000. Girl Meets Shadow

TW. child abuse, forced religion, bullying,
talk of parental loss

INTRODUCTION.

For a majority of my life, I never really questioned why things happened the way they did. As a kid, I was curious and adventurous, maybe even allowed it to get me into trouble more often than not, but I never really questioned the adults around me. Maybe it was nativity or just the fact that, in my tiny child heart, I trusted them. Or maybe it's just that I wasn't ever really aware of what was going on around me to question it. Either way, there's a lot of things I never questioned in my life. Questions that, now that I'm older and without the people who were there, I won't be able to answer without an ounce of pure speculation. Putting full and utter trust into those I called my family is both my curse and my blessing now as I write this book. Some academia might call this foolish, speculating on events without complete evidence it went one way or another. To that I say, what have you been doing for the last 56 years? What is the majority of history if not speculation and little evidence supporting wild claims? Blackwater, if anything, has been based on pure speculation since the massacre 56 years ago. Rumors and lies, corrupt statements, and vague descriptions have been public since the moment the story broke. I am here, as one of the last surviving members of the Van der Linde Gang, to give the entire story.

Most of my close friends and family know of my early years and what they were like, but, to the public, I've kept it under wraps. Which is hard when you're the spitting image of an outlaw, bearing his name and likeness, you get a few questions. I've avoided this topic for as long as I could. Ignored the ignorant and downright foolish stories people have drummed up about the various members of the gang; what they were like in the beginning, what their part was in Blackwater, and the various crimes they committed before the ultimate downfall of the Van der Linde Gang in 1899. Article after article, book after book, I've scoffed and laughed at the utter idiocy of the historians and acadiam that have attempted, and failed, to cover them. Those that you all call monsters, liars, thieves, and murderers were once my aunts, uncles, mothers, and father. My aunts helped my mother birth me in the middle of a dirt road, in the back of a wagon, my uncles taught me how to fish, read, write, and just be a child in the midst of a massacre, my mothers were dedicated to giving me a life of purity, and my father taught me that promises don't mean much ; they were my family and, by some sickening obligation, I feel the need to tell their stories as details have been falsified for the pleasure of the public. Details that I knew to be false were on the front page as if they were fact, reiterated for the common fool to tell his children and wife like it was nothing.

After 56 years of this, I finally had to say something.

Upon the death of my parents, I was given all their belongings, including various journals, books, and items from an uncle of mine I distantly recall. What I know of him is mostly fractured memories from myself, little details my mother shared, and the things historians claim about him now. A murderer and savage, unmade to be a holy soul, Arthur Morgan is one of my main sources, dating information about the gang  from all the way back in 1880. This murderer was scrapbooking his journeys, encounters, and feelings with raw unfiltered emotion. While he was seemingly eager to give details about his emotions surrounding events and happenings that took place, there's not much detail about the events themselves. This is where speculation comes into play; while I have a solid idea of what happened, some holes are filled in by me by other accounts and implications. While this comes across unseemly, this is more than what the University of Blackwater offers, that much I can assure you.

Before you read, please remember: I am not here to clear names.

I've come to terms as to who my family was and I've been at peace with the facts since I was 20-years-old. I am now 61-years-old, a grandfather who loves to reminisce, so all I ask is that you enter this book with an open mind, try to place yourselves into the shoes of misfits and degenerates, lose yourself as greatly as you can. The realities of the "Wild West" and gunslingers are much different than the silly dime novels at the book shop, or your grandmother's radio drama. These people have experienced atrocities, created atrocities, and died atrociously. While I mourn them and love them, I also question why they did the things they did— desperation? Hatred? Confusion? Displacement? Writing this has helped me come to terms with the part of my childhood I never wanted to address, and people I cast a look back on with confusion and heartache. I hope you too read this from the eyes of a child, searching for answers about his family.

If you can't find it in yourself to read past the ramblings of an old man, GOOD RIDDANCE! May you remain ignorant and foolish, reaping the consequences at Satan's fiery gates.

Much thanks,

Dr. John "Jack" Marston Jr.

—-

PROLOGUE : GIRL MEETS SHADOW
( July, 1880 )

—--

"Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia, el Señor está contigo. Bendita tú eres entre todos las mujeres, y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús. Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores. Ahora y en la hora de la muerte. Amén."

The sweltering mid-July heat was no different, if not worse, in the small chapel of St. Jerome's. Outside crows cried out, cawing as they circled over the chapel deviously. They weren't acknowledged nor heard over the slaps and cries of the children inside.

"Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia, el Señor está contigo." Uttered the girl on the far end, head bowed, hands clasped, and face pleasant despite the crying around her. She was illuminated by the little light that peeked through the stained glass that depicted Mary swaddling Jesus in a motherly and secure hold. The mother, the saint, she was now her savior and the one she sought penance with. "Bendita tú eres entre todos las mujeres, y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús."

Several children down stood the fears and main cause of her prayers. Sister Amilia was a nasty mean spirited woman. Her face was lined with scars and wrinkles from her past. A permanent frown carved onto her face as if shaped by an inexperienced Roman artist. The grace of the Lord's hand had not touched her, despite her devotion to the heavens, she had the soul of a demon. Sister Amilia was wielding her beloved paddle. One that was old, weathered, and had seen better days— much like the children that shook and cried out of fear for what's to come.

For the girl, it was not a punishment that was anticipated with prickling nerves and sweat on the brow; instead it was reservation and stoic staredown with the cobbled floor. A seasoned veteran in the chapel of St. Jerome's, the 16-year-old knew what was to come. That soon her knuckles would bleed, her fingers would ache, and tears would prickle her eyes despite her best efforts against it— pain would ebb away into the familiar hatred and rage that consumed her mind in the darkness of the night. The cold of the rooms were more welcoming than Sister Amilia's bitter hatred.

"Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros peca—"

"Con-Con, you're back here?"

The girl stopped her prayer mid-sentence at the voice that was a mere whisper amongst the breathless worries and cries of the children around them. She opened her eyes and dragged them, almost lifelessly, towards the eager ginger that sat beside her with a beaming face. The girl wasn't entirely surprised to see the other, almost happy to see her confined to the same purgatory; this was her, a beaming sun that would blind those around her— a fire to not be extinguished. She clenched her jaw and didn't dare respond. She would not suffer further punishment from Sister Amilia for speaking out of turn.

