Page 47 of Choke

Our home is in pieces.

Officer Davis leads me to his cruiser and opens the front door for me to sit, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders. He asks a series of questions that I struggle to understand. I notice his soft demeanor and gray eyes, which crinkle as he smiles at me. I hear that his tone is even, steady, and calming, but still, his words don’t register. I stare blankly at the house I grew up in; even from here, the destruction inside is visible.

His hand on my shoulder grabs my attention, and I jump back from his touch, lifting my hands over my head to protect myself.

He takes a step back, offering both hands in front, allowing me to see that he isn’t armed with a weapon; he isn’t planning to hurt me. My heart beats wildly, the thunder of it deafening. I wrap my arms aroundmyself, holding onto my biceps. I’m frozen and can’t stop shivering, but my hands feel clammy and hot.

Officer Davis leans down slightly, catching my gaze, before slowly rising. The noises in my head, the screams, the crashes, and the sound of my heart all fade away, and I can hear the sounds of the police radio, the paramedics whispering, and the neighbor talking on the phone, telling someone our business. The officer clears his throat.

“Morgan, do you know what set her off?” He asks, for at least the second time.

Shifting my eyes back to the house, I blink slowly.

My voice is hollow. “I told her I didn’t want mashed potatoes.”

MAD

Adrian

Present Day

“Okay, so. First of all, a little unhinged, man.” Cally’s tone is playful through the speaker of the phone. “Not even gonna give you shit. I’m just saying, a little unhinged. However, I did some digging.”

I watch the screen as he speaks. The room is dark, and the night vision is triggered. Everything bathed in a sickly green glow. That fucking creature she owns stares, its eyes burning white. Possessed.

“Appreciate you,” I say absently, my attention on her.

“You should appreciate me — you know, the kind of shit I could get in for pulling someone’s file.” There is a slight edge in his tone.

“Well, you had just cause. Her apartment was broken into, and you had to file a report. Besides, when have you ever cared about getting in shit?” I tease, still not entirely paying attention to him.

“Yeah, yeah.” He sighs. “She grew up in Carrodock County — some small town out West. Likely the one you met her in?” He questions.

“Yeah, that would make sense. Some bum-fuck town.”

“Yep, that’s the one. Anyway, parents split when she was a kid. Around ten years old, maybe? She lived with the mom for years until one night, around thirteen years ago, the mom snapped—and tried to kill her with a knife. After that —” He talks like this is the most casual story.

I rear back from the phone.

“Sorry. Stop.” I interrupt. “Her mom tried to kill her with a knife?”

“Yeah. Your girl called 911 from a closet and was able to lock herself in until the local law got there. The mom was institutionalized, andfrom what I can see, she never got out. She’s in a federally owned psychiatric facility not far from the town they lived in.”

I love how it sounds when he says ‘your girl,’ but my jaw tightens as he speaks.

She was just a kid.

“What happened after they took her mom away?” I grit out.

“Her dad was in the picture, just not in the house. It looks like she went to live with him for a while, and then her record goes dark, almost entirely, for nearly a decade. She pops back up just shy of ten years later, going by the name Lex.” I can tell he is reading while he is speaking.

“Alexandria isn’t her actual name?” I press.

“It’s her middle name, shortened. Her first name is Morgan. Morgan Alexandria Donnelly.” He reads.

MORGAN ALEXANDRIA DONNELLY.

MAD.

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