That was the last I saw of her. Her wrists tightened under the clasp of the mercury-plated handcuffs, sedated into a deep sleep. According to the crisped uniformed male officer, thumbing through his mini notepad, Aunt May had infused carbon monoxide inside her husband’s glass sealed sleeping pod. 

In the eyes of the suburban public, she was labelled ‘a bored housewife’. But what they didn’t know is that she could swat off the mundane like stinking houseflies, and I cheered at her skills. 

She handed me an egg basket, as heavy as she knew I could carry, to give it a rainbow crown. I skipped into their expansive backyard which was once almost architectured by Mr. Reyes to be a vineyard. But Aunt May had other plans: to turn it into an ornamental orchard. His vision evaporated by her charm of persuasion. Once I returned, my eyes pooled with tears, my knees with its skin peeled, blood dripping down my shin. She scampered from her contemporary galley kitchen. She plopped me on the bed, her brows frowned, concentrated on the deep cut. She flung open the nightstand drawer and grabbed a sleek black pen. With a press of a button, a blue laser scanned the injury. In a matter of seconds, scabs formed, crusted away and the skin tissue started to reattach. The bleeding stopped. “You’re okay.” She smudged off my tears. The pain was gone.

“Where are we going, Mrs. Reyes?” It was a marathon keeping up with her pace. “Call me Aunt May.” She crouched to level my height. “Let’s give you a little hairdo, shall we?” My overgrown bangs curtained my vision. A swarm of fireflies hovered around the same ornamental orchard in spring that now turned into a blooming floral garden in summer. It was the next chapter of a story. Some would call it magic, others witchcraft. Dragonflies helicoptered amongst the blooming marigolds, petunias and sunflowers. Aunt May palmed a glimmering silver saucer that sizzled out a cloudy vapor as the winged bugs gradually glided toward our direction – hypnotized. They were rebranded as bobby pins: twinkling and still buzzing. “Lovely, aren’t they?” She tucked them on my bouncy dark curls. “But, Aunt May … they are dead.” Her smile didn’t fade, “They are just … dreaming.” The tip of my fingers traced over the new hair clips, I could feel them fidgeting inside their hardened golden shells. 

She had me in a blindfold. Her stilettos clattered on the marble floor, my ears twitched at the tube lights flickering on. She untied the strip of silk brown cloth. An army of our reflections mimicked our every move. It was a chamber unfamiliar to me. We halted in front of a particular clean-cut towering mirror glued on the snow white panel holding the center stage amongst the rest of its inanimate companions. Her slender reflection dressed in a military green argyle dress with a burnt sienna belt clasped around her waist. Her olive skin was an exquisite blend to her outfit. My height merely caught up to her torso. I looked like an inflated balloon with my oversized barbie pink jumper and denim shorts. As she placed her palm on the mirror, a neon digital timer flashed on. It was ticking the current hour of the present day, “Wanna see something cool?” I feverishly nodded. She slid her index finger up on the cold surface of the mirror. The numbers skyrocketed not just the hours, but days and years ahead into the future. My reflection gracefully aged into its adolescence, early-twenties and then finally into its late-twenties. The baby fat melted off my cheeks, my curls swirled until it found its wavy length, my collarbones popped, my jawline chiseled out a pointy chin. My growth time-travelled in a blink of an eye, and so did hers. A 52-year-old with faint fine lines formed in the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her face a tad shrunken, her back slightly hunched. “You’ll be a beautiful woman.” Her fresh wrinkles creased under her smile. “Why do I look like you?” My mouth went dry, goosebumps sprouted on the back of my neck. She smothered me in a warm embrace. But it didn’t last long when the echoes of a pair of shoes scurrying away broke us apart. Someone saw us. She tugged my hand, hurrying to get me back to the maid’s quarters, “Stay till I get back!” Those were her last words before she shut the door behind me. The adrenaline rush met the lifelessness of the cottage. My mother had not returned from her cleaning shift, not until nightfall, not until she heard the clamor from the third floor. Through the slit of their master bedroom door, she witnessed Aunt May being confronted, violently confronted. Mr. Reyes smacked her across the face. She smeared off the blood dripping from her nose. Her argyle dress stained red. She couldn’t escape the metal tongue of his belt. He wanted me gone. And with him, so was she.