Chapter Eight: Passing

A Chapter by Rachel_Biggs

I knew I was dependent on Jack and Emma for my survival. Months passed like that, and with every victim it got easier. And then, winter became spring.

With spring came the thawing of the ground and blooming of the flowers. I wouldn’t even respond to Jane anymore if someone had called me that. I had blossomed into Minerva’s twin. Jane’s birthday came and went without recognition. The day of Minerva’s birthday however was marked by balloons, cake and ice cream. She would have been nineteen, the same age I was.

During another round of exploring, I found an old stuffed cow under my bed. It was red and white with a small bell tied around the neck. That cow undid me. Minerva had been a real little girl, just as I had been. I was struck by how different my childhood could have been, how like Minerva’s it could have become. I pitied her. I pitied me. I wallowed in self pity for days, loathing the monster that I had become.

Spring also brought rain. Lots of rain. With rain came loose soil and floods. The area surrounding the farm became even more isolated with only one road leading in and out. Travelers were few and far between. Punishments were dealt with an ever ready hand. Fights became commonplace and food was scarce. I began to understand why they killed the strangers. What I found next confirmed my suspicions.

On one of my restless wanderings through the house, with the spring air caressing my skin, I slipped out the front door. Going down the walkway I noticed that a cobblestone was loose. Curious, I flipped it over. An old cigar box stared up at me. No one in the house smoked. My interest was piqued. I opened it, expecting a few trinkets. Over twenty pairs of eyes stared out. The licenses of the guests were piled into the box, along with bundles of cash. There must have been at least two-thousand dollars.

All the colliding pieces came into place. For weeks I refused to acknowledge what I knew.

Those weeks passed without guests.

March passed.

April came.

During the balmy days of April, the land began to dry. The earth warmed and sultry breezes blew across the open fields. Mother Nature seemed determined to beautify the horrific crime scene. Flowers grew heavy with blooms and bent under the weight. Bees flew lazily to and from blossoms and butterflies flitted around the garden. Any garden club in the nation would have given Emma a prize for her gardens. Provided they did not know what lay buried under the roses.

In our free time, Emma taught me how to paint. Already a skilled painter herself, teaching came naturally to her. We painted the gardens and simple, happy scenes, perhaps to make up for the lack of happiness in other areas. As bright and new as outside was, the house became darker and grew foreboding. Every time we walked in the door, we prepared ourselves for verbal and sometimes physical abuse. There, I said it. Happy-go-lucky Jack was abusive, Emma was flighty and I was stupid. I had been stupid all my life. I had felt entitled to things without realizing the true price. Whether I liked to admit it or not, everything had a price. Even a human life was something to be bought and sold.

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