Burnington Gaol

T H I R T Y - F O U R | Adeline

My palms opened against the rough sheets, lungs filled with the bleach-soaked air.

"Adeline?"

Dad's clothes rustled as he leapt to his feet and his warm hand moved to cover mine. My eyes opened into slits, the grogginess sinking into my bones and making the world turn a fuzzy grey.

"Dad?" I breathed in, felt the dryness and soreness of my smoke-stricken throat. "Where's Billy?"

"Are you okay?" He asked, eyes glassy and sticky with fear.

"Fine. Where's Billy?"

"At the hospital. He's okay."

I focused my eyes, looked around the foreign room.

"Then where are we?"

"At the Gaol. In the medical treatment facility."

"What about Frank? Is he here?"

Dad's lips tightened with disapproval and his eyes hardened.

"What are you doing messing around with Frank Dawson?"

"Dad," I pressed. "Did he survive?"

He sighed, stood, ran a hand through his thinning hair.

"Yes," he said, meeting my eye. "You saved him."

"Thank God," I sighed, the muscles in my shoulders unclenching. "Where is he?"

"No. First, you tell me why you risked your life to save someone like him."

I paused, letting my gaze fall to my hands.

"I told you," I said quietly. "I can't say."

Dad's stern lips broke into a painful, humourless smile.

"Okay, first you and your brother are in a meth lab. Then, Billy is shot. Now, you run into a burning building for a child killer and damn near kill yourself in the process. Whatever you've gotten yourself into, it's gone too far. And you need to tell me what is happening."

My eyes swelled, vision blurring.

"I can't – "

"Adeline!" Dad roared, voice loud enough to shake the building at its foundations.

The room fell silent, and I looked away from him. Dad shifted, crossed his arms over his chest.

"Adeline," he whispered, sitting down. "Your mother is in an asylum. Your brother is in the hospital. You almost died. We're falling apart, Ad. All of us." I stayed quiet, averted my eyes. "Tell me what you're doing."

I sucked in a shaky breath, couldn't form the words in my throat. I shook my head. And Dad, with his haunted eyes and his broken heart, pressed his lips together, got to his feet and left.

© A.G. Travers 2018