The Children on the Hill(82)

Can’t be, can’t be, can’t be: The words were a wishful train chugging in her ears. Can’t be, can’t be.

But it was.

And hadn’t some part of her known all along? Hadn’t some part of her been preparing?

Vi was down on the ground on her knees, and Iris was shaking her shoulders. “Vi! Violet! Wake up, Violet!”

But Violet Hildreth was a made-up name. A character.

Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?

She opened her eyes, and they were no longer Violet Hildreth’s eyes.

She stood up on shaky legs and walked to the file cabinet.

“Vi?” Iris said. “Talk to me, Vi.”

She began to pull the files out, not even looking at the contents through her tear-filled eyes, just throwing the papers all over the floor.

I am Patient S.

And she felt it in her chest, blooming, the words sure and strong: I am a monster.

This she knew how to be.

The pages were scattered around the room now like a strange fallen snow. She tipped over the heavy metal cabinet, letting the scream that had been building inside her out at last.

She’d give them a monster.

She’d give them the worst monster the world had ever seen.

And wouldn’t Gran be sorry then?

She’d make Gran sorry.

Sorry for everything she’d done.

Vi picked up the wooden chair and smashed it against the wall, breaking its back and legs. She was amazed by her own strength, by the power and fury flowing inside her, lighting her up, making her crackle and glow.

THIS is who I am, who I am, who I am!

“Vi!” Iris was calling, “Violet, stop!” but her voice sounded far off, a voice at the end of a long dark tunnel.

Vi felt a hand on her shoulder, gentle at first, then firm, turning her.

But it wasn’t her shoulder anymore. It was the shoulder of a girl named Vi, a paper-doll girl who no longer existed.

“It’s okay,” Iris said, pulling Vi closer. “Shh, it’s going to be okay. Please talk to me, Vi.”

Iris petted at Vi’s hair, touched Vi’s face, looked at her with such love, but also a trace of pity. It was an I’m so sorry look. Iris was crying, tears running down her pale face.

The girl named Vi—what was left of her—loved Iris, loved her so much her chest ached and she could hardly catch her breath.

But the monster was full of hate and scorn and fury.

And the monster was stronger.

The monster was winning.

“Let go of me,” she ordered.

“No,” Iris said. “Vi, I—”

“Let me go!” she roared, but Iris held tight.

The monster reeled back, making a fist with her right hand, swinging her arm through the air. It seemed to happen in slow motion, and what caught Vi most off guard was not her strength, but Iris’s expression of pure bewilderment and disbelief.

Vi’s fist made contact with Iris’s temple, and Iris went down, sprawling backward, hitting the back of her head on the edge of the desk with a sickening crack. She crumpled to the floor on top of the scattered notes.

The monster roared louder, ripped at her own hair, her clothes, tore her shirt, scratched deep red welts into her own chest.

Her voice became a furious, deep growl.

Her vision sharpened as colors brightened and sound intensified.

She heard footsteps rushing down the stairs, coming to see what all the commotion was about.

She heard the mad patter of rain on the roof, the crack of thunder, the sound of Eric sleeping softly in his bed, the squeak of the metal wheels going round and round in the basement.

She heard it all.

She felt it all.

And she understood, just then, what it meant to be a god. The voices of the gods who spoke to her, told her what to do, guided her every day were just her own self all along.

And now she didn’t need the gods.

She knew what must be done.

It was the only thing left to do.

She let out another roar, stepped around Iris moaning on the floor, went down the hall to the procedure room. She smashed the ECT machine on the concrete floor. Pulled bottles and vials of medicine out of the cabinet and threw them down, stomping on the broken glass and spilled liquid, dancing her own strange monster dance.

No more, no more, no more.

“Violet?” Gran was there in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, clothes thrown quickly on.

Sal lurked behind her, a great gargoyle in his blue scrubs, a man solid as stone.

“What the—” His voice trailed off.

Gran scanned the scene, saw the smashed electric-shock box, the glass bottles and vials of medicine crushed in damp puddles.

Sal took a step toward Vi.

Gran put up her hand in a stop gesture. “You may go, Sal.”

“But, Dr. Hildreth—”

“I can control my granddaughter on my own. Leave us.”

“But—”

“Don’t come down here again. And keep the rest of the staff away too.” Her I’m the boss voice, edgy as a knife, the words annunciated with perfect clarity, perfect calm.

Sal slipped away looking regretful, as if rounding up an out-of-control teenage girl would have made his night.

Gran took a step closer to Vi, her shoes loud on the cement floor. Click clack, like the hooves of an animal. A monster.