Page 33 of Judas (The Lito Duet #2)

Chapter seventeen

Beast

Past

“ C ome 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 is defective .

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 no family with 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.

It’s difficult to explain what they look like, really, but picture motor oil as it mixes with water.

That foggy-film rainbow-like effect? They appear like that, but suspended in the air and darker.

Like the LED screen on my phone is starting to fade, or the lights in the room have lost their luster.

It’s nothing like having a person sitting next to me in a black spandex suit, waiting for me to notice them.

I see things , not people, but the Doctor chalks them all up to schizophrenia.

Promise I’m not crazy, they’re really there.

If the voices ever leave, the gaping holes they’ve created may be what actually impairs me.

That or the long lasting effects, because the way it seems, they’re not going away any time soon.

They’ve been here since as far back as I can remember.

And while they don’t scare me, their antics have become more cruel as I’ve gotten older.

While I wish they would do it sooner rather than later, there will be a fall out and that’s more intimidating than just dealing with the never-ending noise.

“Mr. Wilson, I know it may seem excessive, but this medication is approved by the Food and Drug Administration for patients thirteen and older. Sadie’s markers are extreme enough to warrant it, while also being on the lower end of that severity scale.

If we start her early, she could live a more stable life once her body metabolizes the medication and we find a suitable dose for her. ”

“That’s a lot of hooblah. She needs a good ass beating to straighten her out, instead of her mother coddling her because she has too many feelings,” Dad returns.

There it is: the lack of understanding and his boomer mentality—it’s always punish and never treat. Whip the sickness out of me. Confine me until I act as expected of a suburban girl given everything she could ever want.

“Carl, we discussed this with the Doctor already. Kids like Sadie do not respond to physical punishment, as it breeds resentment and rebellion.”

I adore my mother as much as I am capable of.

She tries her hardest to give me the typical life most girls have at my age.

Cheer and sports, social life and emotional support.

The thing is, I know I’m not theirs—their biological child.

I’ve always known. They’ve never hidden that fact from me, especially my father.

Sometimes he wields it like a weapon and throws it in my face during the more heated fights.

They’ve even told me the adoption is open and if my biological mom wanted me, she would have tried to reach out to me—she hasn’t.

“Since it’s so difficult and unpleasant to be part of this family, Sadie Aurora, you’re welcome to run right back to that sex offending birth mother of yours. Wait, you can’t because she’s locked up and gave you up the day you came out of her.”

P… please stop, stop!

The fighting started when he came home from work today.

Mother and I had a good dinner—alone—but he showed up at the end before either of us could get the cleaning done.

Now? I’m curled in the back of my closet; it’s the only place that makes sense.

Hidden away, packed into a small space that gives me three solid walls of safety and comfort while my hands cover my ears and I shy away from any potential exposure.

Squeezing my eyes as hard as I can, the moisture tries to escape but I won’t let it. He won’t see me cry anymore. I refuse to look weak in front of him—being weak has not accomplished anything for my mother, so why would I do what fails her? Instead, I’m out of sight, out of mind.

It is alright, child. He will never harm thee.

That’s the soft voice. Always warm, inviting, and soothes me at night when I burrow in the middle of my bed, turning my back on the world.

Sometimes I think I can feel her fingers running through my hair when I’m not paying attention, but brush it off because I can’t let people see there are things wrong with me.

They can’t see that I’m not like the rest of them and that there are more than one of me inside.

Sometimes I think about what it would have been like to live with my real parents; would I still have to go to the Doctor and talk? Where would we live? Somewhere that feels more like home than this? There’s more to feeling like you belong somewhere than someone just claiming you’re theirs, right?

They told me about the day they brought me home.

Father said the nurses handed me over all nice and clean after washing the vernix off of me, having quickly bathed me within the hour of my birth.

Him and Mother were ready to start their lives with a child and give me a better one than I ever would have had.

A few years ago, Mother told me I was still crying when the nurses placed me in her arms, and didn’t truly stop for a few hours after we all arrived home.

It’s like the staff took me, bathed and diapered me, swaddled my little self in a blanket before I could have the taste of milk on my tongue.

I always found it weird as I grew up, when my mother's heartbeat didn’t sound like mine or one that I’ve heard before. It’s supposed to be simple ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum, at least that’s what I’ve learned in my science classes. But Mother’s always seemed different, the beat wasn’t ever quite right.

Being adopted is supposed to be a good thing, but I’ve not been able to find the silver lining other than basic necessities.

Roof, food, rest, safety. That’s what we need to survive according to Maslow, and that’s what I get so I should be grateful.

Just like father tells me. There’s got to be more to it than that—way more.

Psychological needs are just as important as the others due to how powerful thoughts can be.

If we feel low, sense that we are unwanted, discarded, or lost, then the mind takes matters into its own hands.

I’ve seen some of the happiest people take their own lives and they have the basic necessities, too. Just like me, we’re broken inside.

That night, I chose to stop trying as hard to make Father happy and proud.

There’s no amount of trying that will influence someone to look at you for what you’re truly worth, not at what they price you at.

I came at a cost of nineteen thousand dollars, though that’s significantly cheaper than paying for a pregnancy—Michigan paid for my mom’s since she’s property of the state—it’s still a little on the low end for going through an adoption agency.

Plainly put, I am a wholesale baby because both Mom and Dad were criminals.

My life is of lesser value because of things outside of my control.