It’ll get easier, Mother would say. Just keep your head down.
Frances obeyed even when handed over to the first suitor who asked for her hand, barely thirteen, to a widower nearly as old as Father.
Frances had no formal education to speak of. That was the privilege of the other sex, not theirs—the weaklings, as Father called her mother whenever he’d get drunk, slapping her across the face, roughing her up. She often wondered what Mother had been disobedient about.
Frances’s husband was no different. The stew isn’t seasoned enough, he’d say. The bread hasn’t risen enough, he’d say. Haven’t you learnt anything from your mother, he’d say. It was hard to hide the bruises.
It happened the first time she spoke back.
She noticed their presence in the living room, where her husband would nod off after meals. They repulsed her—these pitch-black, sometimes hunter-green, hiding-in-plain-sight flecks. The foul smell invaded her nostrils with every close-up inspection. When she touched them, their powdery particles caressed her fingertips, almost gentle, before bouncing off into the air.
Fearing consequences, she bleached them. It was her duty, as a woman and wife, to keep their home spotless—her palms red and itchy, crimson streaks protruding through the creases of her cracked skin—yet the ghoulish-looking fuzz kept returning, as if mocking her.
Despite her husband’s keen sense of smell, the scent didn’t seem to bother him; quite the opposite. He complimented her, saying the house never smelt better. But she knew his mood would change if he actually saw them, his impaired vision a welcome relief.
The more she cleaned, the faster they grew, the walls mottled with varying shades: at the back of the sofa as he rested, under the dining table where he sat at dinners, behind the wooden headboard, strangely enough, his side only, in the bathroom where he defecated, centred on his chamber pot, and eventually the cesspool. Frances used the privy for her bodily functions—the only place where he wasn’t.
The fetid smell embraced the entire house, mingling with the scent of bleach. She felt their connection. It was a living being.
One morning, her husband lay cold in bed, stiff as a broomstick she kept in the cupboard near the front door. His skin slightly darker, a strange hue. As faint light sieved between the freshly pressed curtains, she noticed the walls—untarnished, spotless, almost sterile. Just the scent lingering.
The doctor examined his body, mentioning something about the age and natural decay. One of the police officers sent to their home, eyes resting on the lines of her body, never truly seeing her—as if she were a piece of furniture—remarked to the other: Do you smell this? Not sure what it is, but it reminds me of home.
Frances opened her mouth to say something, to warn him, then bit her lip.
