“Roadside”



By Loretta H. Campbell




          She was leaning against a tree unbuttoning her blouse. In the clear twilight, he could see her breasts roll out like caramel apples. Her
hair was impossibly blonde, and her lips were unnaturally
red.



          Driving past, he had watched, stopped, and gotten out of his car a few yards from her. The roadside was deserted except for the two of them on this warm spring evening in Suffolk, Virginia.


 He looked at himself in the rear view mirror, salt white face, pepper black hair, closely cropped.   

          His tailor-made suit fit his frame in a business-like fashion. At 6 feet, he was trim, not muscular. He adjusted his tie.



          Suddenly, she headed towards the woods looking back at
him invitingly. He followed. He didn’t lock his car. Still, he took his time to catch up with her.



          He was confident of the easy sex being offered to him no questions asked. Yet, his eyes were lasers. From where he watched, he could see she had the breasts of a woman who had nursed children. He estimated
that her hips were a little wide from childbearing. She wasn’t bad looking, but she’d clearly seen better days. She was aging fast, probably her lifestyle; he reasoned.



          She took his slowness for indecision. So, she lifted her skirt. He stopped a few paces from her.  She dropped her hem and looked at the man provocatively.



         The woman’s eyes went wide as he smiled then turned to look behind him. He listened for the sound that he knew so well. It would be something inaudible to the human ear, a footfall on a twig, gravel crunching, the sound of a man approaching.




          This would be her pimp or accomplice.


          He dropped to one knee just as a bullet whizzed past his right ear. A fat, dark skinned black man took aim again.



          Because he was infinitely faster than the man firing at him, the target had his teeth in the attacker’s throat and ripped it out before the man could pull the trigger a second time.



          The intended victim could hear the woman breathing heavily as she turned to run. “A real professional,” he thought. “She didn’t bother to scream.” Yet, he was on her in an instant. He held her tightly and ascended to the highest
tree branch lit by the brightest moonlight. Now, she couldn't scream because she was terrified.



          This was exactly what he wanted. He tore the silly and cheap blonde wig she was wearing from her head and threw it to the ground. Her hair smelled of sweat and dandruff. It stood up in small nappy kinks all over
her scalp.



          He clamped her head in his hand. Then, he looked into her blood shot irises and scanned the broken veins tracing her face.




          “Do you want to live?” He asked her. He could see his reflection in her eyes, the whiter than white man with the gleaming black hair. His mouth was slicked over with blood.



          She was going into shock. She thought, “He’s wearing a suit. Sweet Jesus, like one of them office punks.”



          He tightened his grip. “Answer me bitch,” he snarled. “Do you want to live?”



          She choked out, “Yes. Please, please...don’t kill me.”


          He nodded, flung her over his shoulder, and flew down to the ground.



          From where she hung, she had a grisly view of her partner, his nearly severed head twisted to one side.




          “Obey me and live. Disobey me and die. Can you remember that?” Her captor said patronizingly while setting her on her feet.




          The woman nodded.


          “What’s your name?” He asked her.



          She wasn’t listening: she was staring at the corpse of the man. His killer could smell the urine running down her legs.



          Hysterically, she stammered out, “Wha…What did you do to Tyrone? How did you get up the tree? What...wha”



          He slapped her.


          “I asked you a question,” he said calmly.


          “Jezebel,” she whimpered.


          “Jezebel? You’re joking right?”


          “No. That’s my stage name. Um a actress... Only...only.”




          She struggled to remember why she had become a prostitute instead.


          He didn’t want to hear the story. It was an old one anyway, and he’d heard it countless times in a myriad of countries over the centuries.



          “What’s your real name?”


          “Janice.”


          “That’s better. Listen, Janice. Go to my car. On the back seat is a sack. Bring it to me, or I’ll rip your head off.”



          Janice thought of Tyrone and walked quickly to the car. She was on automatic pilot and did as she was told without thinking beyond the task at hand.



          When she gave him the canvas bag, he pulled out a bottle of water and two wash cloths. He poured some water into a cloth and cleaned his face. He gave the other cloth and the rest of the water to Janice.



          “Wash yourself. You stink.”



          While she did that, he took an ornately carved shovel and a small oil can out of the bag. He dug a deep trench and threw the body into it.  Finally, he poured the oil in the ditch and struck a match.




