Page 45 of Judas
Unfolding from the car for the last time, I slam the door closed and pull Sadie’s open. Dragging her out of the back seat, for the first time she doesn’t fight me. She normally does when it’s usually the trunk or an establishment. I guess she needs the fresh air, or wants to stretch her legs. The trunk was rather confining and I didn’t really let her out over the past week or so.
I wouldn't be surprised if her bladder is about to explode. Especially since she whined about water halfway through this part of the forest until I stopped, shoved a straw behind her gag, and ordered her to suck. She tried—failed, but tried. Most of the water had dribbled down her chin and soaked into the fabric of her shirt.
It’s been a long day and the elements are starting to settle in on the both of us. The sun’s already dipping down behind the mountain's crests and bathing us in a deep chilly shadow. It’s definitely cold up here, more so than Michigan is, and much as I enjoy watching Sadie writhe in pain, being frostbitten will only hinder my plans.
A howl of wind blows by; the both of us stand here in the open space of the back deck. Looking out over what could very well be a yard, listening to the wind as my hand keeps a strong hold on her elbow. Simultaneously, we turn back to the heavy door preventing us from entering—looming ominously. Pulling out a key I buried in my pocket after leaving the gates of Darkwater, I slide it into the rusty porthole in the door and crank it to the side to unlock it.
Sadie watches raptly and it piques my interest all over again. She’s very observant, scoping her surroundings out with each of her senses. Can even see the slight flare of her nose when she pulls in an unsteady breath—as if she knows she will spend the rest of her life in these delipidated walls. Pride blooms in my chest. Perhaps she’s more like me than I previously gave her credit for.
Predator recognizes predator.
Once I finish leading her inside, making sure she doesn’t fall and get some broken plank of wood shoved through her little body, I let her go. Watching from the now-closed door as she looks around and explores. The quiet lull between us starts topull at my nerves, the impatience in me beginning to fray. I’m about to snap at her when she… smiles.
What in the world is wrong with her? Why is she doing that?
The gesture reaches all the way up to her eyes, which is the only way I can tell. They have the softest little smile lines right at the corners where her leftover eyeliner and mascara have filled the creases. Easy to miss since she’s still young, but prominent enough with the black sticking to her skin. Maybe I’m just getting old, but this is uncomfortable—I can’t stop looking at her. She’s beyond fascinating and I want to take her apart to discover every tiny thing that lies behind her empty, cold eyes. Limb from limb, pick out every blood vessel with a delicate touch, even see the smooth connective tissue keeping her body glued together.
“Well, sweet girl, is it up to your standards?” The words are huffed rather than asked.
Nothing. Absolutely silent except for the pre-wintery yowl outside. After all of the screaming and jeering in the car, she’s suddenly mute. In the past I had the uncanny ability to read people, or see things before they happened, but now everything is a wildcard with Sadie. And I donotlike it.
My shoes make little to no noise, outside of creaking floorboards, during my walk to her. Drawn to her orbit like that of a fly to a bug zapper—too close and I may fry like I should have in the chair. Without gentleness, I hook a finger under her chin and tilt her head back. Grey eyes clashing with those of the soul who now haunts me. Quickly I release her and step away, moving around to her backside. She grins until her pink lips give way to the straight white teeth behind them. Her pupils are blown wide, so large the black holes have nearly gobbled all but a thin ring of bright blue around them. Sadie doesn’t so much as blink; I can’t tell if she’s breathing, which sends me into an uncharacteristic panic.
My hands are moving on their own at this point, untying the knot in the gag at the back of her head. Pulling the fabric from her face and mouth, seeing the reddened skin along her cheeks, her chapped lips, and the overall dryness of her mouth. Then I work on her arms next; pulling the ends of the rope apart in quick jerks, not minding the way they rake and drag over her skin. She stands so still, no flinching, no attempts to rub the chafed flesh.
Dropping her hands to the side, I curl one hand around her thin neck as the other tangles in her too-long blonde strands, angling her face up once more where I can look at those deep dark pools.
Vacant.
Lifeless.
Then I see it—her violent grin and the zeroing pupils as she launches at me.
Chapter seventeen
Beast
Past
“Come on, Doc, there’s got to be something more that can be done for her. She’s only thirteen.”
That’s my mother talking. She has always been the one who wanted me the most, the one who’s gone out of her way to help me get better. Dad doesn’t care that much; he prefers to go to work and avoid home life. Especially that the daughter he purchased isdefective. Rather than address an issue and fix it, it’s best to ignore it, I guess. Mother tries so hard to do what is right and keeps taking me to these appointments but the longer we stay, the more we visit, the worse things get.
The voices never stop, the sadness never goes away, but the anger spikes regardless.
I’m tired.
Yes, only thirteen and still ready to leave this all behind.
“I’m sorry, she’s hit several markers for schizophrenia and sociopathy. The antisocial disorder we can treat with therapy, like we have been doing, but there’s no amount of counseling that will help the hallucinations. Based on Sadie’s home life and school, she doesn’t have the environmental influences that would stimulate the depression either. Based on those two factors alone, she would benefit from Risperdal.”
“Is that not excessive?” Father asks.
He has his arm slung behind Mother, sitting on the larger of the two couches in the therapy room. He’s in his business attire, legs spread and taking up too much room. She hates it when he does that, but he’s the big man in the house and can get away with murder if you ask her. He’s the bread winner, shelters us, feeds us, gives us spending money, pays for my extracurricular activities at school. We do have a good life, there’s no doubt about that—it could be worse—but there’s nofamilywith money.
I’m honestly surprised he showed up today. Mother probably told him we would be getting the full diagnosis back, along with my new treatment plan, and he wants to be abreast of the situation. Instead of being here as support for me, he’s here for her. I’m the odd-ball out. That’s how it is for near-orphans—sorry, adopted kids. Father would raise his voice—not shout, just get louder like some sort of drill sergeant—if he heard me say that. Not the fight he likes to have, but it holds merit. So it keeps things civil between us if I just don’t let him overhear those thoughts.
Instead of voicing my own opinion on treatment—they wouldn’t listen either way—I sift through the labyrinth that is my mind. The thoughts are safer here, even if I share the area with others and they warp the perception of my surroundings.Such as the things I see all the damn time. The Doctor calls them shadow people but they’re not actually in the shape of people… nor are they shadows. They’re very much real, shadowy-figments are not.
