Page 1 of Slayer

CHAPTER

ONE

“By signing this paperwork, you are acknowledging that you have reached the age of majority and are no longer under state supervision,” my caseworker, Linda, said.

Her voice carried over the soft buzz of the old ceiling light, the kind that flickered every few seconds like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to stay alive. The room smelled faintly of stale coffee and whatever microwaved meal the staff had eaten for lunch, and a dying fern sat in the corner, one leaf hanging so low it practically touched the floor. It was the most depressing space I’d ever been in.

Though Linda was cool. She was better than Maureen, who never seemed to like me from the start. It could have been that I ran away from three foster homes under her care, but still. Judgy much?

Linda’s desk was cluttered with sticky notes, a half-empty mug that read I became a social worker for the money, and a stack of case files leaning sideways like a tired tower.

But Linda was sweet. She looked perpetually tired and like she had about five cats waiting for her at home, but she genuinely seemed to care about me.

Her hair was pulled into a loose bun, and her eyes were warm in a way that made the whole room feel less cold. I had a sixth sense about people, and Linda could be trusted.

I signed my name on the line she pointed to, granting me my freedom. Growing up as a ward of the state always made me feel like a piece of property to be owned, not a person. The government dictated where I lived and what I did and paid for my basics, but now I was officially an adult.

The pen scratched across the paper, louder than it should have been in the quiet office, and the reality of what I was doing settled like a weight on my shoulders.

Stella Adams. Adult.

The word felt heavy.

“And here is a packet of community resources you might need. You always have my office number, so you can call if you need help,” Linda added, shoving the packet across to me and yawning before taking a sip of her coffee.

The packet contained a stack of brochures advertising low-income housing and community college programs, the edges curled from being handled too much.

“Thanks,” I told her with a genuine smile.

My voice sounded small in the cramped office.

“You’ve come a long way,” she said like a proud mother.

Her eyes softened, like she was holding back about fifteen emotions.

When I was eleven and ran away from my foster home to look for my birth parents, Maureen dropped me and they assigned Linda to be my case manager. She made the decision to put me in a group home instead of foster home after foster home. It was then that Linda leveled with me and told me the truth about the incident surrounding my birth.

I remembered sitting in this same office years ago, the walls then covered with different posters but the same fluorescent hum buzzing overhead, and Linda sliding the torn green folder toward me with a look that warned me the contents wouldn’t be easy.

There were so many times growing up when I was almost adopted, but ultimately, I was told that my “birth history” scared people off. They didn’t mind the fact that a baby had been dropped off at a hospital with the umbilical cord still attached. Or even that I was severely dehydrated, had low blood sugar, and was rushed to the NICU for a week. It was…the marks that scared them off.

Even now, the memory of those photographs made the tiny room feel colder.

Seeing pictures of the…runes or hieroglyphs, whatever they were, all up and down my little baby arms was terrifying. The images Linda had shown me years ago were still burned into my brain, printed on thin paper. Was my birth mother a drug addict? Did she draw them on me while under the influence of something? The attached report said that the doctors tried to wash them off, but they appeared tattooed on. The skin was inflamed and red as if they’d been burned on my skin.

Then, on day three of my hospital admittance, the marks disappeared.

Just gone. No explanation. They just vanished overnight like they’d never existed, except for the photos and the confused notes in the margins of my file.

I couldn’t imagine being a NICU nurse and having a tattooed baby in my charge just suddenly have burned skin marks vanish. One of the notes in the report said something about hospital workers wondering if I was involved in a satanic ritual or something.

That line always made my stomach twist. Even now, sitting in Linda’s stuffy office with the AC clicking on and off in the corner, it made the back of my neck prickle.

I stopped dreaming about my birth parents then. Stopped wondering if they were just some young couple who got knocked up and couldn’t afford me. That they might now be married and have stable jobs and maybe another kid. That they might want me back. I realized that giving me to the government for safekeeping was probably for the best. The doctors clearly hadn’t looked at the marks closely enough, because if they were tattooed or burned on my body, I’d still have them. It was definitely weird. The pictures creeped me out. I couldn’t imagine how much they would scare off a potential adoptive family.

Satanic child sacrifice needs a home. Plays well with others.

Nope. Pass. I wouldn’t want that creepy kid anywhere near me while sleeping.