Janice, both fascinated and disgusted, had watched the process that took less than ten minutes as she washed herself in full view of him.


She had never seen anybody with strength or speed like that. When she was a child, her grandmother had told her stories about haints and spirits with supernatural powers.



Although Janice had outgrown those stories, her fragile mind now accepted them as true.



As an afterthought, he retrieved the wig and burned that too. He poured more oil on the makeshift pyre and turned to Janice.



“I’m Jack Dawson, or just Dawson. You belong to me. Go get in the car and wait.”



          Robotically, Janice went to the car and curled up on the back seat. By the time Dawson got there, she was asleep. It was a warm southern evening, so he didn’t bother to cover her up.



          He drove the car to his enclave and parked. Once there, he honked the horn loudly. Janice bolted awake.


“Honey, we’re home,” he joked sardonically.



          He got out of the car and motioned for her to follow. As they walked into the house, lights came on above and around them.


          Janice gasped at the sight of the huge open space. A desk, a table, some chairs were scattered about. She saw no bed. There didn’t seem to be any other rooms. She thought about the Planters Peanuts factory warehouses she had played in as a child.



          The door slammed behind her, and she heard a lock click. Dawson sat down and outlined what he called her new situation.




          She was to bathe--always with the soap in the bathroom--and dress twice a day. She would have a check up every six months.  In a couple of days, she would have a tubal ligation. Janice wasn’t sure she understood the word ligation, but she knew the first word sounded like female tubes.  Afraid of being slapped or worse, she didn’t question him.

          Dawson continued. She would eat what was given to her and at regular intervals. She would go where she was told and return when she was told.



          “Bathroom’s that way,” he pointed to her right. “Put your clothes on the chair. Wear the dress behind the door, for now.”



          It was neither a large nor a small bathroom. It was a harsh, hard white from floor to ceiling. Everything looked new, but there were no windows.



          The soap had no smell. The towels were almost too soft to feel. The dress, a multi-colored wrap around, was a little tight.



          When she came out of the bathroom, he asked “Where are your children?” His back was to her, and he was typing on a laptop.




          Janice was starting to get the shakes. It wasn’t from fear. Her pimp had been her dealer. Without him, she couldn’t maintain, much less get high. She needed to fix.



          Dawson was something she didn’t want to believe could exist. Janice already had trouble with reality; the supernatural was pushing her sanity to the limits. She wanted to find a window, some opening to escape. There was one exit that she could see--the garage, and Dawson was directly in front of it.


          Without warning, he was right in front of her. She hadn’t seen him move. The slap was so quick that she heard it before she felt it. Her ears rang.



          “Where are your children?” He thundered.


          “I own know. ACS took ‘em,” she wheezed. It dawned on her that he didn’t ask her if she had children. How did he know?




          “Relatives?”
Now, he was back at the computer.


          “They live in New Yawk....but they calls me all the time.” She tried to sound like a person with people who cared about her.



          Dawson held up her cell phone and shook his head.


          For the first time, she thought, “God, let him kill me quick. I don’t wanna suffer.”



          Dawson flicked a switch and an examining table rose up through the floor. He motioned for her to undress and get on it. He examined her with the same precision and attention to detail as any doctor she had ever known. She stood when he was done and put the dress back on.

 

          Now, she remembered her crack pipe.



          “Listen, baby...” She was about to turn on the charm, get high, get up.



          Another slap. This one knocked her to her knees.


“Dawson. The name is Dawson.” He went back to typing.



          “Shit,” she muttered straightening herself up. “Okay.”
She wiped tears from her eyes and cleared her throat.



          “Listen, Dawson. We could have a good time. I mean I could make you feel real good. Let’s have a party. You know a little fun, some party favors. I bet you got some real good mood enhancers,” here she gave him her best wink, “around here.”




          “I wouldn’t fuck you if you had the only pussy until the end of time,” Dawson said without looking up from typing.



          That was the last straw. She was terrified. She was going to die, and she needed to fix. Janice collapsed into tears.




          Dawson paid no attention. Gradually, she cried herself to sleep on the floor.

_______________________________________________


          Janice dreamed she was sliding down a mountain. The rocks were flaying the skin from her body. Then the mountain turned into a giant snake and kept biting her over and over again. She woke up screaming.




          There was nobody there.




          At first, she didn’t remember where she was. When she did, it didn't matter because she needed something to get her straight. She lurched to her feet.



