fawn
My mum always said,bad things come in threes. I know that is bullshit. Bad things come, so do good things.
Besides losing Clay Butcher, I couldn’t have imagined anything breaking me beyond what I’ve already experienced. I’ve endured the death of my mother, survived the betrayals of foster homes and the sick lust of adolescent boys. I’ve been starved, tormented, teased and rebuilt by Clay Butcher from the bones outward. Even in the worst stretches of my imagination, I couldn’t imagine a world where I felt more pain than I did back then.
But now…
There is this. This pain is reserved for mothers. For those who create life, who grow it inside their bodies, only to have the world outside threaten them. It’s nothing like the old wounds, the old insecurities. It’s so much worse. It’s not just fear of losing them—it’s as if all my happiness depends on the beating of their hearts.
The moment they stop, there is no happiness left.
It’s a force beyond love, some mixture of awe, devotion,and an indescribable screaming fear of losing them. Even more now than ever before, I can’t relate to women who don’t put their young before everything and everyone else—including themselves. Mothers like Clay’s, like mine.
I know that physically and personality-wise, Clay and I are opposites, but we do share trauma. He hides in his, while I explode with mine. We both had neglectful mothers and absent fathers. Clay and I are soulmates.
I feel a small sense of relief when his henchmen meet Officer Blackborn and me in the carpark. They flank us, following close behind me. Clay isn’t here, but they are the keepers of his promises to me, the proof of his presence.
He must be inside the ward.
Waiting for me.
We run—not walk—across the wide parking lot. They stare straight ahead, but I can feel their protective energy in the air like the beating of hundreds of butterfly wings. The paediatric ward is a short distance across the bitumen. Blackborn told me that the main entrance is easier to access this way, rather than through the interior maze of the hospital. I hear my heart pounding.
My breath is shallow but fast.
And the heat of a gaze warms me.
As we approach, I’m taken aback by the sight of what surrounds the steep walls of the hospital. A stronghold of police officers andCosa Nostrasoldiers hem the entire loading zone. I’ve seen this formation before, in theCosa Nostraworld, but never on the side of the law. It’s so familiar—yet strange.
To my left, a long, white pop-up canopy has been erected, stationed by portable folding tables and chairs. To my right, a line of officers unwraps a massive canvas sheet beneath a row of fifteen-story windows.
Fear knots and twists inside me as I realize what the canvasis for. I crane my neck, looking up to find the only open window directly above. They’re preparing for my babies to fall. That thought hits so hard, I feel a physical punch to my chest. Even in the sickest moments of my past, I never felt dread like this.
Everywhere I look, people stop to stare at me. I feel the press of their eyes. Some watch me with faces full of sympathy, but I don’t need or want their pity or sympathy. I look young—am young—and I feel like I am dying inside, but I’m going to be the mother my babies need. Deserve. They are the sweetest boys. Tears burn behind my eyes.
It’s not fair!
It’s not fair that they can’t defend themselves. And it’s stupid. It’s so stupid that we are ever so vulnerable. So small. So helpless. It reminds me of crawling on a basement floor, drugged, not getting up, not fighting back, with no one to help me and no one to care.
Fuck that!
I’m going to get my sons or die trying.
As we rush towards the entrance, Blackborn clears his throat. “We’re ready.” He points to the canvas with a jerky, uncertain motion. “If they fall, we’ll try to catch them.” He pivots sharply, gesturing across the parking lot to another building—a tall, long brick building. “Snipers are in place,” he offers, his eyes flicking to mine. “They’re attempting to get a clear shot through the window.”
I feel myself go cold with terror, but that’s all inside. I don’t let it outside. I don’t let them see. My sons, my twins, his perfect little heirs, are somewhere in that building with a woman who hates me, who made my life hell, who probably let her sons rape me…
Who probably let her sons rape me…The thought comes unbidden.Did she?I never considered whether she let them,encouraged them, even. I may have considered it once or twice, but I didn’t believe it.
Her words come back to me. I freeze mid-stride. ‘One minute you’re pregnant with one of my boys’ babies, then next you disappear and now you have twins.’She said, ‘One of my boys’. One of them. Not Benji, not Jake, not Landon. One. Of. Them. How did she know to say that?
“She knew,” I whisper.
Somewhere behind me, a police radio crackles, and the sudden noise makes every line in my body snap taut.
I can make out a few words. “Possible movement.” Then, “the window,” then, “mother.”
All the officers in the parking lot watch us. Clay’s men are on either side of me now, broad-shoulders and black suits. Their faces display the stoic neutrality of men accustomed to death and secrets. There seems to be a wordless understanding between Clay’s men and the officers, neither relinquishing control nor demanding it.
