Chapter 29
Woodrow–aged seventeen
The afternoon bled into evening, time ticking away too slowly for my liking. It made me agitated, fidgety. I sat in my room, my knees against the carpet, my legs under my ass. My skin was scented of the earth outside. Mud, blood, and whatever else crusted half way to my shoulders.
My sneakers were dirty, and still on my feet. The footprints on the carpets and rugs in this house would cause arguments tomorrow. But I had no intention of being here for them.
I'd already caused a riot, smashing up my mother's favorite planter and the living room TV.
I returned home from burying my baby about an hour ago. The dirt was still under my nails from where my fingers raked at the ground. My father's faded red shed had conveniently been locked, keeping me from shovels and equipment that would have made digging a much easier and quicker process.
Every second I was out there, I risked getting caught. Getting hurt. But it was something I had to do.
I knew nothing about this child. Not until today when I saw Jolie's rounder stomach, and then the little angel was born sleeping. I only saw her for a second, and then Woody took over and brought us up here.
I came around, eyes blinking, in front of my diary.
My eyes were already taking in the words when my mind caught up.
There was a message about the baby. I flicked through a few pages and found more.
I also found an entry from someone called Suzie, who had written a load of pointless crap that I didn't need to read right now.
I assumed Nessie had encouraged this new person to use the diary.
I was grateful for that.
I'd have fretted over the idea of a strange new alter if I had the energy to do so. I didn't. My attention was being pulled from my bed to the kitchen and back again. Shared between Jolie and the baby.
I needed to read more. I needed to know what I missed, and only the boys could catch me up. I flipped the page from my new alter's writing, eager to get away from it and my growing problems.
I needed a page from Hell, but there weren’t many; he was abusing his freedom, not giving the reports I was used to.
I flicked back to one of Woody's messages, and I read it again, as hard as it was to understand with the spelling errors.
I got to my feet, my knees wobbling as I headed to the baby in a permanent sleep on my pillow.
I sniffed the collar of my t-shirt; my smell and Jolie's was lingering together. I took it off, my body colder than ever as I closed in on my lifeless child. I lifted her, her tiny body fitting in my one hand had tears rushing from my eyes. I used my other hand to wipe them away.
I placed a kiss on her tiny forehead, not caring about the blood on my mouth.
It hurt me so much, that after today, I'd never get to give her another.
So, my lips touched her again, her tiny cheek indenting.
I whispered, “That one was from Mommy.” And wrapped her in the t-shirt, replacing a dirty kitchen cloth, and then I dressed myself in a new tee.
I didn't know if Jolie was still in the kitchen, but something inside me—the single piece of my broken heart that still beat right—told me she was alive. Told me she'd understand that I had to do this before getting her out of here.
And that gave me the strength to tuck our child into the DIY coffin that was once nothing more than a cardboard shoebox. I crept down the stairs, refusing to look down the narrow hall and into the kitchen, because if I did, and I saw Jolie gone, then nothing would matter.
I returned home after hours out in the sun, doing what, without a doubt, will remain one of the most painful things I'd ever have to do.
I left half of my heart outside, huddled in a shoebox, now three feet below ground. Low enough for my baby’s scent to be hidden from hungry wildlife.
When I got inside the house, my mother was in the living room, pushing around a broom and proving she had no idea how to use the fucking thing.
I stormed past the room, heading straight for the kitchen, which was cleaner than earlier, but still as grubby as usual. My father and Jolie weren't in the room, but I could see him smoking at the back door. The sun retreating behind clouds at the sight of him.
I listened carefully, to the sound of my girl talking to herself beyond the broken door. She was right behind the door, lost in a daydream. The sadness in her voice didn't match her happy words, and it pulled me towards her.
I took my first step into the room. The ugly brass knob, with its center faded of color, called me to it. But I fought the desperation to go farther. My father hadn't noticed me, but he would. I needed to bide my time if we were to get away. I needed them asleep.
I stepped away from the kitchen, tracing my steps back to the living room, leaving prints everywhere.
My mother was singing Jolie's favorite song, altering how it would sound in my ears forever.
“How the fuck could you do that to me? How could you be so fucking evil!”
