Burn Daughters

by Law, Adriana

  Copyright © 2014 by Adriana Law

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The cage sat there as if it were alive, opening its mouth wide to welcome me inside. Its pulse was hollow. Black as sin. Foul. Death. Poison. The woman dragged me toward the cage, no hesitation in her step. No sense of mercy on her person. The woman was pure evil. So was the cage. She had won. There was no way she was ever letting me go.

  I was imprisoned.

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE: Millie

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter TwentyOne

  Chapter TwentyTwo

  Chapter TwentyThree

  Chapter TwentyFour

  Part One: Millie

  Chapter One

  The buzz of an overhead light interrupts my sleep. Gray fog slips away; numbness withdrawing. I return to the painful here and now. I lift a hand to what hurts most. My jaw. It has taken a beating. Tender and swollen. My head throbs. Something pulls at the skin covering my back. Bandages. So much pain. I can feel it all now.

  Where am I? Am I dead? I feel like I am.

  A pinch on the top of my hand stops me from reaching any further. There’s dried blood on gauze. A needle pierces my skin, taped in place. An IV. My gaze shifts, sweeping chaotically over my surroundings.

  What happened? Why is there so much pain?

  My heart rate accelerates and my throat squeezes shut. I see it: rusted wire, matted fur, fangs slick with saliva. I smell the stink of urine. I hear nothing. It is too quiet. Isolation. Hopelessness. There is a figure lingering in the dark shadows. Emotionless eyes staring. The cold, disconnected tone in which she speaks. Her body that has lost all of its feminine shape. Paper-thin skin sliding like an avalanche down her bony neck. Wrinkle upon wrinkle. Rot and decay. Not old, ancient.

  I see her.

  The woman’s demonic face hovering over me, her lips split; mouth a black abyss into which I am in danger of falling … falling … falling….

  A scream pierces the air. Mine. And another.

  Have to get away! Have to get away!

  I claw at the IV, tearing it from my vein, bearing the pain, bearing the site of red blood gushing. Mine.

  Have to get away!

  I roll up and over the metal side rails of the bed—not my bed, not her bed—falling like dead weight onto a cold, white floor. I run on my hands and knees like a dog, until I can run no more. Cornered. I curl into a ball, wrapping an arm around my head, squeezing my eyes shut. See nothing. See nothing. I grasp the cross swinging from my neck and hold it tightly, warning the evil spirits away.

  Perfect love cast out all fear.

  Perfect love cast out all fear.

  Perfect love cast out all fear…!

  “Evie!” I scream. There is no reply. “She’s gone,” I wail. “My sister’s gone.”

  I rock back and forth, back and forth. Baby in a cradle. Sister. Me. Babies in a cradle. Cradle comfort me. Rock me, rock me, back and forth, back and forth. Comfort. Comfort in rhythm. Rocking to the beep, beep, beep. Growing colder as I rock. Beep, beep, beep.

  I hear footsteps. “What are you doing?”

  I drop the cross clenched in my fist and spread my hands over my face. Cringing. Waiting for her palm to strike.

  “You can’t take out your IV.”

  Hands are on my shoulders and under my armpits. They are lifting me to my unsteady feet.

  “You can’t get out of bed. If you need help, you’ll have to call for a nurse.”

  Air blows against my backside. I am half naked. Dressed in a hospital gown split in the rear. White socks bunched around my ankles.

  The shining metal railings of the bed are lowered. I am put back in it, covered, pillows shifted behind my tender back. I am asked if I’m comfortable. Does it matter? The nurse wipes my hand with alcohol and replaces the IV. I am not comfortable.

  There is a man sitting in an oversized tan chair at the foot of my bed. He doesn’t look comfortable either. Do I know him? I don’t know him. Does he know me? He must.

  The nurse switches a dial, and the annoying beep, beep, beep disappears. She pats my arm and passes around the foot of the bed, behind the man. She tells him something and looks at me. She smiles. As if it is medicine, that smile quiets the roar in my ears, slows my heart. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

  Saline drips into my veins. Saline and something else. My eyes move around the room. I glance over at the window. Just one window. Is it high enough?

  The window.

  Oh God, the window!

  I have to run. I have to hide. Cradle. Cradle. I cannot move.

  Have to get away!

  The door to the room swings open. My eyes dart from that single window to that door. She is not there. Only the man at the foot of my bed. He is here for me. I am safe. There is nothing to fear. He will keep her away.

  Coming from the hallway, I hear footsteps, the wobble of the breakfast cart. These are normal noises. These noises are not meant to harm. These noises are meant to cure.

  I am quiet again. I am still. Calm is a warmth in my veins.

  Windows. Doors. Cradles. My eyes grow heavy, I no longer fight to keep them open. Drifting, drifting, drifting….

  Gone.

  ***

  The kid décor of the hospital room tells me I’m on the pediatrics floor. This frustrates me. I am no longer a kid. I’m fifteen. Way past stickers and lollipops for good behavior.

  The door to my hospital room opens.

  “Good morning,” the nurse says in a happy, well-rested voice. “Need to get your vitals, sweetie.”