"What did you do this time?" The ginger asked, leaning forward with hungry eyes. Gossip and secrets were the only things that kept the teenagers going. The thought that someone had done something lucrative and unseemly, worse than them, was enough for all of them to keep the chatter— themselves alive. The ginger was probably the worst of them. She fed off the secrets, she shared them and kept them as if they were her own to guard. It irked her. Made her hatred swell. And this was her damn roomie. "Did you take an extra piece of bread? Asked an unholy question to Sister Marie? C'mon, Con-Con, tell me, please?"

"I asked you to not call me that." The girl chipped out from between clenched teeth, turning her attention towards the stained glass that almost mocked her. Mother Mary stared back with contemplation, a peaceful bliss that revealed nothing and everything at once. Mary did not know what she did. Had not experienced what she had. The girl prayed to her, begged her for forgiveness before Sister Amilia could strike, but she never gave in. Mother Mary wouldn't understand why her child committed so many sins anyway.

The ginger beside her stared for a long moment before shaking her head. "Thought you were joking." She said back, sounding less pleasant than she had before. The silence between them was both heavy and reassuring, but, as usual, it didn't last long before she spoke again. "Bet you stole something— you always do, Cornelia."

Cornelia beside her clenched her jaw and glared deeply at Mary, silently cursing her for placing her next to the girl. "I did not steal." Her voice was lower, shorter than it was before. Just like Sister Marie thought— I was not a thief. Not anymore. Cornelia huffed, interlocking her fingers again and bowing her head. "I did not."

The girl just huffed. "You always say that, but somehow always end up here." Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores. "It would help if you just admitted it. They might forgive you."

Ahora y en la hora de la muerte. Amén.

"Why would I do that if I didn't steal?"

"Because, no matter what, they won't believe you. You're just..." The girl trailed off and what was left unsaid was clear. "Well, you."

Cornelia hated how much focus the Sisters gave her when it came to "crimes" that took place around the orphanage. Even as a child, she hadn't been prone to nabbing other people's belongings. Despite her rather clean record, she's suffered numerous punishments for things she hadn't done, but they assumed she did. Found in her room, they always said. Their room, Cornelia never corrected. She knew what they meant and she wouldn't challenge it, wouldn't question it. She'd just accept it. Let Satan add it to the long list of sins they've committed.

She offered no response to the other girl. It didn't dignify a response that would be proper in the house of God. It wasn't something that dignified a response anywhere that wasn't Cornelia's own mind.

The girl, realizing she wasn't getting a response, turned her attention down the line of kids and suddenly sighed. "New kid already meeting Sister Amilia?"

Cornelia kept her eyes closed and head bowed. "Sister Amilia does not like talking, Daisy-Mae." Stop talking. For the love of God, stop talking. She silently pleaded.

Daisy-Mae wasn't a mind reader and continued. "Go figure he ended up here so soon after arriving. He looks like trouble." She sniffled, leaning forward to peer at the boy that was in the same predicament as them. The corners of Daisy-Mae's lips quirked, looking back at Cornelia with that twinkle back in her eyes. "I heard he beat up Bobby on the main grounds earlier."

Cornelia quirked a brow. "Bobby's eight."

"Not like he's any older."

Finally, interest piqued, Cornelia cracked her eyes open and peeked past Daisy-Mae to look at the boy.

Past two snotty nosed babies that were shaking in their boots, was the boy. He stood tall, no taller than the pew in front of him, and glared ferociously at the crucifix that adorned the wall in front. He appeared to be no older than six or seven, his hair was oily and stringy, framing his face in a way that would make anyone else scrunch their nose up in disgust. His cheeks had smudges of dirt, his knuckles were already red, and his clothes were greatly disheveled. Cornelia had never seen him around the halls or the chapel before— not surprising considering that he was both a new resident and the boys were typically housed separately than the girls. With a frown, she could barely see the tears that welled up in his eyes as he had a one-sided stare down with a bloodied and decaying Jesus. Disdain filled her as she realized he would probably be a problem in his own way. His interaction with Sister Amilia was not going to be pleasant, she always liked to set an example for first timers, and this was his (un)lucky day.

"Been here for four days, just walked up to Bobby and decked him right in the face." Daisy-Mae continued over the yelps of a child, now closer, and looked completely disinterested as Cornelia dragged her attention away from the boy to her roommate. The ginger shrugged, snorting lowly as she continued. "Made Bobby cry, didn't stop until he was dragged off by Sister Fris. Claire, you know Claire, she told me that Bobby was picking on him, hazing him a bit, and he just went crazy. He must be sick in the head. Just snapping like that."

Cornelia resisted the urge to tell Daisy-Mae that Bobby probably deserved it. Bobby was by far one of the most annoying and stuck-up children in the home. He acted as if he were any better than everyone here. Cornelia would've been happy to witness him getting knocked down, especially by a boy smaller and newer than him. Happily, she would imagine a few others suffering the same fate.

"At least it gave for a distraction," Daisy-Mae continued, "Gave me time to try and snatch up an extra blanket. But then someone ran and got one of those new Sister's, here I am."

Cornelia also wanted to tell Daisy-Mae that she really didn't care. But she knew that was rude, instead, opting to keep her mouth closed.

Instead, she bowed her head and started to pray again. Soon, her time would come and she'd be facing Sister Amilia down, having to repent for simply existing, and she would hold her head high. Her papa always told her that things were better faced when there was no fear. When she had that settled feeling in her chest and bravery coursing through her veins, she knew that she could take on the world if she believed enough.

But she also knows that Sister Amilia fed on her fear, and she'd do anything for that.

"John Marston,"

All attention was suddenly drawn back over to the new boy.

Standing before him was Sister Amilia. She stared at him from over her crooked nose, eyes dark, and vibrant with a reptilian hunger that only predators got when they saw their prey. The boy, now named John Marston, stood with his head held high and jaw clenched— but his eyes were wide and filled with speckles of tears that gave clear indication on how this would be going.

Despite John Marston's front of bravery, he was just a scared little boy.

Sister Amilia's face was screwed up in distaste as she regarded John, thin eyebrows pulled together and lips pulled down almost in a mocking pout. "What sin are you repenting for under God's watchful eye today?"

The practiced words were said with airy grandeur Sister Amilia believed in herself to have. Cornelia closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and imagined her response— I spoke out of turn. I spoke in my mother's language and Sister Marie believed I was mocking her. I apologize to you and the Holy Father that—-

"Not hittin' 'im harder."

There was a pause as everyone seemed to collectively process his words.

