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Take Me Home
Written by H. R. Connelly
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CHAPTER TWO....
There was blood, bright red blood everywhere. I was horrified, people were screaming, and I was crying and screaming. Someone was pulling me, pulling me towards the screaming, towards the gore. I reached out, just barely brushing someone's fingertips. Someone kept calling out my name, and I kept screaming, "Mama! Papa!" over and over again. I couldn't get away from the horrible, grabbing, grasping arms that kept pulling me farther away from safety. "Mama! Papa...!
"Mama! Papa!" I screamed as I awoke from the dream suddenly. I was covered in sweat, and tears rolled down my hot sticky face. I sat up slowly, and started taking some deep breaths. I desperately wanted someone, anyone, even old Mrs. Cranton, to be with me, to hug me, and say that everything would be ok, but nobody came. Nobody ever came.
The nightmare has been becoming more and more frequent, for some reason. Tonight was the worst. Everything felt so real; I could smell the death, feel hot fire, and I still felt the grasping arms around my waist. I shivered. I know this dream is not a manifestation of my day. It is a memory. I am normally drawn to my past. I want to know whom I am, where I come from. I am able to forget the state I was left in when Mrs. Cranton opened her door to me. Yet, when one of these dreams comes, I wish to be contented in the life I lead now at the orphanage.
When I had calmed down some, I looked at my clock, which read 15 till one. Since it was almost one I quickly dressed, threw my clock in my bag, and headed down the creaky stairs.
The orphanage looked eerie and still this early in the morning. It was also very dark; I almost tripped over the rug in the front hall. I slipped out of the house, silently, and quickly walked to the road. Luckily there were no cars, so I turned left onto the road that led out of town. Without looking back, I set off briskly.
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Mrs. Cranton had woken early, at around six. She didn't get any sleep these days; she blamed it on her stress, when it was really then encroaching arthritis. Her bones ached when she rose from her bed, and protested as she pulled on her knee-length skirt and careworn blouse. She had been working for about an hour on the finances when the doorbell rang.
She set down her pen, and hurried to the door. Experience had taught her that very early visitors always brought bad news. Mrs. Cranton fleetingly hoped that Greg hadn't snuck away again, but her fears were quieted when she opened the door to a rather ordinary looking couple.
"Yes, can I help you?" She asked politely.
"Well, yes," the man stated. "Actually, we're hoping to find our daughter here."
"Oh.... Oh, my. Please come in. This is certainly unexpected." Mrs. Cranton led them into her office and offered them some coffee. "We don't normally get a couple who are looking for a specific child."
"We've been looking for her for quite some time." The woman stated as she sipped her coffee. She eyed her husband and then continued. "You see, about ten years ago, she was taken from us." The woman frowned, and looked into her cup of coffee.
Mrs. Cranton frowned meditatively. If a child had been kidnapped, and then taken to an orphanage, the authorities would most certainly have found this out.... "How old was your daughter when she was kidnapped?"
"She had just turned eight," the man said. "She was taken on her eighth birthday."
Now that Mrs. Cranton had more information, she wasn't so sure about their story. If a child of eight had been taken from her parents, and brought to an orphanage, wouldn't any sensible child have known to tell the authorities who she was, and where she really belonged? "Mr. and Mrs...."
"Teasdale." The woman said quickly.
"Of course. Mr. and Mrs. Teasdale, can you describe her features? Her hair color, eye color...," she was cut off mid sentence when Mr. Teasdale pushed a small painted portrait across her desk. Mrs. Cranton caught her breath. She pulled a scrapbook from ten years ago of a shelf full of yearly chronicles and flipped quickly through the pages till she found one Polaroid from that Christmas. She scanned the faces and found the one she was looking for... dark brown hair, light blue eyes, bruises and angry scars still covering her exposed arms and smiling face....
"Is this the girl you are looking for?" Mrs. Cranton asked as she showed the Teasdales the picture.
The woman gasped. "We've finally found her!" She exclaimed, her eyes lighting up and a smile spreading over her face. Mr. Teasdale was less emotional, and if Mrs. Cranton hadn't looked closely, she would have believed him to have no feeling on the matter. However, her shrewd eye did discern some sign of happiness and relief in his eyes.
"She came to us ten years ago, as you say. But, you see," Mrs. Cranton said as she pulled the album away from the couple and placed it gently back in its rightful spot on the shelf. "When she arrived, she was in such a terrible condition. It had been obvious someone had beaten her... badly, and repeatedly." She paused to let it sink in. Mrs. Cranton wasn't sure if it was her imagination or not, but she thought that she sensed the Teasdales had already known this. It only lasted a second, and then Mrs. Teasdale exclaimed with horror, putting her hands to her mouth to stifle a sob.
