“That’s not your concern,” Ruth replies.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I said that out loud.”
“If we manage to escape this house with Phin, promise us you will run,” she says, grabbing my arm and piercing my flesh with her claws. “Promise us, Phin and those hatchlings will have the fairytale life we all dream of living—outside of the swamp, away from the experiments, and out from under Papa’s thumb.”
“What about you? Won’t you come with us?”
“We can’t,” Raymond snaps. “Too many creatures are too difficult to hide. Phin taught us to split up so someone survives. You don’t know how many of us have been lost to human tempers over the years. A group too large will give youaway. Then you’ll be back, but with Papa mad at you for leaving. Promise us. We can endure anything if we know Phin is on his way to a raft life.”
I want to argue, scream at them, and lash out in a great temper tantrum. If only to affirm that I can save them all to alleviate the guilt sitting on my heart, I want to assure them they will be safe. In reality, I can’t keep that promise. They know it. It’s me who’s the silly one, believing in fairytales, narrow escapes, and happily ever afters. The rings of heartbreak and experience surround Ruth’s eyes like the interior circles of a tree chopped too soon.
I stop walking to shed my pride. This may be my house, but I obviously don’t know half the layout. Secret labs, nurseries, passageways, and extremist attitudes remained hidden for years because I never asked, looked, explored, or investigated. I gobbled up everything Leopold fed me to earn my yearly escape to Boston, costing these children…what? A pound of flesh from the beatings they mentioned, the fear of capture and extermination, a round of Leopold’s breeding experiments? While I played Lady of the Household, I had no idea of the terrors running within.
“Where would he keep Phin?” I ask in a voice smaller than what’s left of my self-esteem.
“Let’s check the second dungeons first,” Roy says, squeezing past us to take the lead. “Mr. Breyers likes the bolts in the ceiling to string us up in thelower level.”
“Seconddungeon? Bolts on the ceiling? Oh well,” I say, patting my damp hair in a nervous tick. “Lead the way.”
Chapter 11
Mr. Breyers left when it was dark, and now the early morning sun shines through the tiny windows just below the ceiling.Please allow those happy rays to reach Hairy and my hatchlings wherever Papa hid them.My broken mind drifts to Harriett’s beauty to warm the cold corners of my soul. Her hair glows like fire when the sunlight hits the reddish-brown strands. I’ve watched her from afar. Her skin collects the sun’s warmth in little brown spots like the toasted bread I loved in the nursery.
Oh, how I miss bread and stories from books instead of my head.
Harriett can read. I just know it. She lives in the big house without chains like the humans who can read. She will teach our hatchlings. Can I listento her lesson to improve my stories? Will I create stories without my fellow hybrids who need my words to ease their fears? If only Harriett had time to teach the other hybrids about stories. Even if she survived claiming my eggs, the birth will probably kill her. All human women die. All my hatchlings die. Even most of the eggs die before their precious little ones can hatch.
I roll to press my face onto the floor, releasing the strain on my tentacles and barbels. Sobs shake my shoulders. They yank my facial limbs, which stick to the cement with dried blood. The sting is a constant reminder of how powerless I am in this cell.
Mr. Breyers left hours ago…Please don’t let him find Harriett.Do I trust Papa to protect her from Mr. Breyers, even if he has bad reasons? More tears flow. Maybe they will soften the blood, release my barbels, and allow me to lift my head. I must stand on my feet before Papa or Mr. Breyers returns. I’m not ready to die. Ever since I was a hatchling, their taunting has haunted my nightmares…
Footsteps, too real to be in my daydreams.
Panic squeezes my chest.Aaah!I cry out as I rip my limbs from their bonds on the floor, leaving green strips of flesh in the stains. The worst pain is from the sucker torn from my right-most barbel. I suck on that tentacle in a child-like attempt to stop the pain. My shoulders scream as I boost myself to sit on my knees. The soles of my feet no longer have skin.
I test placing the bottom of my right foot on the floor without weight. It’s like stepping on a hive of angry bees. Running a tentacle over the chopped meat attached to my foot bones feels like combing through a carcass for offal. I can’t stand, let alone fight my way out of here. It’ll hurt too much. How will I save my family?
The heavy iron door of the dungeon opens.
Keys rattle from their hook at the doorway.
Fear silences my pain. My knees slide in the puddles of blood as I crawl to the darkest corner. I curse the sun’s rays for shrinking the one hiding place in the empty box. My tentacles and barbels curl under my chin. I place my back toward the cell’s door, hugging my legs to my chest. My neck presses against the wall to protect my head in the corner. If Mr. Breyers comes in swinging, he will add more lashes to my back…not my softer spots.
“Phin, oh my Phin.” Hairy’s voice soothes my heart like a healing salve from the nursery. My mind must be defeated because my soul reaches for its mate for comfort on the journey to the afterlife. Will I be judged at heaven’s gates and sent to hell for punishment? Will the angels listen to my misspoken words or give me lips to beg for forgiveness? I close my eyes to drift into the void with Hairy’s kisses on my brow.
“Phin, Phin, can you hear me?” Her worried voice mends the cracks in my mind.
“His heart beats.” How is Ruth here? Did they throw Ruth down here to break me? Have they run out of flesh on my battered body to cut?
“We must move him.” Thomas? There are only two cells in the second dungeon. Who’s sharing a cell?
“You can’t move him without wrapping him in wet cloth. We can’t risk tearing the exposed muscles,” my darling Hairy’s voice wraps itself between the voices of my swamp friends.
“Why wet?” Listen to her, Ruth!
“Dry cloth will stick to the wounds as the blood dries,” Hairy says as her palms cradle my cheeks. If this is a dream, my mind will burst into pieces, but I must know if I can say goodbye to my unhatched young.
I risk opening my eyes. Ruth’s bright coloring fades as she leaves the room in a hurry. My eyes focus on the most beautiful vision I’ve ever imagined.
