Page 25 of Milk
“You do. Let it out. Confess. I know what you are. I know what you can do. Just like you know what I am. We’re the same.”
“We are not the same!”
“Yes, we are,” Carter said evenly. “We’re survivors. We do whatever it takes to live.”
Iheld back the tears and clenched my eyes shut. Flames roared and crackled in my head, trying to turn every memory to ash, but nothing I remembered could be burned.
“We are killers,” he insisted, watching me with those piercing, unforgiving eyes.
I hid my face in my hands as I sobbed. His hand caressed my shoulder. His thumb rubbed in soft circles as he shifted next to me.
“It’s okay. You can tell me, my baby calf. I already know. Let it all out. Tell your story; you’ll feel better. Nothing you say will make me stop caring for you.”
His offer was tempting. Maybe he was luring me into a trap, enthralling me with promises to get me to confess to the worst thing I’ve ever done. What was there really to hide at this point? I was here, a prisoner, talking to a killer. If this was a trap, I’d walk into it, gladly. I was tired of running.
“Fine,” I said, as I lifted my head from my hands. “I’ll tell you…”
The words spilled out of me.
At some point, my father had decided that I was too shameful to be kept above ground. Despite him and my brother coming to my bedroom every other night to use me, humiliate me, and get off using my mouth. He decided to move me to the basement. He had bolted an iron ring to the wall and attached a shackle and chain to my neck. I was given some room to walk around, but still had to relieve myself in a bucket. They’d only come to empty it every couple of days, likely when the smell was reaching the main house. My father had given me a rusty bed frame and a mattress, but no sheets.
The first two months I was there, I cried myself to sleep every night. I thought the nightly visits would at least stop, but they didn’t. Three months into my new life, my father, along with my brother, Jake, came down to the basement to use me once again. That time, I put up a fight. A fierce one. I was weak, but I was heavy. Eventually, my exhausted father told me that they were going to let me go on Rumspringa at the end of the yearifI was a good daughter. They would free me if I behaved until then. The faint hope made me stop fighting. I agreed. I serviced them that night without being forced. Every night they came down, about three or four times a week, I did as they demanded, all while looking forward to that day…
But when the date finally came, nobody came to release me. The door of the basement remained locked. I cried andbanged on the walls until my father showed up. He opened the little window in the basement door and shouted down that ‘the plans had changed,’ before shutting it again. I was terrified and furious. I’d been angry before, but I felt something else, more. Something much more primal.
The next night, he showed up with my brother and I told him I was done servicing them. He would have to kill me because I’d never do anything for him again. He disagreed. He said that I’d do one last thing, then told my brother to drop his pants. My father told me it was time I carried on the family legacy. My brother was old enough to be a father, but there were no unwed girls his age left in the village.
I realized that I would never be free. I had to free myself. My father had the keys to my shackles on his belt. So I laid back and allowed my brother to come between my legs while watching those keys. While Jake stroked himself to get hard, I grabbed a clay plate they’d left with me and smashed it on his head. While he was disoriented and bleeding, I grabbed a shard and stabbed him three or four times in the crotch.
The shard cut my hand almost as badly as it cut him, but he was bleeding plenty and there was no way he could get hard. As he screamed, my father stared dumbfounded. I took my chance to attack him as he went to help Jake. He was faster than I planned. He turned on me quickly. He was a strong man. But I was heavy. I pushed my weight into him and, as he fell, I wrapped the chain of my shackles around his neck. I sat on top of his arms and pulled back. I strangled him with my chains. I watch him suffocate and die slowly. While he gasped, struggled, and clawed at his neck, I felt nothing. Just rage. So much rage.
He was dead and Jake was still crying and bleeding, calling my father’s name with drool and snot on his face. I took the keys from my father’s belt, opened my shackles, and waited. My mother came, eventually, to see what my brother was screamingabout. I hid next to the stairs and as she came down, I reached between the steps, grabbed her leg, then shoved her. She fell down the stairs, landing next to my father’s body, soaking herself in my brother’s blood.
I still felt nothing.
I felt nothing as I robbed the house of everything of value. Nothing as I locked the basement and poured oil across the kitchen floor, and the porch. I felt nothing as I lit the fire and watched the house burn down. I heard the blood-curdling screaming of my mother burning, but all I felt was rage.
They were burning a hell of our joint creation. They’d called me a demon, I’d been their final punishment. As much as I wanted to enjoy the moment, I couldn’t stay.
I walked out of the community, walked all night, and most of the next day until I collapsed. Later, I woke up in Jason’s truck. He took me to the Children of Gaia.
“That’s how I ended up working with them. They didn’t ask questions but helped me get a proper ID. They believed my runaway Amish story. They seemed to care about animals. I never cared about anything in my life, I was never given the chance. So, I decided I cared about them too. I cared enough to work for them. To come here,” I concluded.
Slowly, I looked at Carter and saw true pain and sorrow in his eyes.
“So yes,” I whispered. “I’m a killer. I killed my own family, but they deserved it. I have no regrets,”
Carter shook his head and gave me a bittersweet smile.
“I told you. We’re the same.”
She looked at me with hope. “You know my secret. I know yours. You can let me go. I won’t tell the police anything. If I did, you could tell. Just let me go, please?”
I shook my head. She didn’t understand, but I wanted her to.
“That town hates you, Tiff, and you hate that town. It’s a shitty hick town full of bigots, racists, and Jesus-freaks. Did they ever treat you well? Anyone except Wren?”
She stayed quiet. There was hesitation in her, but eventually, she shook her head.
