Della flinched as she took it from my hands. “A suicide note.”
“Yes.” Martin Murray nodded. “One that explains a little but not a lot. But one that I feel will mean more to you than to us.”
With that cryptic comment, he left us to talk to the team by the wardrobe, and Della and I drifted to the window where torches and spotlights shone through the darkness, illuminating skeletons of those who weren’t as lucky as us.
I coughed and swallowed, my hands balling. “Should we read it?”
Della skimmed it. “I don’t know.”
We stood there for a moment, soaking in the ramifications. Finally, I stood taller. “Read it.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.” Crossing my arms, I waited.
Slowly, she smoothed the page and began.
“To whomever finds this.
“My name is Marion Mclary and I have ten minutes left to live. When my husband returns from the fields, I’m going to take the shotgun and shoot him in his heartless chest and then, I’m going to put myself out of my misery.”
Della glanced up, her face whitening before her eyes locked back on the page.
“The kids are gone. Half of them sold at rock bottom price to Kyle Harold and half poisoned by the creek. At least none of them will escape and tell the world what we’ve done.
Then again, I don’t care what happens after I’ve gone. I don’t care that everything will come to light, and the church will turn on us, and our friends will know the truth.
I don’t care because I stopped caring the day I married into this evil and went along with my husband’s plans.
I’m not entirely to blame. After all, I did become the buyer and seller of our little worker bees. As far as I was concerned, we needed labour and labour ain’t cheap…unless you buy it young.
I could’ve continued with what we were doing. This isn’t the kind of letter where I confess to my crimes and beg for forgiveness.
There is nothing to forgive. We lived our life the way we wanted.
I don’t care Willem raped those little girls. I don’t care he mutilated those little boys. Everyone needs discipline in their lives. Even if those lives were short.
I know I have a one-way ticket to the devil, and I’m not going fill this page with lies.
But I am going to admit a secret that Willem never knew. The secret that’s the reason why I’m pulling the trigger.
Della Donna Mclary.
My baby girl.
She wasn’t supposed to be born. I tried to kill her. I tried to starve her out. But the church says thou shall not abort, so I let her come into our dark world.
And for a time, I didn’t feel any different.
I didn’t see her in the girls screaming as Willem molested them. I didn’t see her in the kids starving in the barn.
She wasn’t like them.
But then one day, I did see her like them. I saw her eyes flicker as Willem booted that boy from the kitchen. I saw her scream when Willem shot the kid for letting the sheep out.
And I knew she’d either end up in her father’s bed, or worse, become like us.
Just because I’m not apologising for what we did, doesn’t mean I didn’t know it was against the Lord’s teachings.
And for once, I wanted to do right by God rather than just sing pretty hymns in church.
I was going to do the world a favour.
I was going to kill her before she became me.
For weeks, I tried to do it.
Holding her under in the bath until she blew bubbles.
Clamping my hand over her nose and mouth until she kicked.
I could inspect a child from some white trash family and offer money for their offspring, yet I couldn’t kill my own daughter.
Then I saw that skinny runt of a boy think about escaping. He snuck into the house one night, scurrying like a rat in the dark, stealing food and placing them in Willem’s backpack by the door.
Normally, I would’ve told Willem to shoot him. To kill him dead before the sun rose.
But…he was my chance.
My one chance at killing my daughter without having her blood on my hands.
So…I let him believe he wasn’t noticed.
I held my tongue when he looked at my Della, and I watched that scrawny toad make his move.
When he slipped from the locked barn the next night—revealing a security issue—I knew it was time and grabbed my sleeping daughter and stuffed her in the backpack where his rations were ready to escape.
She was a good girl. She didn’t wake up as I zipped her in and hid her in the darkness.
That little rat poked his head into my house, sniffed around, then slung on the backpack with surprise in his eyes from the extra weight.
He looked as if he’d take it off again and check his supplies.