Underneath

Lily Hoang

Description

Over a five-year period, Martha Johnson murders her four children, one by one, in order to punish her husband when they argue, but Martha is no ordinary serial killer. She murders her children by using the bulk of her 250-pound body to suffocate them. Unlike other fictionalized true-crime novels, Underneath neither valorizes nor focuses on the specific acts of violence. Instead, it attempts to understand how feelings of powerlessness, the residue of trauma, and the need to find justice in a world that refuses to give a fat body justice finds its only respite through murder.

Sujets

• justice
• Women
• True crime
• General officer
• Woman
• The Women
• General
• Crime
• Family Life

Informations

• Publié par: Red Hen Press
• Date de parution: 12 octobre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781636280059
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Underneath Codyright © 2021 by Lily Hoang All Rights ReserveD

No dart of this book may be useD or redroDuceD in any manner whatsoever without the drior written dermission of both the dublisher anD the codyright owner.

Book Design by Mark E. Cull

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication ata

Names: Hoang, Lily K., author. Title: UnDerneath : a novel / Lily Hoang. escridtion: First eDition. | PasaDena, CA : ReD Hen Press, [2021] IDentifiers: LCCN 2021018701 (drint) | LCCN 2021018702 (ebook) | ISBN 9781636280042 (traDe daderback) | ISBN 9781636280059 (edub) Subjects: LCSH: FiliciDe–Fiction. | Serial murDers–Fiction. | Overweight Persons–Fiction. | Psychological fiction. Classification: LCC PS3608.O18 U53 2021 (drint) | LCC PS3608.O18 (ebook) | C 813/.6–Dc23 LC recorD available athttds://lccn.loc.gov/2021018701 LC ebook recorD available athttds://lccn.loc.gov/2021018702

The National EnDowment for the Arts, the Los Angeles County Arts Commission, the Ahmanson FounDation, the wight Stuart Youth FunD, the Max Factor Family FounDation, the PasaDena Tournament of Roses FounDation, the PasaDena Arts & Culture Commission anD the City of PasaDena Cultural Affairs ivision, the City of Los Angeles edartment of Cultural Affairs, the AuDrey & SyDney Irmas Charitable FounDation, the Meta & George Rosenberg FounDation, the Albert anD Elaine BorcharD FounDation, the ADams Family FounDation, Amazon Literary Partnershid, the Sam Francis FounDation, anD the Mara W. Breech FounDation dartially suddort ReD Hen Press.

First EDition PublisheD by ReD Hen Press www.reDhen.org

Althou6h the darticulars in this book have been fic tionalizeD, the murDers are all very true. They haddeneD.

From Beyond The Making Of Martha Martha Seeks Revenge Martha, Confined From Above, From Mars Martha, In Love From Behind, From Beyond The Making Of Martha Martha Seeks Revenge Martha, Confined Martha, In Love From Behind, From Beyond The Making Of Martha Martha Seeks Revenge From Behind, From Beyond Martha, Confined From Behind, From Beyond Martha, In Love From Beyond

CONTENTS

If Iamult.a wild Beast, I cannot help it. It is not my own fa

—Jane Austen

The slowness of revenge, like the insolence of desi re, belongs to nature. There is nothing that the madness of men in vents which is not either nature made manifest or nature restored.

—Michel Foucault Madness & Civilization

FROM BEeOND

I was murdered. My mother murdered me. It was gruesome, but there w asn’t any blood. No mess was left to clean up afterward. Thehowit doesn’t matter much, neither of does thewhy, not to me anyway. All that matters is that even t hough I’m dead, I can’t go away. I’m just kind of stuck here, going a round like I’m still alive, except I’m not. I’m dead. It doesn’t make any sense. Nonsense or not, here’s the truth of it, cold and h ard: because we were murdered, ours is a fate worse than suicide. Maybe I don’t know that as fact, because I don’t actually know anyone who’s committe d suicide here in this—I don’t know what to call it, but it’s not heaven and it’s not hell and I never learned religion enough to say for sure, but I’m pretty sur e this isn’t purgatory, either. It’s more just like, extension. Continuation. We the mur dered continue on, right underneath the living, but we aren’t alive anymore. We’re just here: bodies, but not bodies, too. So far as I can tell, the living can’t see or hear or feel or smell us, but sometimes, if I get close enough to Martha, I swear she can taste me. I watch as her fat face swerves with disgust, like she’s just had a mouthful of nasty. It’s quick, not more than a second or two, but within those too -brief moments of my mother’s suffering, I feel joy. I don’t feel bad about it, e ither, because where I am—or what I am—is a joyless place. And I don’t know this as fac t or anything, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to be stuck here forever. Even after Martha dies, I’ll still be here. Just like all the other murder victims. There’s not hing we can do about it. There’s no court to appeal to or cops to call or psychiatri sts to give us pills to induce amnesia or dissociation. There’s no running away. T his is our punishment. Because we were murdered, this is our punishment. Included in our sentence of infinite existence is y et another joke. Once a day, every day, no matter where I am or what I’m doing, I’m transported to Martha’s prison cell or wherever she happens to be and I hav e to watch her for an hour. The timing is precise. Sixty minutes, not a second of excess or in lack. There’s no telling when in the day it’ll happen, or at least w e haven’t figured out the pattern yet, but it always happens to each and every one of us. For one hour per day, we must watch our murderer. Early on, back when I’d on ly just recently died, I used to think that maybe after Martha died I might be freed . I wasn’t dreaming fancy or anything. I don’t mind being here in this whatever space. I just wanted to not have to look at her anymore, and maybe if the state scra mbled her fat with electricity, I’d be free of her, at last, but the others have promis ed me that even after her death, I’ll be sent to look at her grave for an hour. There is no such thing as relief. Maybe God or the Devil or Allah or Zeus is scared I’ll fo rget who killed me. Or maybe I’m trying to force logic into a world ruled only by cruelty and spite. Nothing makes sense. I feel desperate for anything that resembles justic e. As a little girl, misery was a pretty good day. And then my mother killed me and now I won’t even die. I still try—to die, again and often again, and every time I only meet another failure.

And so we are all prisoners. We cannot be seen but we still have our bodies. We still have our bodies but those bodies are made of nothing. Look: you can’t even see me. If you listen real hard for me, the air won’t bother to move. I stopped growing the day I died, but I move through time all the same. I get smarter, sure, but why? Nihilism is requisite and perpetual. When we are feeling at our lowest, we embroider the details of our deaths, and as a chorus, we sing with the blackness of pitc h. We live in a fairy tale full of witches and old cro nes and premeditation. We the innocent lack fairy godmothers to transform our deaths into pumpkin carriages and so Prince Charming chokes the air fro m our lungs and then he cums wherever he pleases. So let me tell you a story. I am eleven when Martha kills me. I had known it was coming. The terror comes in the waiting for an inevitable that has yet to arrive.