  She pushes the button that raises the head of the hospital bed.

  I straighten my arm so she can take my blood pressure.

  The name Angie is written on the tag stuck to her nurse’s uniform—light gray scrubs with pink clouds and dozens of Snoopy dogs playing banjos. The sight of the dogs makes me want to pull away from her, but I am too weak to do so.

  Angie’s eyes land on the breakfast tray that is still sitting on the bedside table, and her perfectly arched brow goes up. “Not hungry?” I shake my head, lips tight. “All right. I’ll send someone to get your tray.” Angie sticks a plastic covered thermometer under my tongue. She hums, staring at the wall. Checks her watch. The thermometer beeps. “Normal, 98.6.” With her foot, she pops open the cover of the trash and disposes of the used thermometer cover. She lifts a pink pitcher sitting on the table. “I’ll bring you some fresh water with ice. Do you need anything else?”

  I hesitate, knowing I need…something...but not knowing what. “An extra blanket?”

  “Sure. It is cold in here. What do they have your thermostat sitting on?” She walks over and bumps the dial. �
�There, turned it up a bit…I’ll still bring you that blanket.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Anything else?” Yes. There is something else. Something I remember now. Can you bring my sister back? I want to ask. Instead, I shake my head. “Okay, be back in a few minutes.” Angie opens the door. She almost collides with a man dressed in baggy jeans and a slim vintage tee. There is a plaid flannel shirt tied around his waist.

  “Sorry,” the man says, casually stepping out of her way. He smiles widely and warmly as he holds the door for Angie to pass. When the door swings shut, he comes toward the bed. There is a folder under his arm. His brown hair is cut in long layers. Messy, but clean. Round, wide-rimmed frames sit on the broad bridge of his nose. He has a goatee.

  “I’ve seen you before,” I say.

  He holds out a large hand. His dark eyes remain steady on mine, his voice deep. “My name is Sid Beaker.”

  “Millie,” I say, giving him an odd look. Does he expect me to shake his hand? “Why are you here?”

  He is attractive for an old guy; Johnny Depp eccentric. Where I’ve always worn my weirdness to gain attention, I sense he wears his with ease, and an acceptance of who he is.

  I blink several times; stare unapologetically as I try to figure out why this man is in my room. Is he social services? Someone sent to check on me and my sister? Is Momma in trouble? Am I?

  Maybe Sid Beaker is a reporter for the news. I hate reporters. All out for the good story no matter the cost or who gets hurt.

  “You’re wasting your time. I’m not telling you anything,” I say to him.

  Settling into a chair at the foot of my bed, he crosses his legs. My eyes are drawn to his boots. They are black and grungy like he’s come from the trenches. He balances the folder on a knee, his large hand on top of it like a dog claiming a chew toy with its paw.

  “I’m a psychologist,” he announces. Not social services, not a reporter, not the news. He is worse. A head doctor. Heartless, arrogant. “I was called in to talk to you,” he says in that deep voice. “See if I can help you sort some things out.”

  “Because of what happened this morning?” I shift my gaze to the window, remembering my panic; crawling out of the bed, curling in a corner. I must have been a sight to see. “I don’t need your help. I was caught off-guard.” I shrug. “Woke up in a strange place. I’m better now.”

  “Maybe that’s true. You’re tough.”

  “How do you know what I am?” My eyes collide with Dr. Beaker’s. “Where is my sister? What did they do with her?”

  “Why don’t we take care of you first,” he says. He flips open the folder and thumbs through the pages. “Let’s see….” Papers shuffle.

  “I want to know where they put my sister.”

  “When you’re ready.”

  “That’s not for you to decide.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “I don’t need help,” I add. “Or a babysitter.”

  His dark eyes look up and travel over me. Not in an invasive way. Not in a perverted way. I know what he sees.

  “You want to ask me about the cuts and bruises,” I say.

  He clasps his hands atop the open folder. “You suffered a tragic experience.”

  “And that makes me special,” I say, still angry he won’t give me the answer I seek. “Worthy of a shrink? I’ve already told the cops what I remember.”

  “Why don’t you start over and tell me.”

  Start over? “Why should I?”

  “So I can help you.”

  “Yeah, but why?”

  No psychologist has ever helped me before: not when I missed weeks of school, not when I was caught stealing small cartons of milk from the school cafeteria. No psychologist has ever known enough about me to ask the right questions, like, why milk? Why not something like candy from a convenience store?

  I might have told them the answer. I might have informed them that milk is a necessity, if they still didn’t get it. My little sister, Evie, had to have it, not just at school, but at home. Momma spent her money on things Evie and I couldn’t eat. My sister had to have that milk.

  My attention slides to the door. “You mean her,” I say. “You want to know about her.” Everyone does. “That’s why you’re really here, isn’t it? Why didn’t you just say so?”

  “My concern at the moment is you,” he counters. “I want to know how a good girl like you ended up on the Keller’s property.”

  “A good girl? I thought I was tough?”