"My God...."
"When she arrived in our hands, she had no memory of anything previous. I found her standing lying on the front steps, completely bewildered. She didn't know her name, where she came from, who her parents were." The Teasdales looked rightly shocked and pained. "I called her Becky. She didn't even know her own name! Mr. and Mrs. Teasdale, I don't know what happened to her, but in general, a kidnapper wouldn't take a child and then abandon her on the steps of an orphanage! I have to be frank with you. The conditions we found her in when she came to us put you, provided you are her parents, under a great deal of suspicion."
Mrs. Teasdale seemed to blanch slightly and then steel her reserve. However, Mr. Teasdale bristled at Mrs. Cranton's comment.
"I never beat my child." Mr. Teasdale said through slightly clenched jaws, his hands firmly gripping the armrest of his chair. He commanded such obedience that Mrs. Cranton faltered under the pressure.
"Well... I'll ask someone to bring her down here. As long as you have her birth certificate, we'll see what happens." Mrs. Cranton stated coolly. "If you prove to us that you are her parents, we'll have to perform an investigation." What with all Becky had been through she didn't want to end up placing her right back in the hands of someone who would treat her the same way. Mrs. Cranton picked up her phone and quickly told Mrs. McKinnely to bring Becky down. "She'll be down in just a minute. Now, may I see her birth certificate?"
Mrs. Teasdale nodded and confidently pulled out a birth certificate. "Julianne Teasdale," mumbled Mrs. Cranton reading over the details. "Born September 3, 1982 at New York City Memorial Hospital. Delivered by Dr. Gregory Wilmot." She addressed the Teasdales. "So her name is Julianne?"
Before the Teasdales could answer, Mrs. McKinnely suddenly opened the office door. The Teasdales stood up expectantly, as she delivered the shocking news. Becky wasn't in her bed, and was nowhere to be found. Mrs. Teasdale looked about ready to cry, but as if anticipating her husband's fury, placed a calming hand quickly on his arm. Mr. Teasdale looked furious and turned wrathful eyes towards Mrs. Cranton, who hurriedly telephoned the police.
Take Me Home
Written by H. R. Connelly
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CHAPTER TWO....
There was blood, bright red blood everywhere. I was horrified, people were screaming, and I was crying and screaming. Someone was pulling me, pulling me towards the screaming, towards the gore. I reached out, just barely brushing someone's fingertips. Someone kept calling out my name, and I kept screaming, "Mama! Papa!" over and over again. I couldn't get away from the horrible, grabbing, grasping arms that kept pulling me farther away from safety. "Mama! Papa...!
"Mama! Papa!" I screamed as I awoke from the dream suddenly. I was covered in sweat, and tears rolled down my hot sticky face. I sat up slowly, and started taking some deep breaths. I desperately wanted someone, anyone, even old Mrs. Cranton, to be with me, to hug me, and say that everything would be ok, but nobody came. Nobody ever came.
The nightmare has been becoming more and more frequent, for some reason. Tonight was the worst. Everything felt so real; I could smell the death, feel hot fire, and I still felt the grasping arms around my waist. I shivered. I know this dream is not a manifestation of my day. It is a memory. I am normally drawn to my past. I want to know whom I am, where I come from. I am able to forget the state I was left in when Mrs. Cranton opened her door to me. Yet, when one of these dreams comes, I wish to be contented in the life I lead now at the orphanage.
When I had calmed down some, I looked at my clock, which read 15 till one. Since it was almost one I quickly dressed, threw my clock in my bag, and headed down the creaky stairs.
The orphanage looked eerie and still this early in the morning. It was also very dark; I almost tripped over the rug in the front hall. I slipped out of the house, silently, and quickly walked to the road. Luckily there were no cars, so I turned left onto the road that led out of town. Without looking back, I set off briskly.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Mrs. Cranton had woken early, at around six. She didn't get any sleep these days; she blamed it on her stress, when it was really then encroaching arthritis. Her bones ached when she rose from her bed, and protested as she pulled on her knee-length skirt and careworn blouse. She had been working for about an hour on the finances when the doorbell rang.
She set down her pen, and hurried to the door. Experience had taught her that very early visitors always brought bad news. Mrs. Cranton fleetingly hoped that Greg hadn't snuck away again, but her fears were quieted when she opened the door to a rather ordinary looking couple.
