Ruth's Secret

​“Ruth! Ruth! Ruth!” ​The faint, desperate chant echoed rhythmically through Ward 11 of St. Roses Catholic Hospital. ​Twelve-year-old Sandra lay trapped beneath the stark white hospital sheets, her pale legs twitching in a weak, spasmodic struggle against the agony tearing through her small body. Sweat slicked her forehead, but her dry lips continued to form that single, mysterious name over and over again like a dying spell. ​Barrister Peter Vance leaned over the metal bed rail, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. He gripped his daughter’s trembling hands, his knuckles turning white. ​“My little princess,” Peter pleaded, his voice cracking with unbearable terror. “Who is Ruth? What has she done to you? Talk to me, baby... tell Daddy and I’ll find her for you. I swear I’ll find her!” ​Sandra’s chest heaved once, twice. Then, as quickly as the frantic chanting had begun, it stopped. Her head rolled weakly to the side, and her eyes closed—permanently. ​The long, flatline monotone of the heart monitor pierced the silence. ​“No! No, no, baby look at me!” Peter screamed, burying his face into the still, cooling neck of his daughter. “Open your eyes! Talk to Daddy!” ​The door slammed open, and a rush of nurses flooded into Ward 11. Peter jerked his head up in a blur of tears as the head nurse frantically pressed her fingers against Sandra’s wrist, checking for a pulse that was no longer there. ​After a heavy, suffocating silence, the head nurse pulled back and looked at Peter with solemn eyes. ​“Sir, we recognize how heavy your heart is over the loss of your lovely daughter,” she said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “But we need to do the needful. Please... take heart and allow us to move her body to the mortuary.” ​Peter froze. A dark, dangerous quiet replaced his panic, and his eyes snapped up, red-rimmed and lethal. ​“Did you just say mortuary?” Peter’s voice dropped to a sinister whisper, stepping between the medical staff and the bed. “Who the hell do you think you’re moving to a mortuary, you i***t?” ​“Sir, please calm down—” ​“I am taking my daughter home!” Peter roared, his hands clenching into tight fists. “She is going back to our house, and she will play around with her two sisters—Cynthia and Morgan! If any of you dare step toward her, I swear I will transform you into a carcass right here!” ​The nurses recoiled at his furious outburst. Unable to reason with the grieving father in his agony, the head nurse signaled quietly for security. ​Minutes later, Peter was forcibly held back as orderlies rolled the gurney into the hallway. He could only watch in numb torment as Sandra, now completely wrapped in a white shroud, was moved down the corridor toward the waiting ambulance. ​The bright, sunny afternoon outside felt like a cruel insult to the darkness consuming his soul as he walked down the hallway of St. Roses. ​Who is Ruth? the question burned endlessly in his mind as he paced to and fro. Why was that the very last name my daughter uttered before she died? ​He hurried out to the courtyard, watching the ambulance pull away. With no other choice, Peter stormed to his white Escalade, ignited the engine, and trailed the ambulance closely as it wound through the city toward the hospital’s morgue facility. ​By the time he stepped into the cold, sterile air of the St. Roses mortuary, the raw rage in Peter's chest began to harden into a fierce, obsessive curiosity. ​He watched through heavy eyes as Sandra’s body was officially deposited into storage and the heavy mortuary bills were cleared. ​Standing alone in the silent hallway, Peter gripped the steering wheel key fob until it bit into his palm. ​“I won’t take my late daughter’s last message for a joke,” Peter swore under his breath, his jaw locked tight. “Something must be done.”