Cornelia, despite her best instinct, snapped her eyes open and turned to John. He still stood grand and tall, but now his eyebrows were raised and his head tilted, similar to that of a curious dog. Smugness rolled off of him in waves of large grandeur. Perhaps what Sister Amilia wanted for herself, or what she believed to have. It almost made Cornelia dizzy with disbelief as she slowly looked between the two, waiting for the eruption.

And did the eruption come.

Sister Amilia was quick to bring the paddle down on the pew between them. The slam echoed off the walls quick and ear piercingly loud. Every single body jolted, knowing that the sting of the material against skin was worse than the sound it emitted. She knew that full and well, while John did not.

The boy flinched, blinking as he looked down at he paddle then back up, his mouth opened to speak, and—

"That's no way to speak in the House of God, young man." Sister Amilia space, specks of spittle landing on John's suddenly pale face, much to his disgust. She stared and stared, silence dragged on in the most unbearable ways as she seemed to contemplate how to approach him. John would be made an example. "Put your hands on the wood."

There was obvious confusion and hesitance from John as he suspiciously glanced between her and the paddle. Then he rested his tiny hands on the edge of the pew in front of him. Without grace or warning, Sister Amilia's paddle snapped on his hands with an almost deafening slap. It was much more unforgiving than the children before him, an example of what could happen if you were unholy and disrespectful in the eyes of God during your search for penance. Punishment was imminent when testing the will and drive of Sister Amilia.

John let out a cry so loud, it was almost more deafening than the snap of Sister Amilia's switch. His eyes were wide, tears now streaming down his cheeks, and hands were now folded over his chest to protect them from the monster in front of him. He looked rightfully petrified as the woman's face darkened and everyone watched attentively as Sister Amilia loomed over him. The first was always the worst. She wanted to set herself a standard. What to expect whenever you fell out of line, the same pain and humiliation you felt now was ensured the next time you knelt on the cold cobblestone. You'd never want to commit another sin. Probably promise yourself that it'd never happen again.

But it always did. Another sin would be had, whether you truly committed it or not.

Cornelia eyed the interaction pensively from her peripheral.

She watched as John huddled away from Sister Amilia, his shoulders hunched and hands burrowed closer into his chest. She watched as Sister Amilia's shadow seemed to consume him whole. Cornelia was briefly reminded of herself. A girl, freshly orphaned, still lost in the big land of the US, overshadowed by the prejudice and hatred of women with more knowledge and strength than her. Mortification had been her best friend and humiliation was her soulmate. Sister Amilia's showcase for Cornelia had been bloody knuckles and a split lip.

Blood spilled on the chapel's floors was a rite of passage for the children of St. Jerome's.

There was a heavy and pregnant pause as Sister Amilia continued her stare down with John. A silent stand-off that had all of them on edge. Then, with a sudden suction of air, Sister Amilia suddenly snapped. "Think before you speak next time, Mister Marston." Everyone watched on as John shook like a leaf before nodding his head slowly, guiltily.

As Sister Amilia moved onto the next child, Cornelia allowed herself to stare at John for a bit longer. He cried. Just as she thought, John Marston was a crier.

Cornelia supposed that she too was a crier. But at least she did it in the security of her own company.

—

In Memoriam of Weebly Cole
(1867-1873)
May God guide your soul to the eternal light.

The Weebly Well was named after a kid who died.

He fell, snapped his neck, and passed away peacefully (how anyone can be peaceful that way was lost on her) in the night several years ago.

Cornelia couldn't help but think that Weebly's death was more dignified than her life now.

Death was more dignified than being a girl crying over welts.

The well was lonesome near the edge of the backyard that kids, naturally, kept away from. The stones were moss covered, the bucket and small pillars to crank it up were rotten, and the water was usually untouched unfiltered cold rain water. At some point, Cornelia had discovered the little area and used it to her advantage. Hiding away during the days that everything was simply too much, or using it to clean her bloodied knuckles. Like she was doing now.

The tip of her nose and the apples of her cheeks were a bright red from all her crying. She clenched her jaw, pushing the tears down as she dunked her aching, shaking hands into the bucket. It was a whole process. Tugging the bucket upwards, ignoring the burning and debilitating pain in her hands to soothe them in the cold water. Just pushing through the pain to bring peace was unbearable enough, the shame and guilt that filled her after the pain subsided was enough to bring on more tears.

Cornelia wondered how shitty it was to have a well named after you— the one you died in. She wondered if Weebly was cursed to haunt the well for the rest of eternity. She hoped not. She hoped that he got far away from those that caused him so much pain.

Cornelia sighed, closing her eyes, and focused on her aching hands as the water soothed and calmed them down. A silent negotiation with the water and the cuts was her bi-weekly entertainment. Something that she would never forget or ever get away from. She pictured better days, sun shining against her skin, the wind gently brushing against the grass blades, and her unfortunate nature to build tiny dolls with the sticks around. She wouldn't be able to do it for at least four days (she's counted) and Cornelia knew she'd instead be forced into fixing her voice by Sister Maria for the next two weeks. As they've been trying, and failing, to do for the last eight years.

She retracted her hands, staring down at them as blood leaked onto her black and blue bruised knuckles. Her fingers were swollen and slightly pulsing due to the blood that desperately tried to flow and reassure the wounds that everything was okay— everything would be fixed soon.

God, she wished it was so.

As Cornelia moved to dip her hands, she heard the small whimper and sniffle around the other side of the well. She paused, holding her breath to listen, and it happened again. Creeping over, Cornelia peeks past the well and stares at the sight before her.

Curled up against the stone of the well, was little John Marston. His feet were curled up to his chest and he was staring down at his bleeding, bruised hands with something akin to devastation on his face. She took in the way his face crumpled like a piece of paper, tears flushing his face, and she felt almost nauseous. Usually the little kids hid in their rooms, or they distracted themselves with the others and games in the main yard; but John was sitting here, curled up, aching hands bleeding on his already dirty clothes, and crying. Cornelia reached for the bucket, picking it up, and standing.

"Hi," Cornelia said softly, standing over the boy with hunched shoulders and crumpled expression.

John jumped, eyes snapping upwards, a frown on his lips as he studied her. "Hi..." He whispered, curled up on himself, pressed against the well as if it'd protect him from harm.

Cornelia pressed her lips together, hesitantly setting the bucket down, then gesturing towards it. The boy made no moves towards the bucket. He sent a confused and rather sharp look her way, not even acknowledging the pail of water. John just glared and kept his distance as if she were the main cause of his problems.

