Death Under The Velvet Skin Chapter 1

I accidentally ruined the designer beanbag chair his new girlfriend had bought.

To make it up to her—to soothe her performative pout—my father shoved my mother inside the oversized velvet slipcover while she was pleading for my sake. He didn’t just zip it shut; he took a heavy upholstery needle and stitched the opening closed, a twisted game to prove a point.

While he and the woman laughed and flirted in the bedroom, I crawled across the hardwood, my small fingers frantically searching for a zipper tab that wasn't there.

My mother’s muffled pleas grew faint, then died into a terrifying silence. I hammered on my father's door, sobbing, but his voice came through the wood, sharp and impatient:

"It’s just a damn slipcover, Daisy. Your mother is a grown woman. If she wants out, she’ll find a way out. Stop being dramatic."

The security detail held me back. I was forced to watch as the shape inside the velvet stopped struggling.

Five days later, on my birthday, my father returned. He tossed a cheap, generic teddy bear at me, his face a mask of irritation.

"I ended things with her. I hope your mother is happy now. Tell her to quit hiding and get out here."

I pointed at the heavy beanbag he was sitting on, my voice a hollow whisper. "Mommy is bleeding."

* * *

I stayed curled against the velvet, huddled in the ghost of my mother’s presence for two days until the gnawing in my stomach became unbearable. I finally crept out to find food.

Joe, the neighborhood security guard, was at the gate. He started to wave, but as I drew closer, his face twisted into a mask of confusion and disgust.

"Kiddo? What’s that... what’s that smell? And where’s your mom?"

I took his hand and pulled him toward the silent, cold house. I pointed to the beanbag in the center of the living room.

"Mommy’s trapped. She can’t get out."

Joe muttered something under his breath about "rich people and their sick games," but when he stepped closer to the chair, the color drained from his face. He stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own boots.

The velvet had sagged, taking on the unmistakable, gruesome silhouette of a human form. The air was thick with the stench of decay. Joe lunged forward, shielding my eyes with one hand while his other trembled as he reached for his radio.

"This... this is a crime scene," he choked out.

I didn't understand. To me, Mommy was just resting. She had spoken to me only two days ago.

Joe carried me outside, running past the neighbors who were out walking their dogs or checking their mail. They recoiled from us, whispering behind manicured hedges.

"I heard David brought some trophy girl home last week. Claire hasn't been seen since."

"Typical. She had no family, no safety net. She probably just took the abuse to keep the lifestyle. For the sake of the money."

"Poor kid. Look at her. Abandoned in that mansion with no one to even give her a bath."

Joe’s tears were hot on my face. He kept whispering "God forgive them" as he handed me over to Mrs. Gable, the woman who lived in the townhouse behind ours. Then he ran back to his post to call the police.

I leaned against Mrs. Gable’s shoulder, watching my house grow smaller.

She cried as she scrubbed the grime and the smell of death from my skin. She made me a sandwich, and I ate half, tucking the other half into my pocket.

"Daisy, honey," she said, her voice breaking. "You don't have to save food. There's plenty."

I shook my head. "Mommy hasn't eaten in days. I have to bring her something."

Mrs. Gable dropped her fork. She pulled me into a hug so tight I could hear her heart thudding, and she sobbed into my hair. "Those monsters. Those absolute monsters."

I didn't cry. Mommy was waiting. She was the only one who ever truly loved me. I wouldn't leave her behind.

But when I returned home, the beanbag was gone.

The house was swarming with men in dark windbreakers with "POLICE" stenciled in yellow. Joe was there too, wiping his eyes.

I walked up to him and handed him the squashed half of my sandwich. "Don't cry, Joe. I'll be good."

Joe’s hand shook as he took the bread. He turned to one of the detectives. "Look at her. Look at this child. What happens to her now?"

A detective knelt in front of me, his expression soft but his eyes hard with repressed anger.

"Daisy, where is your father?"

I shook my head. "He left with the pretty lady. He hasn't come back."

The detective’s hand on my shoulder trembled. I looked past him. "Can I see Mommy now? The food is getting cold. She has a sensitive stomach; she needs it warm."

The room went silent. Every officer looked at me with the same devastating pity. The detective lowered his head, his shoulders shaking.

After a long time, he looked up and whispered, "Sweetheart... do you have any other family? Anyone at all?"

I nodded.

Two days ago, before the silence took her, Mommy had whispered a string of numbers to me. Over and over. A phone number.

I took the detective’s phone and dialed. It picked up on the second ring—a deep, authoritative voice.

"So, you finally remembered you have a father? It took you long enough to call..."

I interrupted him, my voice small. "Are you my Grandpa?"