She stopped singing, her face staring at me in confusion.
“Do you hate me that much? So much, that you stood back and watched as he beat my girl half to death and killed my child. Your grandchild!”
“It's a blessing, Woodrow.”
“A blessing!” My hands squeezed at the doorframe, the wood creaking below the force. I pushed myself back, trying hard to stop myself from entering the room and strangling my mother to death. Because, fuck, I wanted to.
“A blessing,” she confirmed. “No one wants their rapist's child.”
“I'm sorry you didn't get your blessing, Momma, but Jolie and I didn't feel that way.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“I know how she feels. I saw and felt her fucking pain.” I really did, before Woody took over again. I saw the exact second her heart broke and it cracked mine right down the middle.
“It's still a blessing.” My mother looked more sympathetic now, but it was nothing more than a false emotion she usually reserved for someone else.
“Would you really want a child born into these circumstances?”
“The circumstances you put around us, you mean? If you get your way, my future will only change for the worse, and Jolie won't survive.”
“There'll be other girls. She wasn't meant to be your life, Woodrow. Maybe we should have stepped in. She was to teach Hell lessons, and when he learned them, there’d be other girls."
“Fuck you,” I spat, seething in anger. She had no idea how wrong she fucking was.
And that’s when things got broken. The planter missed her head by millimeters. The TV hit the floor, the irritating show playing on repeat cut to the black screen of death.
And then my father dragged me out of the room.
And that was why I was here now, missing the false family dinner, my knees bouncing beneath me with the nerves rattling my entire body.
I stared down at Woody's latest report.
Me agen.
Daddy hurt Jolie a lot. She's cryin. My throat hurts, but he told me he wouldn't hurt me. But I hurt. Jolie told me she loves me. It feels diferant to wen Daddy says it.
Daddy says she's using me becaus she needs sumthing to love with the baby gone.
That I shouldn't trust her. But I do. And I love her two.
I put her baby on the bed. Daddy told me to throw her away, but I didn't want to.
I don't know what to do with her. I'm stepin down now. You or Hell have to take care of it.
Woody's grammatical errors hurt my brain, and I pushed the diary away. I didn't want to read more.
I'd read enough, seen too much to know these people weren't getting away with hurting us like this.
My parents went to bed later than usual, both of them happy to avoid me, with neither of them tapping my door.
I could hear from my room that my father was making calls from behind his closed bedroom door. I couldn't make out what he was saying, but his tone rattled through the walls when it geared towards agitation. The person on the line wasn’t giving in to his demands.
I stared at my bedroom door. My father’s voice got louder beyond the dark wood as my mother entered their room, probably back after drugging Nessie. Poor kid, she hadn't slept well since Jolie was out of her room.
My system—me and all my alters—were tired, too; each of them told me in their diary entries. I glanced at the journal, sitting closed on my computer desk chair. Then I looked back to the door, and I waited for a while.
I stepped out of my room and crept down the stairs. This traitorous house whispered of my travels, the floorboards echoing under each step.
I made it to the bottom and paused. My father's bedroom door hadn’t creaked open, and there was nothing but silence beyond it.
I moved through the dusty hallway, following the prints I'd left earlier that hadn't been properly cleaned.
I turned on the kitchen light, my dirty fingers leaving a smudge on the dimmer switch.
The bulb settled on the low orangey hue.
The brass knob pulled me towards it again. I prayed Jolie was still down there, still alive. I couldn't hear her voice. Only the eerie silence was talking to me.
The key wasn't in the lock anymore. Vacated from its permanent home.
A rush of panic washed over me. I spun around, checking the table and the cluster of keys in the back door lock, where many irrelevant keys, attached to a fluffy photo frame—the pretense of a happy family—lived.
“It's in a cup in the high cabinet. One of Nessie's,” a small, broken voice told me through the broken wood. Jolie’s voice.
I followed her instructions, searching through a few cups before pulling out a ceramic mug with a yellow bear. The keys rattled as I pulled them out.
The lock clicked, the mechanism releasing. Light flooded down on Jolie as she sat at the top of the stairs. Her small hand was still on the doorknob when I opened the door, pulling her into the kitchen.