Dear Alexander,
It will not be easy for me to tell you this story. Don’t ask me how, but I knew from the moment we met that I would. I was going to tell you the whole awful thing. Perhaps that is why I avoided you at first. Regardless, I still haven’t entirely decided how to say it all. I suppose a letter will have to do.
I’ve already told you that I was adopted. I told you about my parents, the Andersons, and how well they have loved me. They have walked with me patiently through impossible circumstances, and have never once given up on me. They have never alienated me, or even lost their temper. I owe them everything that I am. What I haven’t told you is where I lived before then. Alex, before I knew the Andersons, before I ever traveled the world, and before I knew anything about small, beautiful Westridge, I knew only Droughton Hill.
I haven’t tried, and if you choose to respect my wishes, you won’t either, but it probably isn’t hard to find Droughton Hill. It’s somewhere in Ontario, and I only learned that by accidentally stumbling on some paperwork last summer. It is, at first glance, a small orphanage in the mountains. Inside, It has white brick walls all decorated with paintings of children playing, of smiling butterflies and chubby caterpillars. I’m remembering now for the first time in years that I used to sit and stare at the cartoon apple tree which covered the front of our classroom. I would focus on the big, red apples with their painted smiles, and try not to fall asleep. I was so tired, Alex. All of us were. That’s probably most of my memories before the Andersons: trying not to fall asleep. God knows we didn’t sleep at night.
My arrival at Droughton Hill is probably my first clear memory. I was either five or had just turned six, and for some reason I don’t care to find, my parents were no longer taking care of me. My doctor tells me that they probably never did, that I seem to have been stunted for some time, but recovered before I turned six. I can thank Droughton for that, but not much more. The night I arrived at Droughton is somewhat of a haze in my mind. I remember a car, a stranger, being very uncomfortable, and then I remember carrying a heavy bag on my back. It was dark and cold outside. One of our nannies walked me back to our sleeping quarters, and I had to carry all of my belongings the whole way. I remember crying because it was so heavy, and I was so tired, but she wouldn’t help me. She walked me into this big, wide room full of beds, and told me which one was mine. Usually, new children had to change into their new clothes immediately, but this particular nanny was in a hurry. She walked me to a mattress with no sheets, told me to go to sleep, and practically jogged out of the room. I would guess that I just dropped my bag at my feet and climbed in, but I only remember laying on the bare mattress and shivering.
I was crying when I met Clara: when Clara saved my life.
“Hey!” she hissed in a loud whisper. “New girl!”
I turned and stared at her for a while, not sure what to say. She was a lot older than me, probably ten or eleven. She had blonde hair and blue eyes, and a very pretty face.
“Come here. Now!” She whispered again, sounding urgent and more than a little threatening. I lowered my bare feet gingerly to the icy tile floor, and carried a pillow against my chest. When I approached her bed, she shimmied over and lifted her sheets. “Get in.”
At this point, I should have been comforted by this. She was obviously being kind; however, my eyes by now had adjusted to the dark. Every kid in that room was awake, watching me, eyes wide and alert. That’s when I noticed a smell, something like rot, sweat, and raisins. Alex, not many people know this, but that is what fear smells like. If you pack fifty people in a room, and do something horrible to them, terrify them, eventually they smell like rot, sweat, and raisins. I didn’t find comfort in her strange embrace as I climbed into her bed. Immediately, the blankets enveloped me in smothering warmth; her arms restrained me. She whispered almost silently now.
“Listen to me, little girl. I need you to listen.” Her breath was shaky, uneven. “You need to be quiet. Don’t talk, don’t cry, just breathe. Don’t move at all, okay? Just pretend you’re asleep. Nod If you understand.” I did, but I was shaking now too. She squeezed a little tighter, and it started to hurt. I was just about to whimper when I heard it: the sound of a heavy metal door scraping the tiles. Its hinges wailed as Clara’s breath stopped. Her heart pounded through me, and my eyes locked open under the sheet. I was suddenly thankful for her iron embrace inside my smothering tent. Then, there was only the sound of our shallow breaths. Clara gave me the faintest “shhh”. The silence persisted, tightening a knot of anticipation in my throat.
And then it began. Suddenly and all at once, there was pitter-pattering, like many wet socks along the ground. It was a busy, fast paced sound that seemed to cross the long room in seconds. Back and forth, up and down it went, putt putt putt PUTT PUTT PUTT putt putt putt, even seeming to crawl along the ceiling at times. It patrolled every inch of the room, making laps around our little tent and fraying my nerves. The sound went on for so long that I almost became numb to it, as though it were rainfall or the crackling of a fire. I would nod off for a moment, and then it would return, seeming louder than before. More than once, it startled me, and I felt Clara’s arms cinch down with a quiet “shhh”. It went on like this, and I do not know for how long. Probably several hours in, I realized that I had to pee. It was such a hopeless feeling, with no foreseeable end. Even as little as I was, I knew in my bones that If I moved an inch, If I cried, If I even whimpered, I was already dead.
That’s when it stopped; it was the first change in hours. There was silence, a mortifying stillness. Clara did not even breathe, and neither did I. Perhaps it was gone, I thought. Perhaps it had finally ended, and I could go pee. Maybe I would learn this kind girl’s name, and then, oh Jesus I could sleep. If only it had been over, Alex. I’m shaking almost too much to write, and I’m sorry for my handwriting, but it wasn’t over. The sound returned so subtly that I almost missed it. It was at the other end of the room, slowly shambling now, one soft pat after the other. That poor girl. She knew. She had to know. I could hear her crying.
“No no no please don’t,” She was quiet at first, mumbling helplessly. Pitt. Pitt. Pitt. Her pleading grew louder as the sound crossed the room. I think she stirred in her sleep, and it must have noticed her from the other side of the aisle. She was already screaming when it reached her. She sobbed, but I never heard her try to run. She must have been too afraid. I wondered darkly what she was seeing, what had made that awful sound. That’s when her scream was choked off. I could hear the gritty, gargled terror in her stifled groans as something lifted her up from her bed. This time, and perhaps only this time, I heard arms and legs hit and kick the ceiling tiles. I think she was searching for something to hold onto. She stayed there, choking and gurgling in the air for a prolonged breath. Then, a sudden swish of fabric followed a sickening, rolling THUNK. It was like a bag of apples falling from the back of a truck, heavy and wet. It was the sound of a little girl’s body being thrown against the tile floor with enough force to shatter bone, followed by a tortured silence. Then, impossibly, horribly, there was a ragged gasp of air and a long, broken cry. Her awful, drunken groan lifted again to the ceiling, and without a moment’s pause, was thrust mercilessly to the floor once, twice, again, again, again. With each horror, the sound grew less solid, more wet, until there was a constant splattering between impacts. The room persisted once more in silence, permeated only by the rhythmic dripping like a badly leaking faucet. Then, the shambling began again, splat, splat, spat. The dripping of her ruined body followed until the door screeched shut.
Clara didn’t let go of me, but I could hear the room stir. My eyes were dry, pinned open by the same force that shut my jaws together. My fists were crammed into tight, painful knots. My bottom lip was bleeding, and my heart felt exhausted from the pounding strain. Then, for the first time, I could smell myself: rot, sweat, and raisins. And pee.