          “Hey yo!” She called. “Where you at?” Her voice echoed. She had to get her head right. She would suck Satan for some blow. That guy Dawson. Maybe he was Satan. He must have something, anything to get up. Right? She was sick. He must see that.



          She stumbled off to find him. Her entire body was trembling. She wasn’t hot or cold. She had flashes of Tyrone’s ruined throat.



          She started off in one direction and kept going.




          Unbeknownst to Janice, it was a gorgeous sunny day outside. Dawson was sleeping in the crypt under the warehouse.




          Finally, she happened onto the kitchen. She didn’t noticed how immaculate it was, almost like no one used it. She didn't care that all the flatware was plastic or the plates made of paper. There were no pots and pans.  There was a sink with a faucet; a long table, and light-weight folding chairs. There were no drinking glasses.

 

          Then she saw them, lovely little vials packed with white powder next to homemade pipes. “Better than Christmas,” she said.



          When Dawson came up from the crypt, it was the next night. He went immediately to the kitchen and knew what he’d find there.


          Slumped in a corner, Janice was in a stupor.



          He picked her up and put her in one of the late model cars that he owned. The vehicle was plain enough to be quickly forgotten if seen.




          Minutes later, he joined her dressed in what he called his best hunting togs. These were new jeans with just enough swag to get the attention of homies, and all the tags on his clothes were designer.




          He strapped on one of hundreds of his watches and drove to an abandoned factory complex that even the cops avoided.




          Then, he turned the radio volume up loud enough to be heard for half a mile.



          Now awake, Janice began to sing along, off key. Abruptly, she began to complain of stomach aches. Minutes passed, and a shiny red Mercedes pulled up a few feet away. Its piercingly bright headlights pinioned Dawson's car. He cut the music off.



          Two black men in their early 20s got out. One stood on the left and the other on the right of the car. Identical in shape and height, they were as dark as the night around them. They wore matching jeans and T-shirts. The bright yellow bandanas on their heads were crudely painted over with skulls and crossbones. Guns drawn, they said nothing.


          A short thin man the color of a penny got out last. Similarly attired, he roared, “Motherfucka, what you think you doing? You don’t sell no shit round here. Dis our turf.” He further illustrated by pulling out a large gun. “Git the fuck out that car.” The other two men trained their guns on the area around the vehicles.



          Dawson fell out of the car on his knees.


          “Please,” he pleaded. “It aint like that. My girl is sick. I just need a little someum. I can pay. It aint like that.”



          As if on cue, Janice leaned out of the car window and vomited.



          The leader considered for a moment. Then, the three inched closer to Dawson.




          It was a fatal mistake.



          He slit the throats of the two bodyguards and skewered their boss within seconds.



          As Janice was passing out, she saw Dawson fasten himself to the skinny man’s neck and heard the gurgle of blood in the killer’s mouth.




End of part A

          After he glutted himself on their blood, Dawson took his victims’ money and searched the car for more. Satisfied he gotten all the cash, he cut a finger from each man’s hands and pocketed the bloody digits. They had never been as useful to anybody as they were to him, he thought. Janice, draped over the car window, looked like a poodle.

Dawson picked up the bodies of the guards and put one near the driver’s seat and one in the passenger side of the Mercedes. Next, he drove the dealer’s car the half hour to Dismal Swamp and parked out of view of the highway. He placed the dead man in front of the wheel. With lightning speed, he walked back to his car.

He switched the places of Janice and the body of the copper-colored dealer and drove back to the parked car. Once there, he rammed the Mercedes. The collision mangled the corpses of the pusher and his bagmen.

Dawson was untouched. He wedged his way effortlessly out of the wreck and went back for Janice. She wouldn’t be awake until the following day, according to his plan.

He carried her, firefighter style, to the enclave. This time, he put her in a room.

Sensor lights came on revealing a world of monochrome beige, bed, chair, night table. He laid her down and walked over to check the surveillance cameras hidden above the door jamb. Satisfied that they worked, Dawson checked his pockets and walked out into the night.

He had always been a purposeful man. Many had and would call him amoral. Now, he walked miles and miles from his home to a crossroads. When he stopped, he sat and waited.

 In the world of Jack Dawson, time and everything else were relative. So, at some point, a shimmer materialized that looked vaguely human. Although rigid, it had the height and width of a human being.

