Chapter 45
DELILAH
Questions plague me even though I now have one answer about my baby.
I’ve spent months wracking my brain to remember if Helene mentioned if I had a son or a daughter.
She doesn’t speak to me anymore, but the reintroduction of regular meals to my diet has made me more alert.
My back is against the wall without Kane’s face as I talk to the stars he painted as per our new routine.
“How do I miss someone I never knew?”
I was never a mother. Giving birth doesn’t entitle me to the label when I forgot they existed. I don’t remember seeing my stomach grow or feeling them kick.
Did they kick? I don’t know.
But I still have this deep sense of loss without any real reason. I’m not permitted the label of being their mother and I’m not allowed to grieve for them.
I wrap my arms around my knees, drawing them closer as I whisper, “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry for not being stronger. I’m sorry for not running away.”
My fingertips automatically find the scar on my knee, tracing the line as my vision blurs and more questions sprout. I remember climbing out of the window, being stuck, the doctors dragging me back inside. There wasn’t a bump under my hospital gown. Is that why I finally tried to escape?
I close my eyes, attempting to part the fuzziness to remember exactly what happened.
Eighteen Years Old
The doctor hasn’t visited for two days. Two days without drugs.
Two days of testing my muscles in small increments.
It took hours to be able to move my toes, then feet.
As soon as I feel confident I’ll be able to move my legs, I lift them from the bed.
Painful tingles shoot up my legs as I place my weight on my feet.
I have to grip the handrail I’m usually bound to as I stand to avoid my body crumpling. But I manage to stand.
I look down at my gown floating around my body that feels wrong now as I slowly bring my hand to my stomach.
The weight is missing, empty. It’s empty when it shouldn’t be and my chest is sore behind the stained gown.
I hesitantly lift the collar away from my chest to see what caused the stains, only to see my deflated stomach.
My baby.
They took my baby like my mother planned. I was supposed to stay awake to get them to safety. They’d get to live a normal life, unlike me.
I stumble forward, catching myself on the edge of the chair in front of the window with hope at the sight of a small gap between the window and the metal grate.
The first fucking hope I’ve had. Tilting my head, I look at the ground to see if there’s a gap.
A couple of inches. I’ll be able to force myself out through it or bend the bars to find my baby.
My stomach rolls as I pull on the window sash.
I force it away, knowing I have to find them or they’ll sell them.
They’ll hurt them, make them confused like I am with all of their abuse.
I manage to find some reserve energy to climb out of the small window opening, feet first. The gown gets stuck on the latch, exposing me to anyone who may pass.
It’s hard to be ashamed when I’ve experienced worse than a stranger looking at me, so I keep moving until I’m upright between the window and the metal bars caging me in.
The bars at the side have corroded from a drainpipe dripping on them. Finally, fucking finally, there’s something on my side. It’ll take less energy to bend them than squeeze myself under the bars. But as I grab the middle of the rusted metal, it crumbles, leaving a sharp jagged spike.
The door inside the hospital room slams open.
“She was here,” Anna says as I duck down, pushing myself through the narrow space.
I tried to find them.
I did. I got the scar because I tried to find my baby, but they stopped me.
Whatever questions I have don’t matter anymore. A name, a gender, a fucking age isn’t needed when she took all those things away from them.
All I have to do is wait for Kane to come back. I didn’t make him any promises about who would be with me when he did, so I smile at the sea that saved my baby when I couldn’t as I stand. My steps are lighter, my smile wider with my resolve hardening as I walk out of the room.
Peace washes over me as I get closer to Helene, so much so I nearly skip down the stairs. When I enter the kitchen, she’s already there, standing at the counter, steeping her fucking tea. “Would you like something to eat now, sweet girl?”
“I could eat.” I smile walking over to her.
She abandons her teacup to take out different ingredients from the fridge.
Kane’s new diet plan includes exact portions for protein, fat, and carbs like he’s a dietician.
As Helene sets the chicken and vegetables on the counter, I lean forward to take a knife from the chopping block.
She turns back to the fridge, collecting something else he’s demanded I eat.
I drive the sharp point of the long boning knife into her back.
She grunts as I push my full weight into the handle, sinking into her body below the barrier of her rib cage.
I slowly push the knife deeper when she stumbles forward, the thin blade flexing beneath my weight.
Her hands are pale as she shakily holds onto the fridge shelves to keep herself standing while I smile, twisting the knife.
“You took my baby away from me.” I twist again in the other direction. “Twice. You took them out of my arms, then you took them away when I thought they were safe.”
Her clammy hand reaches for mine, pressed against her back, but she’s too weak as I step back to make my food while her blood soaks through her dress.
It’s on my hand too, but this is the most serene I’ve ever felt.
I take another knife, a clean one, to slice the cooked chicken into thin strips as she falls to her knees with her head in the fridge.
I step around her to get the bread on the counter, humming to myself.
Taking out a slice of bread, I set it on the chopping board, looking for the butter bell that’s usually on the counter.
I find it on the other side then continue constructing my sandwich between reaching over Helene’s slowly dying body to take out condiments from the fridge while it beeps.
The beeping disturbs my humming as I place another slice on top of my finished sandwich.
Her head is on the second to bottom shelf, a puddle of blood under her, her arms outstretched.
Her eyes are closed, and I don’t want the food to spoil since I don’t know how long I’ll be here.
I suppose I should allow her mother to see her dead body before I kill that cunt too.
Her lover-son too. I wonder if he’ll mourn for his mother, or will he die of a broken heart because the little mommy’s boy can’t fuck her anymore?
Once the bottom two shelves are empty, I remove the glass partitions, setting them on the table before I pick up Helene’s ankles to fold her into the space I created.
Blood coats my hands as the uncooperative cunt attempts to escape by remaining rigid.
I have to push my hand against her shoulder to keep her in place before quickly pulling the door closed as I snatch it back.
But she clatters into the jars in the door while it remains firmly in place.
The beeping finally stops, leaving me with the blood on the floor as my task for another day, so I pick up my sandwich. I turn, grabbing her stick resting on the edge of the table with my free hand as I take a bite.
My hum turns to a whistle as I twirl the stick on my way out of the house.
I give in to the urge to jump in the air to click my heels together as I push the serpent end of the stick into the ground.
Only, the fucker wobbles and I nearly fall.
Instinct forces me to look around when there’s no one here to see me as I continue walking like I didn’t fuck up.
I don’t even know where I’m going as I walk down a set of steep stairs while eating.
As soon as I stand in front of the gates, my hand falls.
My knees are the next thing to crumble as the calm waters brush the sides of the raised platform. I drop my sandwich to gently stroke the ground where my baby once walked.
Red. My hands are red.
Because I killed her for hurting them.
My tears still burn as I weakly smile at the sea.
“Look at me now, baby. Are you proud of me?” I crawl forward on my knees to grip the rough bars of the gates as I push my face against them.
“I never would have hurt you. I’m not good at love, but I think I did love you.
I tried to get you away from them. I don’t know if I would have kept you.
I do know I would never have let them hurt you. ”
The flaking paint scrapes my cheeks as I continue hugging the bars.
“I’m sorry. I’m not a good person, or clever.
But I tried to save you. I would have made sure you have a nice mom, one who’s the opposite of me.
Clever and kind. Everything I’m not. She would have read you bedtime stories and sang you lullabies.
I hope you never knew I existed. You deserved better than I gave you. I’m sorry.”