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 toldme she loves me. It feels diferant to wen Daddy says it.