Instead of giving him some type of reassurance, Cornelia knelt beside the bucket, grabbing the cloth and wetting it. Once it was properly soaked, she brought it out and made a move towards John, who coward away, his foot high as if he was prepared to kick away like a rabid dog. The girl just stared at him blankly in return, bored beyond belief with his behavior.

"Look, lady, I just wanna be left alone!" John shouted, glaring at her, hands huddled against his chest. "Whatever creepin' you think you'll get on me, you ain't!"

Cornelia frowned at him, her face contorted up distastefully, he surely was a nuisance. "I'm trying to help." She shot back, her voice, admittedly, coming across a little accusatory. But she supposed it was normal considering he was accusing her of creeping on him. As if she wanted anything to do with him. He was the one encroaching on her safe spot.

"I don't want anything you're offering." John snarled, going to turn away when Cornelia noticed something else.

"What happened to your face?" She asked softly, tilting her head to try to get a good glimpse at the fresh bruises and blood that littered his face.

John sniffled, his shoulders tensed and he hunched away from her. "It's none of your business, creep."

Cornelia clenched her jaw, taking a deep breath. "I'm not a creep."

"Then stop acting like one!"

"God forbid I try to help someone." Cornelia uttered, clenching the cloth in her hand before reaching out and grabbing John's arm. It might've been too strong of a hold, but she needed to at least get the relief that he had some type of help. While the boy thrashed against her hold, screaming as if anyone would really care, she pressed the cloth against his bleeding knuckles then pushed him away. "There."

John panted, his eyes distrustful and glare mean, but he looked greatly confused as he glanced away from her and to the cool rag wrapped around his hand. His expression faltered and he tilted his head. "What...?"

"The cold helps," Cornelia explained shortly, still crouched at the bucket. She tilted her head and assessed the fresh cuts on his face. They weren't there before, when he had cried in the chapel, these were new, and he was suffering the consequences of the abrasions. "Soothes it. It helps."

John shakily reached for the rag with his other hand and then wrapped it around them both. He fell back against the stone and sniffled. "Oh." Is all he said in response, as if realizing that she was really trying to help.

Cornelia hummed, slowly sitting down a few feet beside him. John doesn't look up at her, just stares at his covered hands, and sniffles ever so often. She pursed her lips and couldn't help but wonder how a twerp like him could get into trouble so fast. Usually the younger ones liked to just run around and play, be dumb little kids that are free from consequence and worries. She supposed that no child under the care of St. Jerome's could really be a kid. Most of them had a history of petty crimes. They all had unfortunate upbringing that led them to smudging their knees in the dirt, and coat their under nails in mud. Those kids were usually rough and unkind, cautious and belligerent.

John looks rough. He sounds a little unkind and belligerent. But caution did not seem to be his friend.

"It will get better." Cornelia uttered, watching as John moved his fingers with a screwed up expression. "The first one is always the worst. Always."

John huffed. "That lady is a bitch."

Cornelia blinked at him, lips parting slightly in shock. "Uh, well..."

John looked to Cornelia and she could fully assess the cuts that littered his face, she watched the way one of the cuts bled heavily when he furrowed his brow. She held out a hand. "Your face is bloody. I can help. If you want." She stated simply, tilting her head.

John hesitated but nodded. Cornelia hummed in return. She reached into the pail and took an extra cloth out, taking his chin in her hand and patting one of the many cuts. John flinched, glaring at her as he hissed. They weren't deep. Just familiar wounds someone got whenever they were repeatedly hit in the same area.

She frowned and looked him in the eyes. "What happened?"

John huffed again, shrugging as he avoided her eyes. "I don't know. Just...Just some yokels."

Cornelia furrowed her brow, sitting back on her heels. "Yodels? They sang?"

John stared at her bemusedly. "No, yokels. They're idiots." He informed sharply.

"Oh, idiotas." Cornelia smiled bashfully, nodding along as she continued to clean him up.

John's expression briefly softened and he almost resembled an actual kid. "You have a funny voice." He points out bluntly.

Cornelia, having heard that her entire life in America, only offered a nasty look in return. She supposed she couldn't really blame John for being curious or downright stupid, but she did feel some pent up bitterness over the ignorance of St. Jerome's as a whole. It was only a matter of time before she was punished for something she didn't even do. Only a matter of time before she was forced to repent for another's sin.

"Next time relax your hand," Cornelia gently brought attention back to John's bruised hands. He frowned and glanced at them, making her push his chin up so she could continue cleaning his face. "It hurts less if you relax, think of other things, happy things. What makes you happy?"

John immediately shrugged, looking shy again. "I dunno....I-I guess my mama." He uttered with a tiny blush on his cheeks. He tensed and glanced into Cornelia's eyes as if expecting some type of mockery from her. However, the girl just continued her cleaning, pausing to dunk the rag in the water again. "She would sing me... pretty songs and hold me real tight.... I miss her."

Cornelia's movements stopped when she found that John's lips were quivering and eyes watering. The little boy hunch in on himself again, appearing small and fragile. His eyebrows furrowed and his hair stuck around his face. He whimpers and presses his bruised hands against his face, the pain in his heart is now more than the pain in his hands could ever be. She watched him quietly as he cried quietly to himself. She felt almost as if she was watching in on a private moment. Violating his privacy simply by existing in his same area. Guilt weighed heavily on her heart.

She had caused this with her dumb question. Like she usually did. One word from her was enough to make a poor kid cry.

The usual satisfaction from making an annoying kid suffer was vacant from her now, instead she just watched on with a furrowed brow and frown.

After a few moments of his silent crying, Cornelia sat back on her heels. "I..." She took in an awkward suction of breath, looking down at the wet and blood stain cloth in her hands. She didn't know why it was so hard to speak. She didn't know why she found it almost impossible to find the right words to comfort someone. The debilitating feeling of being wrong, out of body, and just not properly functioning. Cornelia clenched her jaw and looked out over the field. "I miss my mama too."

It was all she could offer, but it appeared to be enough for John.

The boy sniffed, looking up at her with a softness that made her queasy. "You do?"

Cornelia shifts on the ground, hyper aware that her knees are getting soaked through her dress. "Yeah, um... my mama and my papa, they... died a long time ago." She picked at her fingernails as an uncomfortable feeling of exposure weighed on her chest. "I wasn't much older than you are. It was a long time ago."

John nodded, his eyes distant and lips pressed together in contemplation. "My mama went to sleep a long time ago...my pa wasn't..." The boy looked more angry than sad suddenly, glaring at nothing in particular other than a memory of what once was. "I don't think he loved me much."

"That is not nice."