Dawson threw the fingers at the statue. It caught them and turned to leave.

“Wait! You son of a bitch. How many more?” Dawson rasped at the receding figure.

The thing opened the same hand and the number 1,000 appeared before Dawson.

No words were exchanged. There had never been any between them. After Dawson killed, the thing came to him sooner or later. That’s how he knew he was satisfying the contract.

______________________________________

The contract had been given to Dawson after the storm.

He had been the captain of the slave ship Toro. It had been a lucrative career. He had risen from cabin boy, being buggered more times than he could count by drunken and sober captains. Despite this, he had stayed with the slave ships. The work was the easiest option for a boy with no money and 10 siblings. For a while, he sent money home. After several years, he began to save it. The letters from home decreased with his visits. He married, and moved to another state.

Dawson’s wife, Elsie, would never come to sea. Consequently, he had taken numerous African captives as his mistresses. He sold them and his children with them as soon as the ship docked. Of course, he promised not to sell any of them. To Dawson, promises made to heathens, especially black ones, weren’t to be honored. He profited greatly from these sales.

His visits to his family were once or twice a year.He left money and provisions for the upkeep of Elsie and their children. She asked nothing more from him. This had been the life he had led before the worse storm at sea he’d ever seen.

The navigator saw it coming and warned that it might be vicious. The ship’s officers agreed with Dawson that it was best to lighten the load as much as possible. Dawson knew throwing valuable merchandise into the ocean would anger the insurance company. However, he was responsible for the lives of his crew and, especially, for his own life.

 Everything on deck was tied down fast.

Using what weapons they could keep hold of, the men forced the captives overboard. The adults were first. Next, the crew just flung the children into the sea.

With the captives gone, most of the men discarded their personal weapons. Dawson kept his sword, held in a leather sheath that he had stolen from one of the captives.

The storm hit the ship like retribution. Men vanished into death from her quickly waterlogged decks.

Twenty years as captain of a slave ship, and Dawson had never seen a storm like that one. A once firm vessel began breaking into boards in a few hours.

Some of the torn and broken bodies of the Africans were washed back onto the ship. The remaining crew members scrambled to push the corpses off the sinking vessel. Most of the seamen were swept overboard in the process.

Dawson swore to serve anyone or anybody that would save him.

 

 

End of part B

 

Men were falling victim to the storm and the flying debris of the ship. Dawson clawed and crawled his way to the life boats. One was already smashed to bits. Because the battered ship protected it, another life boat was somewhat steady. It was quickly filling up with officers and crew. Where the other life boats were, he didn’t know or care. Now, everything in him was bent to survival. He would not give up his life. When he finally got to the crowded boat, he drew his sword and began hacking away at the defenseless men seated there. He didn’t stop until they were all in the water dead or drowning.

 

He got to the oars and just pulled with all his might, away from the carnage he had caused and from the storm. He steeled his nerves and rode the waves. If men called to him for help or mercy, he ignored their pleas.

 

At some point, the storm subsided. Dawson fainted from exhaustion and slept. In his dreams, he was running, but the more he ran, the hotter he got. The heat was unbearable. He awoke to find himself floating on a calm sea under the hottest sun he could remember. He had no water, and he had to relieve himself. He sat over the side of the small craft to ease his bowels. He urinated into the sheath and drank it.

 

More to summon his courage than anything else, he looked up and mouthed to the sky.  “I am not going to die, goddammit!” He cursed God, his mother, all living or dead, the storm, and his current horrors.

 

In a manner of speaking, he was right about not dying. His tirade produced the desired effect.

 

 A human-like creature appeared in the boat.  

 

At first, Dawson thought it was a trick of the light. He squinted at it. It moved closer and held up what looked like meat and a cup. Dawson, now sure he was delusional, laughed. When he stopped and looked again, the figure was still there. Thinking he would touch air, Dawson reached for what was offered. The cup was cold. The meat was hot. He was desperate for hope, even false hope, even hallucinations. He drank and ate.

 

 He never knew how long he was at sea on the lifeboat. Over time, the image only came to him at night.  He ate and drank. It never spoke; nor did Dawson. He took off his clothes and slept under them during the day because the sun became completely, unbearable to him.

 

When he was awake, he rowed. Where didn’t matter. He was determined to find land. One evening, he lost his footing while changing position and fell into the water. Although a strong swimmer, he knew he was no match for the ocean at night. All of a sudden, he realized he could see perfectly underwater. Plus, he wasn’t breathing. It was as if he was dancing. His movements were agile; his hearing was acute.

