I Can’t Just Let it Go :: Adelia

Words: 1094

Characters: Adelia, Adelia’s “Father”

Copying Devo, I’m going to be doing some thematic stories about some of my OCs. Let’s start on a low note with my personal favorite, Adelia. It both describes and implies various sorts of abuse, so read with caution.

I’ve been keeping this hidden for a year and half, and now I’m ready to just straight up reveal what is perhaps Adelia’s biggest secret.

Nobody ever decides to murder somebody at random, you know. Well… I don’t believe that’s how it works, at the very least. I could be wrong- as of late it seems to be that I quite often am. Though I’m fairly certain about this, as I would best know, wouldn’t I? No, nobody simply decides to murder without a reason in their mind, be it a bizarre or even quite rational reason. In my case, I like to think it was rational, but nothing in my life was rational or conventional from the moment I was taken away. Honestly, I hesitate to call it a life, as it was anything but. I was not addressed with humanity during those years, so perhaps it would be best to say that my life took a hiatus, if you will. A very long hiatus that I have finally returned from. Suffice it to say, I started my years of massacre for a very specific reason. A turning point- no, not turning. A breaking point. Because after that moment, I snapped like a twig and would not look back until so much later.

I was on the cusp of fourteen, and it had been just shy of two years since I had been taken to America by my father. Of course, he was not really my father, by any meaning of the word. But that’s all I ever knew him as. Father.

While everything up to that point was horrific-I will save you the gory details-I still was able to survive. I took a deep breath and tried to forget all the horrible things. To forget that I was a captive in both that house and my mind. I remained complacent so that he would play nice with me. And that’s what he did. Played.

I sat still while he dyed my hair pink. I stood still as he dressed me in frilly garments that looked as though they were straight from a fairy tale. I didn’t dare move a muscle as he took picture after picture of me, his doll. And when that was done, I would lie still and close my eyes as he took me to his room. I didn’t want the tears to come- he hated it when I cried like that. I was always still. Always. I couldn’t dare move, and I wouldn’t. I was a doll. His doll.

Though that winter, when I was just shy of fourteen, it happened. I didn’t know it at first; how could I have? Things were the same routine every day, and by this point it was such a dull pain in my heart that I saw no reason to look for anything but the same thing as how it always was. It simply was the way things were. I was his doll; a beautiful, youthful, and unchanging doll that would not dare move lest he was the one to orchestrate me.

But there was one problem.

One day, I started to change. I truly did not notice at first. I think it went on for a month, maybe two… then, we both noticed.

He knew I wasn’t gaining weight- he fed me the same meal every day for two years prior and each day after until I left. He asked me all sorts of weird questions as I looked down at my growing stomach. I didn’t exactly understand at first, trying to piece it together- he spoke so fast, and I was still learning English. Though after some time, I realized.

I was going to bear a child.

I didn’t know how to feel. How was I supposed to feel? I was thirteen, a glorified hostage, and the child I was carrying was that of my “father”? I was horrified, though there was nothing I could do, I figured.

Days passed. Father came to see me less and less, as he looked pensive- angry, even. I stayed in my room, alone. Except I wasn’t exactly alone anymore, was I? I was with my child to be. Oddly enough, that thought began to give me solace. It was so bittersweet. Soon, I wouldn’t be alone in this world, but… but did I want to bring someone into such a hell of a house? I didn’t have a choice, though the thought did still weigh on my mind.

I began spending all my time in front of the mirror, marveling at what was happening. That I would have someone, someone to love and be loved by. Someone who would be my family, I thought. Even if everyone and everything else in this world was terrible, I would have someone now, wouldn’t I? I began to fantasize about the very idea of my loneliness being quelled at last.

One morning, a couple of weeks after the realization, Father came to my room. I hadn’t seen him in days, which was a record. I rather liked his absence. There was nothing when he wasn’t around, and I loved it that way. Nothingness.

He carried in a tray with my meal and a drink. He had never come to bring me food. Nobody did- it was simply at my bedside when I woke up each morning. Though today, he brought my breakfast. I thought that maybe he would treat me better now that we were having a child. Maybe it would change him if he had a child around. I began to hope that things would be better. That it would change everything.

Such thoughts were short-lived.

I ate the meal with gratitude, and drank the beverage of course. I would not waste any of his generosity. It did not take long before I felt unimaginably tired. He smiled and told me to go to sleep. I did.

The next morning, I woke up in my bed as usual. I looked to the side and saw my meal was laid out in the usual place. I sat up to get out of bed, and felt a sharp pain. Glancing down, my eyes grew wide.

My stomach was as flat as a board.

Upon further inspection, there were neat stitches across my abdomen. It took no time to piece together what had happened.

And then, the daily routine carried on as normal.

But I would not. I could not. I could not carry on like this any longer.

Enough was enough.

He murdered my child.

He took me. He took my flesh. He took my child.

And so I took as many lives as I could in hopes that it would fill the hole that he carved out of me.