John glanced at her, his eyes not losing the fire settled deep within. "He wasn't nice."

"I'm sorry."

John just huffed in reply. Cornelia couldn't really blame him, apologies didn't do much anymore.

Cornelia went back into motion and stared to clean up the remainder of the blood on John's face. "What songs would your mama sing?" She asked kindly, quietly as if not to disturb him too much.

John looked briefly caught off guard. "I don't remember the words. Um..." He started to hum a tune.

Cornelia's ears perched up and she couldn't help but pause again, eyes eager and wide. "Arrorró, mi niño?" She couldn't help the burst of excitement that rushed through her as recognized the lullaby. Her parents had sung it to her, changing some of the words, of course, but they had. Most nights, after a nightmare, Cornelia would be curled up in her father's arms, listening to the tune as he rocked her back to sleep. His harmonic dance with the gods guiding her back to sleep. It appeared John had experienced the same.

"Yes!" John said with excitement, wiggling a little in his spot.

Cornelia blinked with wonder, leaning forward with a big grin. "My papa sang that to me too!"

John smiled back, seemingly forgetting the somber mood he had only moments ago. "Really?"

"Mhm. My papa used to play the guitar too, so sometimes he'd..." Cornelia trailed off as she recalled the moments where her and her parents would sit around the fireplace, listening to his strums and soft songs. Her face crumbled and her heart ached as she thought back. The warm glow of their home, the smell of meats and seasoning in the air as her mother cooked, and the feeling of her father's calluses against her cheek as he squeezed them. The love in the air couldn't ever be forgotten by her— nor be replicated. How Cornelia would give anything to be beside them, see them for even a moment.

John's frown was heavy and prominent as he watched the other get lost in her own head. "What did he do?"

Cornelia blinked. "What?"

"Your papa, what did he do with his guitar?"

Cornelia just stared before she placed the cloth back into the pail, standing. Back was the tense air and somber mood as she stood over him with a blank expression. "If you stay out of trouble and keep to yourself, you'll get adopted in no time, John. If your hand gets worse, try to find Sister Calderón, she's the nicest."

With that, Cornelia just wanted to return back to her room, to wallow in whatever sadness found her tonight. She'd done what she could and they would all return to normalcy in their respective little worlds. She had no quarrels or qualms with that.

John, however, did.

He shot up like he was being scolded, wide red rimmed eyes watched her as she walked right past. "Why are you leaving?" He asked softly, sounding rather hurt.

Cornelia paused, barely glancing back. "I have things to do." I need to go to my room and cry.

John stepped forward, eagerly and his hands shook as he stared at her. "Can't I help? I-I'm really good at helping."

"No, I don't need help." She said bluntly.

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

"But how?"

"Goodnight, John." Cornelia chipped out, committing to walking away now.

John wasn't giving up. "But, what's your name?"

Cornelia didn't give him an answer. Instead, she just turned the corner into the corridor. He could figure it out himself.

—

Cornelia. 16. She missed her mama.

It'd been a month since John Marston had met Cornelia and he believed he was lucky. He had followed her. Watched her in little moments, and slowly squeezed his way into her day-to-day. John didn't think Cornelia was exactly elated at first, but she began to just ignore his presence. He didn't mind. It was the most cared for he'd felt in a long time.

Cornelia. 16. She missed her mama.

Those were three things that John knew about her. There were three things he had learned after becoming her shadow, following her and making small notes about things she found annoying, or funny, or interesting. Cornelia didn't appear to like many things. Mostly the silence that the outside offered, or making twig dolls (John did not like how scratchy they were), or singing under her breath in words he didn't exactly understand but recognized, distantly, from his mother.

Something about the silence helped her become this calm being, just existing in the flow of the wind and brush of the weeds around her. Cornelia at peace was rare, but welcomed and kind. John found it easier to list the things she didn't like over the things she did. She didn't like going into the main courtyard ("there's too many people."), she didn't like when Daisy-Mae tried to insert herself into her chores (John had seen her repeat chores because of Daisy-Mae's mistakes), she didn't like it when John put bugs in Daisy-Mae's shoes and mud in her skirt at night ("you can't attack people because you don't like them."), and she didn't like it when she was punished (surprisingly, John never saw her cry. Compared to him, an avid and frequent crier in Sister Amilia's presence, Cornelia was silent.) There was so much she didn't like. Numerous times that she had told John to stop doing this, stop doing that, it was almost enough for him to jump in the well. Cornelia didn't seem to like anything at all.

Except those three things.

They were nice, John had thought one night, staring at his mildew ceiling, chest warm as he recalled Cornelia telling him to be good before bed. They were nice things. Even if they weren't much. They made her happy.

It was what John thought as he happily made his way towards the well.

Well into the day, chores done (begrudgingly), and trouble properly avoided, John made his way to the well.

Usually, like clockwork, he would finish his chores and find Cornelia hunched over, uttering whatever story she's concocted for her dolls. She'd have her knees tucked under her dress, chin resting on top, her fingers moving skillfully as she intricately woven sticks and weeds together to form a somewhat pretty doll. It wasn't anything of interest to John, but Cornelia had a great interest (and rule) around it. She had made a rule when John first started to linger. That he would play dolls with her if he wanted to stick around. First, it had been torture. Made him groan whenever she held out a raggedy doll, he clenched his jaw when he sat down in the dewy grass, and he held the doll stiffly as she loudly proclaimed their story. He hated it.

But quickly, he'd become accustomed to it.

John was used to the curt tone she used whenever he showed up. Had grown eager whenever she dragged her eyes from the dolls and held out whichever she liked least, loudly proclaiming, "you're late. Mrs. Dondail is suffering because Jezebella has admitted her hatred". Then he'd grip that doll like there was no tomorrow, uttering his responses and scandalous retorts for just them to hear.

Like everyday since the day they met, John expected to find exactly that waiting for him at Weebly's Well.

Instead, he found something much more horrifying.

He rounded the corner with a toothless smile on his features, the sun brushed his skin and revealed the hidden freckles under dirt and muck. He was fully prepared to pick up where he and Cornelia had left off just two days prior (the day before had been spent with him helping sweep the boy's dormitory and unable to meet at the well) with a scandalous plan between the two women that John wasn't entirely sure the contents, but just went along with. He adjusted his whittled suspenders as he approached.

John hadn't known what he was hearing as he approached.