  Dr. Beaker looks around my room. There are dozens of flower vases, even more cards, and a few stuffed animals. I have not smelled one of the flowers, or opened any of the cards, but I can see they were sent to support and encourage me. There are boxing gloves on one, “You’re a Fighter,” the front of the card reads. There is a kitten dangling from a branch, “Hang in There,” it tells me. I don’t think I have a choice. I don’t think whoever sent me these cards knows anything about me. They are perfect strangers who have fabricated a heroic tale about me.

  “You’re being called a hero. Your story is all over the news.”

  I remember the hatred, the anger, the rage, my inexplicable thoughts, and the way I behaved. What we did. There was nothing heroic or honorable about it. It was ugly, but we did what we had to. It was the only way. I shake my head. “I am no hero,” I say.

  Alone is what I am. Alone with an all-consuming guilt.

  “Everyone in the country seems to disagree,” Dr. Beaker tells me, studying me closely. “Your story is all over the news.”

  “It’s not my story. It’s her story.” And his.

  “Regardless.” Dr. Beaker forces a smile. His teeth are crooked and stained. “You’re practically a celebrity. People have great sympathy for what you went through. They think you’re brave. It inspires them. That’s something, Millie.”

  I vigorously shake my head, “They got it all wrong.”

  “How so?”

  My lips compress. I’m saved by the opening of the door to my room. Sneakers squeak over the waxed white floor. Dr. Beaker stands. Very gentlemanly of him.

  “Brought you a blanket,” the nurse says. It’s not Angie. “Let me get this out of your way.” She takes my breakfast tray and asks Dr. Beaker if he needs anything. “A cup of coffee from the nurse’s station?” There is familiarity in her voice and in the expression on her face. I wonder how often Dr. Beaker has come to see me. How many conversations this nurse and this shrink have had. How many conversations we’ve had, conversations I don’t remember because of my messed up head, and the drugs.

  “That would be great.” He gives her a slow, lazy smile, pulling a ballpoint pen from a pocket. The nurse turns to leave. “Oh, Ms. Smith, can you do me one more favor?”

  She stops. “Sure, anything.”

  “When you step outside, can you tell Mr. Patterson there’s to be no visitors today? Ms. Reid and I have a lot to discuss.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The door closes. We are alone again. “You’re wasting your time. I’m okay,” I tell Dr. Beaker. “A little banged up…but living.”

  Dr. Beaker strokes his goatee. “We all want to do what’s best for you.” He shuffles his papers. The nurse brings in a cup of coffee, hands it to him, and flashes him a smile. “Thanks,” he tells her, and takes a sip. He doesn’t begin on me until after the nurse leaves the room. “You turned fifteen a couple of days ago.”

  I cross my arms over my chest, which is as close to an answer as I’m giving. I don’t know what day it is anyway.

  “I vaguely remember being fifteen.” He chuckles. “It was a good age.”

  “Really? I haven’t noticed.”

  “I get it,” he says. “Being a teenager sucks when you’re a teenager. There’ll come a time though when you will give anything to go back and relive these years.”

  “Can’t imagine.”

  “It’s the truth. Your teenage years are—”

  “The best years of my life,” I s
ay, interrupting him. “So I heard. Just don’t believe it.”

  “Can’t be all bad. What about school?”

  Before I can reply, he suddenly yelps. He has spilled hot coffee down the front of his shirt. “Shit.” He blots the stain with his hand as if that’s going to help. “Sorry. Excuse the language. It slipped.”

  “It’s okay.”

  He settles back into the chair, ignoring his coffee soaked clothing. “Now then, what about school? Your classmates speak fondly of you. Seems you are well liked.”

  I laugh, and then sigh, wondering where this is going.

  He pauses, and lifts his eyes to mine. “That’s funny?”

  “Not funny. Not really,” I admit. “Strange funny, maybe.”

  “Strange how?”

  I look out the window, wishing I could be outside in the sunshine. I will never take the sun for granted again. Or freedom. “Did you ever have a birthday party, Dr. Beaker?”

  “Sid.”

  “Sid, is that short for Sigmund?”

  “No. Sydney. My parents expected a girl.”

  I hide my smile. I would rather wallow in my pain, even to the point of drowning. Even if there is something about Sid I find likeable. “I’m sorry,” I tell him.

  “Don’t apologize. You have a good laugh, Millie.”

  “Do I? How would you know that?”

  “It’s okay to laugh,” he tells me. Too familiar. We have been here before. Talking, like this. I can’t imagine what I’ve said to him. What stories I’ve told. Unnerved that my memory is so damaged. “To answer your question, yes, I had quite a few birthday parties growing up. My parents were big on inviting people into our home. Everyone was welcome. Our home was a hangout for most of my friends. My parents were outgoing, you’d like them.”

  My smile fades. I am quiet, thinking about what Sid just said. It’s an awesome image: an inviting home, parents that give a shit.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks me.

  “Nothing.” What I’m thinking feels too personal to share.

  “Your expression says otherwise. You’re sad. Can you tell me why?” I shake my head. “You can trust me, Millie. Let me in. Let me help you. As your therapist, everything you tell me is confidential. What you say stays between us. No one gets hurt.”