Page 9 of Hades

The gate opened with a soft creak, and I stepped into the space I’d cultivated with far more care than anything else on this property. The plants here weren’t for eating. They weren’t for beauty.

They were for justice.

I walked directly to the second row and stopped in front of the jimsonweed. The flowers were beautiful. White and trumpet-shaped, opening with the morning sun and closing tight by evening. They reminded me of morning glories, innocent and delicate.

Deceptive.

Just like me.

The plant itself was a masterpiece of natural lethality. Every part of it was toxic. The leaves, seeds, flowers, even the roots. Ingested in the right quantities, it caused hallucinations, seizures, coma.

Death.

In smaller doses, it worked as a sedative. A sleep aid. A way to buy myself a few hours of peace.

I pulled a small pair of pruning shears from my pocket and snipped a single leaf from near the base of a flowering bud. The leaf was young, tender, potent. I held it up to the light, examining the veins that ran through the green tissue like a roadmap to oblivion.

Too much and she won’t wake up.

Too little and she’ll just be irritable.

The dosage needed to be precise. Two to three hours of sleep. No more, no less.

I slipped the leaf into my pocket and locked the gate behind me, checking twice to make sure it was secure. My mother never came outside. Her world had shrunk to the den, the bathroom, and the occasional trip to the kitchen when I refused to serve her. But I couldn’t risk her venturing out one day. Couldn’t risk anyone wandering in.

Not the neighbors. Not the men from the club. Not the animals that lived in the wild. Not anyone.

This garden was mine. My work. My purpose.

I stepped into the kitchen to another one of my mother’s howls.

“I’m right here,” I called, my voice pleasant and measured. “I’m making your tea as we speak.”

“Well, hurry up!”

I rolled my eyes, knowing she couldn’t see, and crushed the jimsonweed leaf between my gloved fingers. The bitter oils released immediately. The scent was faint, earthy, with an undertone of something darker. Something that promised sleep and silence. I added the smallest amount to her tea, watching as the crushed leaf dissolved into the amber liquid.

The first time I’d used jimsonweed, I’d miscalculated. She’d slept for sixteen hours and woken complaining about the aftertaste and strange dreams. After that, I adjusted the dosage, added shortbread cookies to mask the bitterness, and refined my technique until it became an art form.

Now she slept exactly as long as I needed her to. No more. No less.

I arranged the cookies on a small plate and carried the tray into her room at the back of the house. When my mother had refused to continue climbing the stairs to her bedroom, I’d converted the den into her personal domain. It was easier this way. Fewer trips up and down the stairs, less effort required to keep her sedated and compliant.

“What took so long?” she snapped.

Glancing at my watch, I replied, “I’m right on time, Mother.”

I placed the tray on the table beside her recliner and let my eyes drift to the television. The news droned on. Her daily ritual: tea, news, sleep. Predictable as the sunrise.

I’d just reached the doorway when the announcer’s voice stopped me cold.

“That’s right, George. Professor Halston has passed away.”

My hand tightened on the doorframe. I kept my face neutral, my breathing steady.

“Trinity Valley won’t be the same without him. How long had he been teaching there, Gladys?”

“Almost forty-five years, George. Professor Halston was an institution unto himself.”