He listened to giggles and yelps. Frowned as the sounds got louder with his approach and felt a little uneasy at the familiar stench of iron in the air, the sounds of fists against skin. Memories drummed up that he wished to forget. Words thrown at him in anger, frustration, fists that broke his skin and left him curled up on the floor. He'd never heard him laugh.

With a sudden halt, John felt his stomach churn.

Just ten feet from the well was Cornelia. But she wasn't vehemently invested in her dolls, or uttering a song long lost by memory, or just overlooking the field with that distant look in her eyes— as if there wasn't anything but her, the grass, and memories she clings onto like a life raft. The luxuries that John was so used to seeing every day, 5:30 on the dot, were violently and mercilessly torn away from him (again). Cornelia was there. However, she was surrounded by four or five girls. All of them were clubbing her on the head or stomach with their fists and shoes. They giggled and spat on her like she was a stray who stumbled onto their sacred land. She didn't make much noise except when the kicks were too rough or their nails dug in too far.

They were all girls he recognized. Barely. Residents of the girl's dormitory, they lived close by Cornelia's room and they were always with Daisy-Mae.

If there was another thing Cornelia didn't like, it was Daisy-Mae Suttles. John couldn't blame her, the girl talked a lot and was incredibly rude. She liked to call John a gremlin and John had watched Daisy-Mae pin several things on Cornelia as if it were second nature. Watched as his friend(?) kept her mouth such and eyes downturned, complacent as Sister Amelia berated and belittled her. Whenever there was a period of rest between them, Daisy-Mae appeared to get sick satisfaction from making Cornelia feel small. She made horrible comments about her hair, the way she dressed, the way she talked; and Cornelia only ever smiled that weird little smile that made John queasy. It didn't take long for Daisy-Mae's to join in. Thinking it funny to ridicule the girl. John had tried to stand up to them once, telling them that they were being rude.

They laughed in his face and Cornelia told him to leave her alone for a week. (John had still come to the well, desperate to have a companion and Cornelia served it with no conversation. They were silent for a week, despite John's numerous attempts to have conversation.)

John watched, terrified, as the girls laughed at Cornelia's crumpled form.

"You're real lucky, Con-Con!" Exclaimed one of the snobbish girls, her pigtails matted and eyes bright with hatred. She landed a hard blow to Cornelia's gut that made her cry out. "We've been so nice and you tried telling on us?"

"No, I didn't!" Cornelia retorted through tears.

The girl didn't seem convinced as she glanced around, shaking her head with a scoff. "Yes, you did. Daisy told us all about it. You know you're a thief, why lie and try to blame her?"

"I'm not!"

The girls just continued their beratement.

John wouldn't ever deny that he didn't know what to do at that moment. As Cornelia sputtered, crying, blood dribbling from the corner of her mouth, tears trekked down her face. There was deep pain in her voice as she seemingly pleaded with them to relent. Just for one second. She wanted to breathe. The pain turned into panic and panic turned into acceptance. A situation all too familiar to John made his head spin, his heart race, and his adrenaline skyrocket. Years later he would be asked what he was thinking then. Right there, by that well. John wouldn't ever admit that he thought of his mother being beaten to death in front of him.

Not ever.

His next actions were completely subconscious.

After years of wondering what he would've done to save his mother, violence had always appeared to be the front runner. The revenge that would plague his brain was almost debilitating. Whenever he thought of his father, his last years, and the ridicule he faced, John knew deep down that he wanted nothing more than to hit something.

That's why when he picked up a small rock from the ground, heavy and wet, and pulled his arm back as far as he could then—- threw, he felt a weighted embrace of satisfaction.

That was quickly wiped away when the girls all collectively let out screams, jumping from Cornelia's crumpled form, and towards the boy. He stood tall, despite his fear. He clutched more rocks in his tiny hands and glared so viciously that there was an apparent pause in the air.

"Leave her alone!" John screeched, throwing more rocks their way. They all squawked in protest, rushing forward to avoid the pelts. HIs face was sheet white, eyes big with rage. "You....jerks! Get away!"

The pig tailed girl glared. "How 'bout you mind your own business, brat!"

John felt the fire deep in his gut ignite even brighter, he threw a handful at the girl alone, his lips twitching when she screeched and held her face. "You're about as pretty as Mister Cooper's wrinkly ass!" He called after them with pinched brows and satisfaction in his chest.

John turned around to ask if Cornelia was okay, only to stumble back when she pushed him.

"Why'd you do that?" Cornelia spat. Despite the blood and bruises on her face, there was apparent rage in her eyes that made John recoil with wide eyes. He wasn't sure why she was mad at him. Had he done something wrong? Had he been too rude? Weren't those girls hurting her, making her small? She just took deep breaths, shaking her head. "Why are you always getting involved?"

"They were being mean!" John exclaimed, looking incredibly confused and hurt by her protest. He hunched his shoulders, feeling the lobe of his ears brush against the tough fabric of his shirt. She stared at him so vehemently, so viciously that he felt like a small prey being calculated, bets placed on how fast he'd run or how loudly he'd scream. His face, despite himself, turned red. "They were... they were hurting you."

"That doesn't matter!" Cornelia shot back. She was so high rung that John thought she would shoot out, wrapping her round fingers around his neck and squeezing the life out of him."You're making it worse. You've made it worse since you started following me around."

John couldn't help the way his shoulders fell. The way his eyes widened with unshed tears and his lips parted in the shock that was surely on his face now. The thought that he was making things worse wasn't unheard of. He had heard it time and time again from his father. Watched as his foggy eyes always found him in the room and spat those terrible horrible words about how his mama dying was his fault. How he had never once brought any good to the world— it got worse with him around. Hearing Cornelia, someone he looked up to a horrible amount, say he had made it worse since he came... Maybe his pa was right.

"I-I'm..." sorry, something that John couldn't quite spit out hung in the air like the iron of Cornelia's blood.

The girl shook her head, looking away. "You..." She uttered something in those words John didn't understand. Like she was irritated and at her wits end. Something that only made him tear up more, a lump forming in his throat. "I need you to just leave me alone."

John's eyes snapped upwards. "Leave you alone? But–   I didn't mean–"

"Daisy-Mae doesn't like you. She thinks you're a brat, you know?" The girl's face was scrunched up distastefully. John wasn't sure if it was because of him or the words she was speaking. He didn't entirely want to know. "It makes my life harder when you do these... stupid things."

John's bottom lip wobbled. "I'm sorry." He uttered.

Cornelia frowned. "Why?"

"I make things harder for everyone."

"So do I."

John wasn't sure what to make of that.

