Their Deadly Obsession

ANDREA AGE 12 POV It's dark and cold. I can't feel my wrists or my arms. I'm not sure I remember what feeling anything is like anymore. My parents locked me down here because they believe I'm evil, that keeping me hidden is how they protect the world from whatever they think I am. The sound of the door opening sends a shiver through me, and I press myself into the corner instinctively. Nothing good has ever followed that sound. "Time for your daily cleansing, devil child," my father sneers, his voice thick with contempt. I always hope it'll be my mother instead. She's never kind, but she's less cruel. His footsteps echo through the space, slowing as he reaches the mattress I'm chained to. "Have you been good?" he asks, looking down at me with that expression I've memorized, the one that makes me want to disappear. I nod fast. I need him to believe me. He scoffs. "I think you're lying. Your very existence corrupts everything around you." The words cut deep. Tears burn at the back of my eyes. "I have been good. I promise. I do everything you ask," I whisper, my voice breaking, tears already falling. His eyes narrow. "You were born wrong. Sin is in your blood. I told your mother not to have you. You were never supposed to be here, conceived from nothing good. How could you ever be anything but a disgrace?" His foot connects with my side and I grunt, trying to pull away, but the chains only let me go so far. He grabs my ankle and drags me back. "I should kill you," he spits. "End your mother's suffering. We've tried everything to rid you of this, and still you cling to it." His grip loosens and he straightens, looking down at me with a slow, cruel smirk. He says something vile.. a threat about bringing others, about breaking what he calls the evil out of me. His gaze moves over me in a way that makes my stomach turn. His hand twists into my hair and yanks me upright. I struggle, but hunger and exhaustion have hollowed me out. I already know how this ends. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he hisses. I can barely hold my eyes open. I shake my head weakly. I just want it to stop. I want to disappear entirely. His other hand closes around my throat, squeezing until the air is gone. I gasp, each breath a desperate, broken thing. "Kill me," I manage to choke out. "I don't want to be evil anymore. Please. Just kill me." He laughs, low and mocking, before releasing my throat. His palm cracks across my face, and I whimper as pain blooms through my cheek. "No," he sneers. "That would be too easy." The click of a blade opening turns my blood cold. The flat of the knife presses against my shoulder, just below my neck, cool and deliberate. "It's so tempting," he murmurs, pressing just hard enough to break the skin. Warmth trickles down my arm. Then, a loud bang from somewhere above. Shouting. "FBI! Put the girl down!" The words don't reach me right away. All I can hear is my own heartbeat, the cold press of the blade, my father's voice. Then the room fills with footsteps, and something stirs in my chest that I don't recognize. Something that feels almost like hope. My father pulls me against him, the knife now pressed beneath my chin. "I'll cut her throat right now if anyone comes closer," he shouts, his voice cracking under the pressure. A shot rings out. He goes limp, collapsing behind me. Something warm hits my face. I lift my trembling fingers to it. Blood. His. Before I can process that, strong arms pull me into a steady hold. My mind is spinning, my body shaking so hard I can barely stand. The agents move me out of the basement and into the back of an ambulance. My chest is tight. I can't seem to breathe right. The woman beside me wears a bulletproof vest with "FBI" stitched across it. Blonde hair in a low ponytail. Green eyes, focused but soft. "My name is Olive. Are you okay, sweetheart? Are you hurt anywhere?" she asks gently. Her eyes catch the wound at my neck and she signals to the paramedic. Something soft presses against the cut. I go still at the contact. It makes my skin crawl, but I stay put. I have to be good. "You killed him," I say. Flat. Numb. Olive's brow furrows. "No one was killed," she says carefully. "Non-fatal. Your father and mother will both be taken into custody. They're going away for a very long time." I don't know how to feel about that. I stare at her, trying to figure out if I'm supposed to feel something. "You should've killed him," I mutter, dropping my eyes to the floor. Silence. I can tell the words have unsettled her. She clears her throat and shifts. "What's your name, sweetheart?" she asks, pen hovering over a notepad. My name. I can't remember the last time anyone called me anything other than devil child. Or spawn of the devil. "I don't know," I whisper. "They never gave me one." Something moves across her face... pity, I think. Her green eyes go glassy for a moment before she blinks it away. "You can choose one," she offers. "Is there a name you've always liked?" Her phone rings. "Think on it while I take this, okay?" she says, stepping