next.” The gun rose, his hand tight on the handle, barrel pointing toward the picnic table. Neither of us said a word as the gun cracked and the Coke can clinked to the ground.
***
I try to smile at him; I know what it’s like. Two years ago, when I was thirteen Mama had me do the same thing, practice with a pellet gun in the back yard until I was a good enough shot not to screw anything up. Luke is better than I was, has a better aim, but his hands are shaking more than mine did.
He stands at the end of the room; Mama and I take our places beside the cage. The ribbon pools like blood next to my foot when my hand lets go of it. Mama counts backwards from ten, giving Luke enough time to breath and steady his hands. His eye squints, the other looking down the barrel.
When she rips the tarp off, the air around me disappears, replaced by the smell of the peanut butter the squirrel is licking, tiny flecks of goo stuck to its claws. Strong and rich, good enough to lure them in, the last thing they get to enjoy. I think it’s Mama’s turn now, to enjoy something. Mama says one, a whisper, but she points to Luke telling him to shoot before the squirrel sees the outside world, before it bashes its head into the metal bars. The gun cracks, a loud clap of thunder in the small space. I jump as it sails into the squirrel’s fur, a small hole, but Mama can fix that. I grimace; Luke lowers the gun, looking at the floor, not wanting to see what he’s done. And Mama smiles at the body, another friend to join her.
I back up, away from the cage, leaning against the doorway, careful not to tip backwards. This always happens, the nausea, the aftermath. I close my eyes and wait for the world to quit spinning. My breath stops, then starts again exhaled breath leaking slowly out of my mouth. I don’t want to smell the peanut butter. My eyes stay closed; I don’t want to see Mama’s wide grin as she praises Luke. I can hear Mama’s voice in my head.
***
“You did it, Lacie,” Mama said, walking toward the thing I had shot. My teeth hurt from pressing them together too hard. I didn’t look at Mama. Back then Luke and Amber were the only others in the house. I had sat them down in front of the TV and told them if the volume was too loud to listen with their fingers plugging up their little ears. They didn’t understand.
She made me look, hooking her cold fingers under my chin and guiding it toward the gruesome thing in the cage. My heart broke when I saw it. It could have been sleeping if it wasn’t for the jagged hole in its belly. Mama didn’t care that I missed its head, all she cared about was teaching me how to be like her.
***
“Lacie, pull your head out of the clouds and come help me,” Luke whispers at my side now. When I open my eyes, Mama has moved from her place on the right side of the cage and has made her way to the table. The cage is gone now; I can see it in Mama’s plump hands, palms pressed to either side. She holds it steady, the squirrel inside is still like a doll shot through the heart: limp and bloodless.
Luke and I walk slowly to the table; Mama’s knives and scrappers glint when she turns on more of the lights. I pray that Amber is keeping the kids busy, that they don’t try to come up here while this is happening.
Mama flips the squirrel on its back, head facing the right, then looks back to make sure Luke is watching. I try not to, averting my eyes when Mama turns around. I can hear the skin tearing as she runs the scalpel across the animal’s belly; she pushes it down only a little. The pressure of the blade is not strong enough to cut through the meat underneath, just the top layer of skin that she’ll use for the sculpture. She lifts the knife up then points it down, making incisions along the feet and arms, then brings it down the center of the tail until the skin can be peeled off.
Something cracks and Mama pulls back the skin from the feet, toes still in the top, broken off from the bone. Luke looks like he’s going to pass out, and Mama doesn’t seem to notice. She motions for him to step forward on the left side of her and points toward the squirrel, feet poking out of skin.
“Peel it, Luke,” she says pulling a little more skin back before grabbing his hands and making him do it. His hands shake and jerk at the skin, pulling it roughly. I want to help him, to get this done so he doesn’t have to do it anymore. I look at Mama, who is watching him carefully and hope that she doesn’t make him do this again.
“God, why didn’t you listen to me? Weren’t you watching?” Mama is getting angry. The squirrel tattered, broken from where Luke squeezed too tightly or pulled to roughly. When I look back at them she is pushing him out of the way, the scalpel in her hand moving wildly. I move back, hoping it’ll give Luke space to get away from her, but her blade nicks him, blood slides out of his arm, escaping. He backs away, stumbling into me and pushing me back.
He doesn’t say anything to Mama; he just runs out. His bare feet hitting the stairs fast and quick. Mama ignores it, oblivious to what she did. She hums as she tries to repair Luke’s mistakes.
That night I call Luke up to the attic. Mama’s nails are digging into my arm as my strangled voice calls out his name. I pause for a second, not wanting to say his name again but Mama is impatient, her hand connects with my face and I let out a cry of Luke’s name, shrill and scared. Downstairs, a baby cries and when Luke reaches the top of the stairs, a red hand print paints my face. It’s still red when Mama locks the door and pushes me down the stairs, Luke’s fists already too tired to bang on the wood. Mama keeps pushing me until I’m in my room, her hand flashes out again, the red mark made brighter and I cry when the lock twists and pops in the door. I don’t know what she does to the other kids. I don’t know if Amber protects them, but I know that the next time Mama makes me shoot I aim carefully. I'll point it just to the side of the cage. And be sure to hit the mark I'll draw mentally on her skin.
)
My attention wavered in this piece. To tell the truth, my attention wavers when I read most stories on YWS, but I hardly ever bring it up unless I come to a full stop and find myself unable to finish the piece. However, I think it's worth bringing up in your case because the story's well-written, and I'm fairly sure you can easily fix the cause. The conflict tends to sag in the middle, which is probably because some scenes in the middle were fairly directionless. Try to tighten the other scenes a bit more, maybe add a little more tension there, and the story would work even better. Mostly I'm talking about the scene with Luke. 
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