 

He shot to the surface. “I’m dead,” he thought. “I died at sea, and now my soul is trapped here.” Just as quickly, he was ravenous. Looking around him, he saw a school of fish. He dove into it and began biting and sucking the fish dry. When the other fish tried to escape, he swam after them. Once he was sated, he stopped.

 

Now lost, he thought he’d gone mad. He had been underwater the whole time.  He came to the surface sure he’d never find the boat, but he saw it about a mile away. Swimming to it was no strain.

 

Somewhere in the back of it, his mind had accepted what he had done to the captives and to his own men. He was a murderer, but that didn’t disturb him.

 

The figure was sitting in the boat when Dawson climbed back in. This time, it held out a sheet of paper, a quill, and a small knife. He had come to accept the wraith as his savior without question. He had allowed himself to believe in a miracle just for him. He read the sheet of paper by the light of a luminous moon.

 

“To serve the powers of darkness, in darkness. For each life taken, mine will be lengthened by days. Like unto like.” 

“Yes”, he thought. “Life is what I asked for.” He cut his finger, dipped the quill into the blood, and signed.

 

Now, he realized the meat had been that of his victims, and the cup hadn’t been filled with water. It had been filled with their blood.

 

When the boat touched land sometime maybe days or weeks later, Dawson knew what he had to do.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Dawn was approaching as Dawson hastened back to his crypt.  Once there, he checked the motion sensors around the property making sure there had been no intruders. Then he checked Janice’s room to make sure she hadn’t tried to escape.

 

Most of the women, (and they were always black women because Dawson felt they were malleable), who managed to escape went straight to the authorities. In the 19th and early 20th centuries, the police never believed black women who accused a white man of crimes.

 

When necessary, he had bribed the police into silence about his “Hottentots.” If bribery didn’t work, he killed police officers. As time passed, killing them became too dangerous. It attracted attention to him.

 

He had to move hundreds of times to avoid investigation and arrest.  An added protection was he began to choose poor Black women with the kinds of problems that kept people away from them. Few, if any, would look for women like Janice.

 

 

Yet, times changed. More and more often, the police believed these women. Dawson had to devise ways of eluding capture. When the authorities got there, he’d be gone. No trace. If he couldn’t pack a house in time, he’d burn it.

 

A vengeful man, Dawson would track the woman through the soap he made her use. He had designed it to create a permanent change in body odor. The smell was imperceptible to 99% of all humans.

Then he’d stage an elaborate accident and kill her.  His plan meant no escape from him, except in real death.

 

Janice was in a drug-induced sleep. Dawson had been mixing her “chemicals” to wean her off the crack/cocaine. She was useless to him on drugs. He wanted her addicted to him--rather to the fear of him. For all intents and purposes, he was immortal and impregnable.

 

His unending supply of money enabled him to turn any place he lived in into a fortress. He settled in.  Because his body reverted to a state of semi-consciousness while he was in the coffin, he could react to stimuli.

 

In the beginning of his “new” life, he had pretended to be a recluse. He’d hired actors or writers to come and read the newspapers aloud in a room that he had designed. He told them that he was on the other side of the door listening. As long as he paid them, they never inquired about the arrangement. Over time, he began to use the new technology, radio, television, the Internet. He had installed devices that streamed information into his tomb.

 

He even piped in languages. Eventually, he had become fluent and literate in 20 languages, especially Latin. He listened to newscasts from around the world for 12 hours during the daytime. He used a cell phone with an altered voice to gather information. He had a discrete network of people who worked for him though most rarely saw him.

 

As Dawson was making himself comfortable, Janice was trapped in a recurring nightmare. In her dream, she was a little girl. Her father was beating her mother. Janice stepped between them to protect her mother and the world suddenly went black.

 

Hours later, she woke up on the couch. Her mother, a mass of black and blue bruises, was gently placing an ice pack on Janice’s head. For some reason, Janice couldn’t remember what her mother was saying to her. She could hear her father in the background.

 

“Stupid, little bitch. You just like your mammy. Now you know what happens when you get in grown folks’ business.”