away. I nod and watch her go. The paramedic continues checking me over. "Will it leave a scar?" I ask, touching near my neck. He pauses and looks at me. "Most likely," he says gently. "But scars matter. They're proof of what you've survived. And you, little one, are a survivor." The words feel like they're meant for someone else. Scars are just ugly things, aren't they? Reminders of pain I'd rather forget. But I manage a small smile, because he seems to mean it. Olive returns with a lighter expression. "Good news, I already have someone ready to take you in. Her and her husband are wonderful people. You'll be taken care of." "Do they have other children?" I ask quietly. She smiles. "They do." "Will they like me?" My voice wavers. What if they see what my parents saw? "Of course they will. You have nothing to be afraid of." The fear doesn't leave, but her words soften it a little. It's all I've ever known.. fear. But as the quiet settles around me, something else surfaces too. A realization, slow and strange. I'm free. ... The following week passes in the hospital. Full checkups, evaluations, an IV that the nurses explain is for hydration. The doctors are patient and ask me many questions, more than anyone has ever cared to ask. Olive stays close the entire time, and I'm grateful for that. She's familiar now, and familiar feels safer than new. When I'm finally discharged, Olive takes me to a tall, sleek building downtown. She tells me this is where I'll meet my new family. My stomach tightens. I wish I could just stay with her. At least I know what to expect from her. Inside, we move through a long corridor lined with framed portraits and antique furniture. We stop outside an office with floor-to-ceiling glass walls. Inside, I can see three people, a man and a woman sitting close together, and another man across from them. I study them quietly, knowing these are the people who are supposed to be my parents. The woman wears an all-white ensemble; dress, blazer. She must love the color. Her ash-blonde hair is pulled into a neat low bun, a few soft pieces framing her face. She looks almost too young to be a mother. The man beside her wears a white suit, his dark hair touched with grey at the temples, his beard the same. They look like people who are kind. They look like people who have never had to be anything else. "Wait out here for just a moment, okay? We need to finalize some things," Dorathy says, giving my head a gentle pat before stepping inside. Dorathy greets the woman with the widest smile I've ever seen her wear, and the woman's face opens up completely in response. They embrace, murmuring quietly to each other, before Olive turns to the man for a briefer hug. Then the woman glances through the glass and finds my eyes. She smiles, warm and unhurried, and comes out to me. "Hello, little love," she says, lowering herself to my eye level. "I'm Dorathy.. oh, I'm sorry." She laughs softly at herself. "I'm getting confused. I'm Cade's wife." She shakes her head, composing herself. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. My name is Dorathy. What's yours?" Her voice is so soft. I don't know what to do with softness. "Um, I don't have one yet," I whisper. "Olive said I could pick one, but I haven't thought of anything yet." She nods like that makes complete sense. "What's something you find beautiful? Something you love?" I look around, thinking. I don't know many names. But I remember sitting in the dark of the basement, wishing I could see the sky. Wishing I could see stars. "I like stars," I say quietly. "But I don't think Star is really a name." "Anything can be a name," she says gently. "What about Andrea? It means strength." She tilts her head. "Or we could find something that means stars, if you'd like that." I think about it. Andrea. It feels solid. Like something you could hold onto. I smile at her shyly. I have the strange urge to hug her, but she's still new, and I don't know the rules yet. She seems to notice. "Would you like a hug?" she asks. Just like that. Asking. It's the kindest thing anyone has ever done... giving me a name, and then asking. I nod and go to her quickly. She laughs, surprised and warm, and holds me tightly. "I love it. Thank you," I whisper into her shoulder. She squeezes me gently before pulling back. "Andrea Lilian Storm," she says, watching my face. "How does that sound?" I nod, enthusiastic, and she smiles at me in a way I've never seen directed at me before. Not forced. Not hiding anything underneath. Just real. She holds out her hand. I take it. We walk into the office together. "Cade, this is Andrea," she says to her husband. "Andrea, this is Cade." "Welcome to the family, Andrea," Cade says. His voice is steady and warm. "You're safe now." I don't have a word for what I feel. It's something like belonging, which I've never felt before. They call me a name that is mine. And maybe that's where it starts... not with love yet, because love takes time. But with a name. With a hand to hold. With someone who asked before they touched me. Maybe that's enough to begin.