“Firstly, you know that gun was never meant for you. Deep down, you know that. And I have no idea what you are talking about when you say I threw you away?”
“You left long before that day. You disappeared within yourself, and I didn’t even know you were alive. And when I got you back, I had to lose you again.”
“I couldn't stop the dissociation. My therapist says it was because I couldn’t face what I knew was happening to you, knowing I couldn't stop it.”
“And I knew that.” I sobbed, my words hurting as I voiced them. Tears fell, but before I could brush them from clinging to my lashes, Woodrow beat me to it, his fingers shaking. “I asked you to leave with me. That was you. I know it was you. I know how you stand, how your shoulders slump just a little more when you're you. How your voice drops slightly in pitch, in comparison with Hell's. How your eye movements are slower. I know your very soul. And it was you that pushed me from the house and told me to leave.”
“To protect you. I stayed behind to protect you. To make sure you got away to safety.”
“But I didn't.”
“I had no idea they were coming. I had no idea someone was already in the house. I had no idea about anything. That was the worst day of my life, and I did what I thought was best at the time.” He brushed a straying strand of hair from my eyes, clipping it behind the daisy with the millions of others. “I woke in my room, my journal in front of me, and our baby on my pillow. She was tiny and unmoving, and—”
“She?” I never knew our baby was a she.
“I don't know for sure. She wasn't fully developed, but she looked like a girl, to me.”
I almost couldn't ask, scared to hear the answer. “What happened to her?”
“He told Woody to get rid of her. To put her in the trash.” I nodded to his words, the weight of sorrow pulling me down as I remembered the hateful voice that belonged to Ville. “But I couldn't. I couldn't. How did he expect me to do that? She wasn't trash to me. She was my baby girl, and she deserved so much more than that. So, I wrapped her in my t-shirt, one already worn, hoping that her tiny soul would find comfort in that.” His eyes were low. His tears still falling. “I put her in a shoebox where I kept Woody's toys whenever he wasn't around, and I took her out into the yard and buried her.”
“Did he find her?”
“He didn't live long enough.”
With two fingers, I tapped at his jaw, asking him to lift his eyes from their downcast position. An encouragement for him to look at me. I didn't have to voice my request; we had learned to talk without words from the nights he'd suffer with a sore throat, the silence never keeping me away.
He looked up, his eyes tinged pink to match mine.
“You were switching a lot when I left. Did you ever find out what Hell did to your parents? They could still be alive.”
“They aren't. I know that for a fact. Hell didn't kill my parents. I did. I shot my father in the head. My mother was harder to kill.” His solemn tone didn’t lift at all, not until I responded.
“Evil never dies.”
He laughed throughhis sadness, not finding the statement funny, but knowing it was true.
“I guess that's why I'm still here.”
“To me, you're eternal.”
“Because you think I'm evil?”
“Because, deep down, I know you’re not.” I didn't sound like me anymore, pain had altered my voice. So much fucking pain, and yet, I felt lighter. . . I felt closure on my painful past. But I had one more question. “What happened to Nessie?”
“She didn't make it. She was shot, not by me. My father's gun was on her when I shot him. I just as well have pulled the trigger. Her death is on me.”
“No, it's not.” My head shook. “It's on them. On the shitty parents you both got stuck with.”
Woodrow nodded. “I could handle him hurting me. Handle my mother's cruel words and a few knocks off my father. It got too much with you. I hated them hurting you. I couldn’t let them kill you, and I knew they would.”
My head dropped, my shoulders sinking. “You miss them?”
“I miss Nessie. I know my parents deserved what they got. There was no choice; I was never going to mourn you. They'd already taken one of my girls from me; I wasn't letting them get you both. It hurt me to kill them; I felt guilt, but not regret. What came after hurt, too. Things happened in prison that I can’t talk about, and I know Hell has probably hurt you because of that, and that hurts me more than you can imagine.”
“I mourned for you. Every day. Even now.”
“Me, too. . . I still mourned for you. I’m sorry for how things played out.”