Silence lapses over the duo. The crickets chirp, the weeds and brush dance with the gentle breeze, the droplets of water from the bucket on the side of the well vanish into the deep hole. It would be peaceful if John didn't feel like he was being tossed into the wild again. He was to become yet another abandoned brat by someone he'd grown used to and liked.

Despite the heaviness of her words, Cornelia's expression went from anger to exhaustion."You have to leave me alone. It'll be better for everyone." Cornelia continued when his silence dragged on. "Stop doing stupid things for me."

John stared at her, a heavy frown on his face and his cheeks red with anguish. "I thought I was helping?" His voice was small and hesitant, as if he weren't entirely sure what to say to her.

The girl in front of him just leaned down, grimacing as she leant pressure on a particularly nasty bruise. "It's not helping." She passed back, picking up shreds of dolls that she had spent so much time on making perfect.

The dolls that Cornelia made were always so...her. They had perfect imperfections that just seemed to fit whatever story or whatever emotions she was feeling at the time. It was almost infuriating to see her weakly picking them up, staring at them as if they were a distant memory that she couldn't quite grasp onto. What was once a pristine doll with tattered cloths that acted as dresses and stringy weeds as hair, was now mismatched pieces clumped together. She cupped it delicately as if her kindness would keep them together. It was no use. She'd lost it.

He watched uneasily as Cornelia clenched her jaw then scattered the tattered dolls away. She paused then turned to him with those thinned lips and narrowed eyes that spoke trouble. There were a million things in her eyes. Different things that were contradicting one another the longer she waited for something to leave her. Her face was split and bloody yet she still managed to have herself collected.

Instead of saying anything at all, Cornelia limped her way towards the hallways.

John didn't follow, or protest.

—-

This was it.

After 4,236 days at St. Jerome's Cornelia is going to run away.

She had suffered, had endured, but there was only so much she could handle before everything felt like crumbling walls were crushing her. She had suffered a lifetime of pain, belittlement, and hatred that Cornelia couldn't help but long to forget. There was a possibility that life alone, out in the great big world, would be even more unforgiving than being in the girls and nuns here— but at least she would have an out. She could go anywhere, be anyone.

She could finally go home.

Cornelia had been dreaming of Mexico since... forever. Since her mother described the blazing sun against her skin, the smell of the waters flowing and crashing against the stones that lined the river beds. A familiar home that was once her own and her family's was what he sought in replacement for this hellish purgatory that America was for her. Cornelia was prepared to leave this place for a fresh start. Surely it wouldn't be impossible to get a job, to drag herself by.

This was all probably foolish. But she couldn't stand another day resting in that bed. Couldn't stand Daisy-Mae's snark and blame. Couldn't stand another day of staring Sister Amilia in the eye and telling her her sins. Cornelia couldn't do it anymore— she couldn't.

The moon was high in the sky with no sun in sight and Cornelia was her only onlooker.

She crouched beside the Weebly well watching the sparse clouds, stretched and thinned, slowly and elegantly moved over the moon. Her cheeks were red, a splotchy dust that would remind the nuns of Satan's fiery hate. The moon was the only one that spoke to Cornelia, tried to talk sense into her. There would be no good in carrying out the grand escape she envisioned for herself. Cornelia ignored the moon and instead glared at the bottle and rag clutched in her hands.

A distant memory, not a bonding moment, but an act of desperation that her father had frantically passed down on his daughter, rang in Cornelia's mind. Stuffing various bottles with rags that were just cut pieces of old clothing that held no sentiment except a life long lost. Maybe that's what made the fire so devastating, the blaze a reminder of love long lost, a heart crushed.

As those buildings in Nuevo Paraìso stood for, Cornelia supposed St. Jerome stood for the same thing: a dream crushed and an innocence lost to those more vicious and unforgiving than her.

With her mind made up, she curled in on herself and tried to collect herself.

This was it.

This was it.

Cornelia grabbed her small bag of things. Nothing extraordinary, just pieces of scrappy clothing the sisters had given her once upon a time. All of them stuffed into a bag that she had scavenged from another kid's things once she left several years ago. It was tattered and had seen better days, but it held and secured her things as best it could, and Cornelia couldn't complain. It was her key to her leaving. Once and for all.

The Weebly Well, her safety and escape from it all, would be left behind and her freedom would be right in front of her. A tangible thing that she could hold dearly to her heart. Cradle it as if it were an endearing child to be cherished and loved so viciously.

Cornelia stood and glared at the well with the hatred of a thousand scorned kids who had been victim to St. Jerome's. Weebly who fell into the well, Martha who had been thrown from the fourth story balcony, Karlile who caught consumption, Beverly who had gotten gangrene after a horrible beating, and Antonio who— the list was never ending. There were loads of people who had died long before Cornelia had ever been thrown through the front doors of the St. Jerome's and she felt almost sorry that she hadn't known their stories as well.

Without much grace or regard for what she was going to leave, the teen swiftly turned and started to stalk towards the darkened halls.

The moon followed her, beckoned her to be rational and smart with her approach. My girl, don't you see, there will be pain and darkness ahead! Turn back. She pleaded like those fairytales of misguided souls following an angry god, the one voice of reason being drowned out by the fierce loyalty and trust the majority felt.

It will be okay. Cornelia would've easily responded, softly and flatly. Anything is better than this place.

The moon wouldn't respond, her disappointment and exhaustion clear in her silence. Cornelia didn't care.

She took a sharp turn towards the girl's dormitory. Her hand hidden in the tote she slung over her shoulder, grasped around the bottle neck that sloshed with her deft movements.

This was it.

Cornelia had waited for times like this. Dreamt of them while she stared up at her ceiling with teary eyes and deep frowns, a dull ache over her body. She imagined the fear and unsettled feeling that would wash over everyone— she basked in the mere thought of finally being enough to be feared here. That she would be put down as a child they couldn't contain. A girl that couldn't be destroyed.

As she approached the courtyard that was dark, the moon now hidden behind thick clouds that seemingly masked her from the terror, she felt a wave of giddiness. She wouldn't be seen, surely, and she would be able to take care of her business then vanish forever. Just like everyone had always hoped for. Just as Cornelia had prayed for since she was eleven.

"Connie?"

Cornelia didn't stop but her eyes did shoot towards the small shadowed figure huddled up by the wall. It didn't take a genius to recognize little John in the darkness or to recognize the crackly tiny voice he had. The realization was so immediate that she almost felt like she was going to be ill. Instead of addressing him, she decided to continue forward, push herself towards the courtyard and prepare herself for whatever was to come.