 

In the dream, Janice wanted to say something, but her head hurt too much to speak. The icepack felt cool, and it made her drowsy. Then, in the dream, Janice couldn’t wake up. She couldn’t move her arms or legs. She could hear, but she couldn’t move. It was as if she was dead.

 

She was started to suffocate. “Why doesn’t Ma help me?” She thought.

 

Mercifully, she woke up--sweating and panting--but grateful to be alive. Several seconds passed before she remembered where she was. The realization made her scream. Without the crack clouding her awareness, she was terrified. This was worse than her father, worse than anything she could image. She was in hell.

 

There were no neighbors for miles, but the noise irritated Dawson.  He exited the crypt and came into Janice’s bedroom through a panel he’d had installed.

 

“Want some crack?” He yelled at her as the sensor lights came on. She stopped screaming and stared at him astonished.

 

“No, I bet you don’t. When did you last have some?”

 

 She swallowed hard and in a shaky voice, “What did you do to me?”

 

“I’ve got this cure for addiction. But it comes with a price.” He smiled. It was the deadest smile Janice had ever seen.

 

She walked to the nearest wall and leaned her forehead into it.

 

“Why? What did I do to you? What you want with me?”

 

“For starters, I need a partner.”  He said.

 

Janice groaned.

 

“Not that kind of partner. A business partner. I have a very specific kind of clientele.”

 

“You a freak that kill people and eat ‘em or whatever you do with ‘em. It’s disgusting.” She turned to face him terrified but resigned.

 

“But you’re alive. And apparently, you’ve got a brain.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

He ignored that remark. “Listen. You’re not leaving unless I get what I want.”

 

 

          “I aint gone help you kill nobody.”

 

          “I think you’ll be glad to help. Although I didn’t know you had a conscience. Interesting.”

 

          As he walked out of the room, he opened a panel near the closet.

 

          “Take a look. Then tell me if you’re sure you can’t be my,” here he made quotation marks with his fingers, “partner.”

 

          Janice slid down to the floor and hugged her knees to her chest. She sat there and tried to bring some order to her thoughts. All she felt was fear. Because she couldn’t figure a way out and had nothing else to do, she went to the panel Dawson had opened.

 

          Inside was a television screen. She flicked the switch next to it. Instantly, there were pictures of her two children—twin girls. She hadn’t seen them in several years, but she knew their faces. They were dressed in school uniforms walking with a group of children. It looked like a school outing. She didn’t recognize the surroundings and understood it was not Suffolk.

 

          Janice loved her daughters. She was a troubled mother, but she didn’t want the state to remove the girls. She didn’t consciously make a choice between her children and drugs. Crack just pushed everything else away. She missed her babies. The more she missed them, the more she wanted to get high.

 

          Now she had to make a decision. What was worse, being a partner to Satan or losing her daughters? If it meant saving her babies, she’d be Satan’s anything.

 

          She turned from the screen to find Dawson sitting on the bed. This time, she didn’t flinch at the thought of him creeping around noiselessly.

 

          “Okay.” She said looking at him solemnly.

 

          “That will make it easier,” was all he replied.

 

          He left the room leaving the door wide open. Janice kissed the screen pictures of her girls and followed him.

 

          It was breakfast time. There were not windows, so she couldn’t see the sunlight. She knew because her stomach was growling. She hadn’t eaten regular meals in years, but her body remembered breakfast time.

 

 

          After what she’d seen on the television screen that morning, Janice didn’t think she could eat anything again. Yet, she was ravenous, so she went to the kitchen. Clearly, Dawson was controlling her appetites. The table was set for one, as always. This morning, he came in and sat at the far end of the table. She ate silently, taking as little notice of him as possible.

 

After she finished a second helping, she threw the paper plates away. Then she turned to go back to her room.

 

          As she reached the door, Dawson said. “Starting tomorrow, you exercise ½ an hour each morning before breakfast. Tonight we’re going to see a man about a dog.”

 

         

 

She thrugged back to her room and instantly feel asleep. Her dreams were a muddle, but mostly they were about her daughters and their father. His addiction killed him a few years after the twins were born.

 

It had been years since she’d dreamed about her babies. The drugs wiped out most of her dreams and hopes for herself and her girls.

 

Hunger woke her. The dreams faded, but she remembered snatches in which she was playing in the park, bathing them, breaking up a fight over a stuffed toy.

 

The drugs took her children away. Then those same drugs helped her to forget how much she loved and missed her kids.

 

 

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