“Now, my boy.”
Woody didn't look at the baby tucked into his chest. His silver gaze drilled into me, as I pleaded with him not to listen.
But Ville made the decision for him, dragging him to his feet. The fear of disappointing his father shone in his eyes. Shadowed his every movement. He put his feet on the ground, the grip of Ville's hand slackened around the scruff of his t-shirt as he shoved him through the kitchen door and out of my view.
“Please, Woody, please! Don't! I'm begging you, don't!” My mourning made the words sound different. I dragged myself across the floor—my body a mop to the mess I’d made—to try to see what he’d do with our child.
The imprint Ville's boot left on my lower spine shut my mouth. He kicked me again, and again it was in the stomach.
I doubled over in pain, vomit shooting from my mouth. My lips trembled as I wiped away the sick with the back of my hand.
Wynter did nothing to comfort me. Staring at me with no sympathy, her small hand landed on her husband's back, her palm creating comforting circles there.
Ville’s finger drew a cross over his heart. “Forgive me,” he requested of the only one he believed had the right to judge him. God.
I lay in the mess of blood, taking my eyes from the couple opposite me, pulling out chairs as they prayed. I rolled in on myself, holding my stomach.
They acted as if this hurt them. Like they felt some kind of remorse. But I knew better than to trust wolves who wore the skins of the sheep they’d killed.
I ignored their clasped hands and closed eyes, keeping mine open, staring at the bloodon my legs, clinging to my skin.
More blood continued to leak from my body, and I wondered what it was exactly that kept me alive—probably the devil on the other side of the room, to torture me some more.
Sound became hazed in my ears. My head hurt and I felt sick. My breathing altered, and each breath I took made me somehow feel breathless. My hand rubbed along my stomach, and I soothed beyond the empty bump, in an attempt to placate the baby who wasn't there.
I wasn't ready to face that yet. In my head—my messed-up, imaginative brain—my baby could live forever.
And, if I had my way, I'd live there, too. Because I no longer had any interest in my surroundings.
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.