She could hear John's panicked steps behind her, picking up to keep pace with her.

"W-Where are you going?" He asked shakily, sounding almost fearful.

That, for whatever reason, didn't sit well with Cornelia.

"Go back to bed, John." Cornelia shot over her shoulder.

"Why?"

" Because ."

" Why?"

With a sharp and sudden stop, she whirled around. It was so quick that John had no chance to stop himself and bumped directly into her. Cornelia glared at him viciously as he stared up at her with wide eyes. "Why do you keep bothering me?"

John sputtered. "I-I just— you're my friend."

"No, I'm not," Cornelia didn't hesitate to shoot back with a shake of her head. "I'm not a good friend. I'm..I'm sorry."

John's lower lip wobbled, looking incredibly hurt. "Is it because I hurt those girls?" His voice was downright heartbroken as he looked down at his feet. "I just wanted to help."

The last few days had given Cornelia time to reflect and, in that short amount of time, she realized that John was the only person who had ever helped her. A little crazy six year old had stood up to girls ten times his size and age. As humiliating and degrading as the thought was, she couldn't entirely blame him for doing something kind.

"D-Don't apologize, I'm..." Cornelia clenched her jaw and adjusted her hold on the bottle, taking a deep breath. "I'm running away."

John's eyes widened considerably, staring at her as if she were crazy and offering an idea that was not of this world. "Running away? Running away where?"

Cornelia shrugged. "I'm going to try to go back home— to Mexico. Or west. I'm not sure."

"Can I come?"

Cornelia wasn't entirely surprised by the question. She could feel it coming. She had even imagined him asking if she happened to run past him during this. She had thought of every possibility. Mapped everything out. If she ran into a Sister, she would explain that she simply lost track of time and sought penance. If she ran into a fellow orphan, she would just keep walking. If she ran into John...

Well, she wasn't entirely sure what she would say.

There was no doubt that the boy would ask. Cornelia had imagined him requesting to join her and every scenario had always started with a " no ". There was no hesitation. She couldn't imagine dragging him across the country and wanting to stay with him for the far out future. She knew the answer was no, but Cornelia had never thought about exactly how she would let him down.

But in the moment now, standing in front of him, Cornelia realized it was much harder than the imaginary John she had conjured.

The light in John's face was immediate and world turning, as if she had placed the stars in the sky. The guilt was heavy as Cornelia weighed her options. There was an endless list of things that could happen and she felt an insurmountable anxiety envelope her. Someone could get hurt, someone could get sick, someone could get into trouble and where would he end up? Alone? Just like she had?

How do you tell a kid that you're selfishly saving yourself?

"I can't take you."

That's how.

John's face fell slowly and gradually, his brain took a moment to catch up and, when it did, his shoulders fell. "What?" He uttered.

Cornelia took deep breaths, trying to keep herself collected like she had so bravely planned. "I can't take you, John. I'm sorry, but... there are lots of things that could go wrong—"

"I'll listen to you!" John suddenly short forward, holding his hands together similar to a prayer that would be so violently ignored. Cornelia blinked, leaning away as he got into her personal space. Desperation wore his voice thin, along with the tears that brushed his cheeks. His eyes were closed and nose was snotty. "I won't be annoying or mean— I-I'll be good, promise!"

He was entirely too loud. If anyone was lurking the halls like they were, they would certainly hear the boy crying as if this was his only chance.

" John —" Cornelia tried desperately.

John wasn't listening. "Please don't leave me here, Connie. I'll be good! Everyone is so mean— they hate me, please don't leave me!"

"I can't—"

"I'm so scared of these people— please ."

Cornelia's face fell and she stared at him with some terror.

St. Jerome's was a special little place in hell and John Marston had been subjected to it for a short period of time, but was enough for a lifetime. As determined as Cornelia was to leave, to destroy this place permanently, there were many others who felt the same— John felt the same. Something about that was so jarring and mind boggling that it made her queasy.

Cornelia had desperately wanted to escape and so did he.

"—Please—"

"Do you have any clothes?" Cornelia asked quietly.

John paused, blinking through his tears up at her with big brown eyes. "...What?"

Cornelia took a shaky breath, trying to ignore the screams from the moon telling her to turn him away. "Do you have anything you need from your room?" She asked again, her voice louder and firmer.

John's eyebrows drew together and he stared before his face brightened. "Can... Can I come?" He asked softly, almost nervous for the answer.

Cornelia narrowed her eyes. "You have to listen to everything I say, okay?"

John gave her a toothless grin, nodding eagerly. "Okay!" He agreed easily and without any type of hesitation. Something that he should've had in this situation, but lacked.

Cornelia nodded slowly before turning back around and storming towards the courtyard again. Everything shifted and she turned her attention back to the matter at hand. She came to a stop in the middle of the courtyard. An elegant architect that depicted various saints on each beam formed in an octagon, separating the various parts of the building from each other. St. Michael the Archangel was the symbol for the girl's dormitory. The large statue stared down at her with his angelic features, not comforting or endearing in any way. Instead, it brought a deep settled rage out from Cornelia's gut and she dropped her tote. Kneeling down, she grabbed the bottle that stood from the fabric.

John, standing beside her, watching with curiosity and worry, frowned at the bottle. "What's that?" He asked softly, watching the way she jams her thumb into the bottle to further shove the rag inside.

Cornelia ignored this and instead asked, "Can you run fast?"

John tilted his head. "My pa always yelled at me because I ran real fast."

"Good." Was all Cornelia offered in reply.

Cornelia stood, now holding a rag bottle in one hand and a match in the other. She glared up at the window that was left open two stories up. The tattered curtain that was usually pinned to the wall to let the sun trickle in at dawn. She silently thanked Daisy-Mae for doing one thing right: being predictable.

This is it.

The moon didn't cry out and warn her. Long was she tired and her lungs scared.

Cornelia struck the match, pressing the flame to the rag that immediately lit up a bright angry red orange.

This is it.

She pulled her arm back, stared at the window, ignoring John's soft questioning, then threw .

Saint Jerome's erupted into a fiery show instantly.

St. Jerome's Orphanage Burns.

POLICE ON LOOKOUT FOR ARSONIST. MONTHS OF ABUSE AND THREATS LEAVE SISTERS DISPLACED. TWENTY-NINE INJURED. HUNT FOR MISSING CHILDREN.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

LORD HAVE MERCY!

i'm back to post this after months. i have a mental illness for connie and john. they're so siblings. 

anyway, let me know what you think. ty mwah!