"Yes, can I help you?" She asked politely.
"Well, yes," the man stated. "Actually, we're hoping to find our daughter here."
"Oh.... Oh, my. Please come in. This is certainly unexpected." Mrs. Cranton led them into her office and offered them some coffee. "We don't normally get a couple who are looking for a specific child."
"We've been looking for her for quite some time." The woman stated as she sipped her coffee. She eyed her husband and then continued. "You see, about ten years ago, she was taken from us." The woman frowned, and looked into her cup of coffee.
Mrs. Cranton frowned meditatively. If a child had been kidnapped, and then taken to an orphanage, the authorities would most certainly have found this out.... "How old was your daughter when she was kidnapped?"
"She had just turned eight," the man said. "She was taken on her eighth birthday."
Now that Mrs. Cranton had more information, she wasn't so sure about their story. If a child of eight had been taken from her parents, and brought to an orphanage, wouldn't any sensible child have known to tell the authorities who she was, and where she really belonged? "Mr. and Mrs...."
"Teasdale." The woman said quickly.
"Of course. Mr. and Mrs. Teasdale, can you describe her features? Her hair color, eye color...," she was cut off mid sentence when Mr. Teasdale pushed a small painted portrait across her desk. Mrs. Cranton caught her breath. She pulled a scrapbook from ten years ago of a shelf full of yearly chronicles and flipped quickly through the pages till she found one Polaroid from that Christmas. She scanned the faces and found the one she was looking for... dark brown hair, light blue eyes, bruises and angry scars still covering her exposed arms and smiling face....
"Is this the girl you are looking for?" Mrs. Cranton asked as she showed the Teasdales the picture.
The woman gasped. "We've finally found her!" She exclaimed, her eyes lighting up and a smile spreading over her face. Mr. Teasdale was less emotional, and if Mrs. Cranton hadn't looked closely, she would have believed him to have no feeling on the matter. However, her shrewd eye did discern some sign of happiness and relief in his eyes.
"She came to us ten years ago, as you say. But, you see," Mrs. Cranton said as she pulled the album away from the couple and placed it gently back in its rightful spot on the shelf. "When she arrived, she was in such a terrible condition. It had been obvious someone had beaten her... badly, and repeatedly." She paused to let it sink in. Mrs. Cranton wasn't sure if it was her imagination or not, but she thought that she sensed the Teasdales had already known this. It only lasted a second, and then Mrs. Teasdale exclaimed with horror, putting her hands to her mouth to stifle a sob.
"My God...."
"When she arrived in our hands, she had no memory of anything previous. I found her standing lying on the front steps, completely bewildered. She didn't know her name, where she came from, who her parents were." The Teasdales looked rightly shocked and pained. "I called her Becky. She didn't even know her own name! Mr. and Mrs. Teasdale, I don't know what happened to her, but in general, a kidnapper wouldn't take a child and then abandon her on the steps of an orphanage! I have to be frank with you. The conditions we found her in when she came to us put you, provided you are her parents, under a great deal of suspicion."
Mrs. Teasdale seemed to blanch slightly and then steel her reserve. However, Mr. Teasdale bristled at Mrs. Cranton's comment.
"I never beat my child." Mr. Teasdale said through slightly clenched jaws, his hands firmly gripping the armrest of his chair. He commanded such obedience that Mrs. Cranton faltered under the pressure.
"Well... I'll ask someone to bring her down here. As long as you have her birth certificate, we'll see what happens." Mrs. Cranton stated coolly. "If you prove to us that you are her parents, we'll have to perform an investigation." What with all Becky had been through she didn't want to end up placing her right back in the hands of someone who would treat her the same way. Mrs. Cranton picked up her phone and quickly told Mrs. McKinnely to bring Becky down. "She'll be down in just a minute. Now, may I see her birth certificate?"
Mrs. Teasdale nodded and confidently pulled out a birth certificate. "Julianne Teasdale," mumbled Mrs. Cranton reading over the details. "Born September 3, 1982 at New York City Memorial Hospital. Delivered by Dr. Gregory Wilmot." She addressed the Teasdales. "So her name is Julianne?"
Before the Teasdales could answer, Mrs. McKinnely suddenly opened the office door. The Teasdales stood up expectantly, as she delivered the shocking news. Becky wasn't in her bed, and was nowhere to be found. Mrs. Teasdale looked about ready to cry, but as if anticipating her husband's fury, placed a calming hand quickly on his arm. Mr. Teasdale looked furious and turned wrathful eyes towards Mrs. Cranton, who hurriedly telephoned the police.