Cassandra O’Sullivan Sachar is a writer and associate English professor in Pennsylvania. A member of the Horror Writers Association, her work has appeared in publications including The Horror Zine, The Stygian Lepus, Wyldblood Magazine, and Tales from the Moonlit Path. She holds a Doctorate of Education with a Literacy Specialization from the University of Delaware and is working toward an MFA in Creative Writing at Wilkes University. Her novel, Darkness There but Something More, will be published by Wicked House Publishing in 2024. She is also the current fiction editor at River & South Review.
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MATKA LOVES YOU
By
Cassandra O’Sullivan Sachar
As the grandfather clock chimes four times, the metallic twangs reverberating through the small, neat apartment, Dagmara sits down in her rocking chair. “Hush, now, sweet girl. Matka will keep you safe. Matka loves you,” she says, grasping the stiff, plaster doll to her chest and stroking its silken hair. Dagmara’s light blue eyes, though trained on the window, appear almost vacant, unseeing as the sun dips below the horizon in the late autumn afternoon. In its bright, traditional attire, the effigy contrasts sharply with the woman, who is dressed in black with little adornment other than a hint of color on her lips.
“How beautiful you looked that day, your eighth birthday, in your finery. I was so proud of you! And how you danced at the festival. No mother would be prouder of a daughter, with your swinging skirt and shiny hair. That was my best day until it was my worst.” Dagmara rocks rhythmically, back and forth, clutching the doll tighter. “All those years ago, yet it feels like yesterday. Your father was a weak man. He had no sense of responsibility. No control.”
Dagmara stills, pirouetting the doll around and cradling its head in her hands. “You were the one I loved. Love. I love you, my sweet, sweet Adela. If only I had known, I would have stopped it.” Her words strangle as sobs course through her body. “I would have crossed heaven and earth to save you and crucify him. He was a devil, your father, and I hope he rots in hell. I hope he is rotting.”
She clasps the doll to her chest again, almost crushing its fragile form. “The policja spared me the details, what all had happened to you. They brought me your broken body the next day, the day after the festival. After you disappeared. And your father, crying along with me. But I saw the scratches on his arms. I knew you put them there.”
Dagmara sighs, and the weeping ceases, her breaths slowing as she regains control. “I vowed that very day to avenge you. I waited for him to admit what he had done, to show some sign of his guilt. But he would not, could not. That pathetic, weak leniwy drainu, that lazy bastard, slept all night as if he never even lost a little girl—as if he never hurt you. He stood by dry-eyed as they lowered you into the ground.
“So I waited. I waited until that fatalnie podrywasz, that lousy drunk, could die in a way that looked natural for a ‘grieving’ father. It didn’t take long. I waited until he drank all the vodka. I led him into the warm bath, and he watched as I slit his wrists with the kitchen knife.”
Dagmara pivots her head, her eyes now focusing on the figure in her liver-spotted hands. “As the blood flowed out of his veins, he told me he was sorry. But I am not. I am not sorry for what I did to your father. The water turned pink, then crimson, and I slept soundly for the first time in months.”
She begins rocking again, caressing the doll. “The policja did not question me. Everyone pitied the poor woman who lost her daughter and husband.” Dagmara sneers, her normally placid expression distorting into a grimace. “If only I could have thrown your father’s body to the pigs.”
Rising from her chair and traversing the small room, she places the doll back on the shelf. She puts on her apron, readying herself for her job at the convenience store. It is 4:15.
Dagmara smiles. “Until tomorrow, my sweet Adela. Your matka loves you. Happy birthday.”