Grass covers her plot, and her tombstone is missing. Her grave was filled, then.
Another part of my life completely erased.
Tears slip down my cheeks. It’s better like this. If I don’t have a biological mother, then my obsession has been erased, replaced by a man who controls my entire being. Daddy is my god, my outlook, my ritual, my life.
I don’t need my mother anymore.
I swallow hard, keeping the sobs inside. I can barely remember my purpose, the reason I came to the Ambrose Asylum; it floats inside of me, broken apart by dark waves.
We drive again. The empty fields pass by.
My name is Violet, I tell myself. And I’m going to get him.
Get him? Who?
How?
An hour later, we park in front of an old, Victorian-style house with brown panels and dark gray trim. Black shutters cover the windows, and the house is angled, the entire front yard cast in shadow.
Dry, brittle grass covers the lawn. A withered rose garden stands lifeless next to the house. Each flower is a dry husk of what it once was.
Like me.
Daddy circles the car and opens the door. He offers his hand, both meant as a polite gesture and as an offering.
We must be at his home.
I take his hand. He leads me inside and through a hallway. The red rugs underneath our feet sink under our weight like they’re bloated with water. The damp stench of mildew wafts between us; it reminds me of the faint moldy aroma that lingers on Daddy’s skin.
He opens the door to a closed-off dining room with an oblong table. He points at a chair.
“Sit,” he says.
I obey, then I stare at the wall.
I’m alone.
Alone.
Alone?
That means Daddy trusts me to behave.
I should behave.
I’m supposed to get him, right?
I should be searching for something. Was it medication? A weapon?
No. I should be searching for an escape.
I should?—
The door opens. Daddy carries a tray with a steaming bowl. He places it in front of me.
The mild scent of salt floats up from the liquid. Chunks of gray meat dot the soup’s surface, a leaf of cabbage limp underneath it. A spoon rests next to the bowl.
It’s been forever since I’ve eaten actual food. Is this my test?
