Page 63 of Unwell
‘You should have been mine,’ I whispered to the baby, my heart breaking at the deceased child in my arms. She fit just right. And she’d been Robert’s. And he’d done it for me. However sickly twisted that had been.
I had given Ginny as long as I could. Let her rock the little corpse and sing her lullabies. To pretend or sink into her delusion. But I couldn’t hold Marney off forever.
So we’d struck a deal.
A deal that landed Ginny in the chair.
‘No,’ Ginny sobbed, thrashing weakly against the leather bindings. ‘Elijah, please. Don’t let them hurt me. Don’t let them hurt my baby.’
Her wild eyes roved the room before settling on me.
Her terror broke a piece of me. Every soft touch and sweet moment flashing as I watched the last vestiges of Ginny. My arms tightened around the baby without meaning to.
The syringe slid into her vein, sending a paralysing dose of sedative into her. Her body stilled, eyes wide and wet.
‘Please…’ she mouthed.
Then Marney tilted her head back, fingers white against her jaw.
‘Such a pretty little disaster,’ he crooned, beforelooking over at me. I swallowed, knowing I was selling my soul to the devil.
I gave the nod, then turned away as they brought out the spike.
The sound was worse than I’d ever imagined. A crack. A wet shuffle before bone gave way. Ginny’s breath hitched once, then steadied into that vacant silence I’d heard from so many before her.
I pressed my face into the baby’s ribbon-wound neck, rocking her as though she still lived. The satin was damp and sticky. I removed it carefully, as if that could undo what was already done.
Her face sagged against me, her lips darker now and the smell sharper. My stomach lurched.
I couldn’t bear it.
Thrusting the bundle into someone else’s arms, I couldn’t bear it any more. I felt sick with relief.
Sick with loss.
I had worn Elijah’s scent to let Ginny believe there was hope.
And now she was gone.
THIRTY-NINE
NANCY
Ginny sat by the window overlooking the grounds, her hands limp in her lap. The light caught what was left of her hair, cropped ragged and thin. She didn’t hum any more. Didn’t whisper. Didn’t laugh.
The lobotomy had stolen all of her shine.
The Ginny I had obsessed over was dead. Every touch, every smile and every horrible sin was nothing but a memory.
Her body lived on. Breathing and blinking. Heart beating and lungs expanding. Yet, behind all the vitality was an absence that pained me.
I stepped closer, cradling a weighted doll in my arms. Its eyes stared up glassy and bright, its clothlimbs sagging. I’d dressed it in matching pyjamas to the ones we’d buried Alice in. Placing it gently in her arms, I stopped to touch her warm cheek.
Ginny ignored the doll, her gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the window.
My hand trembled as I reached into my pocket, drawing out a perfect pink ribbon. The same one I had unwound from the baby’s cold neck. Dark stains still marred the satin, but the bow tied neatly enough.
I slipped it around the doll’s neck and pulled it tight in a pretty bow.
