The Night Orchid

by M. G. Hernandez

  M.G. Hernandez

  The Night Orchid

  Copyright © 2021 by M.G. Hernandez

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

  Second edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  To all the Filipinx/Fil-Am creatives and change makers, but mostly for Patty and Nowie.

  Contents

  Acknowledgement

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgement

  Writing this book was a three year journey, but I wouldn’t be able to finish it without the love and support of my family. Thank you Patty for the content editing and Bien-Elize for reading my draft and the valuable feedback. To my husband and sons, thank you for being patient with me during this process. I couldn’t have done it without you all.

  Prologue

  Josephine slid her palm along Glen Park Residential Treatment’s icy surface as she followed her parents. Dr. Suttworth, a tall, gaunt man, strolled beside them as he praised the renovations on the building. As they drifted further into the facility, the staccato rhythm of her mother’s heels reached her ears as they hit the cement floor. She preferred this noise over the adults’ conversations, which could have been Morse code. She shifted her attention again to the wall and focused on the painted bears and flowers.

  “We seek to make this facility more homelike,” said Dr. Suttworth.

  She turned upon hearing the word “home,” and saw him point a skeletal finger at the murals.

  “As you can see,” he continued, “Our interior decorators hired local artists to paint these lovely illustrations. We prefer to stay away from the stark white walls that usually grace the…”

  “Psych wards?” asked her father with a huff. Her mother gave him a disapproving glance, but he ignored her and chuckled.

  Josephine wrinkled her nose. She didn’t know what her dad meant, but the building did not remind her of home. The mural was creepy, and the smells of rubbing alcohol and baby powder made her nauseous. She wished she could interrupt their conversations and ask when they’d be leaving.

  “How old is she?” asked Dr. Suttworth. Though he stood facing her, his eyes never lowered her way and kept his gaze focused on her parents. She scowled and had the urge to stick her tongue at him. Knowing her mother’s swift hands, she covered her mouth to prevent herself from doing it.

  She inspected him this time. Thin, pale, hollow cheeks and iceberg cheekbones. He reminded her of an undertaker. She spun around and shuddered.

  “Eight,” said her mother, without glancing at her.

  Josephine pursed her lips. She wanted to scream, “I’m not an auction item!” But she kept her mouth shut. An overwhelming dread engulfed her, and she started looking for the exit sign, but her mom grabbed her elbow as if reading her mind.

  They turned the corner to a dimmer hallway. The walls were bare, and the paint was peeling. Josephine didn’t hear the doctor explain that this was the older side of the building, because the flickering lights stole her attention. She glanced at her parents, but they continued with their conversation with no mention of the strange light show above them.

  “Well, here we are,” said Dr. Suttworth. “Please come in.” He held the door as he waited. This time, she didn’t dawdle and entered at once. She wanted out of that hallway.

  Josephine adjusted her eyes to a room with bright fluorescent lights, bare walls, and a black sofa. A girl sat at the end of the couch, which caught her by surprise. As she stood near the doorway, the doctor instructed her to take a seat while leading her parents to his private office. She beelines to the settee and clutched her pea coat against her body to block the sudden chill.

  “Hi.” She turned to the slight girl with chestnut hair and tight ringlets. Her white frilly dress, socks and black Mary Jane shoes were outdated, but they were clean and crisp. She ignored Josephine and kept her eyes glued to the wall in front of her.

  “Don’t enjoy talking either, huh?” said Josephine, rubbing her frigid hands on her thighs. “I don’t blame you.”

  As she turned away, she noticed Dr. Suttworth’s door ajar. She leaned forward and focused on the bits of information leaking outside his office.

  “… talks to herself… about two months… seeing things that aren’t there… scratches on her body…”

  “signs and symptoms… schizophrenia… medications…”

  Josephine glanced at the scrapes on her arm. She was playing with another schoolgirl at the playground. Then the girl panicked, causing twigs to fly, and hit her body. Unbeknownst to Josephine, her mom was watching her and was not seeing her playmate. Her mother insisted that she was talking to herself, her emotions rising when she saw the red marks on her daughter’s skin. She was on the phone faster than a runaway bullet, telling the person on the other line that her daughter was hurting herself besides having hallucinations.

  Josephine later found herself in a cramped, sterile room, where a medical team started as
king her many strange questions. She remembered feeling unheard despite the doctors nodding and scribbling on their notepads.

  She angled to her companion. “What’s your name?”

  The girl flinched as if finally hearing her. Then her head turned in an unhurried fashion. When their gazes locked, Josephine’s breath hitched as she registered her silvery skin and vacant black eyes. The temperature dropped even lower, and goosebumps now covered her arms. The girl’s mouth opened, revealing a gaping hole that tunneled into a dark abyss.

  Josephine screamed, and her parents came running two seconds later. She pointed to the little girl, but she couldn’t get her words out.

  “She’s doing it again!” Her mother cried. She turned to Dr. Suttworth. “I don’t care what you do, but do not bring her back to us until you’ve fixed her!”

  Dr. Suttworth took his radio and requested staff to run to his office. Within minutes, two men in scrubs grabbed Josephine’s arms. In panic, she flailed, kicked and demanded for her release. “Mama! They’re hurting me! Get them off me.”

  But her mother turned away, forcing her father to address her plea. “This is for the best. I suggest you stop fighting.”

  “Papa!” she pleaded. “Please. Help me!”

  As she watched her parents standing, unmoved, her panic increased, and she kicked back, hitting the nurse behind her.

  “Fuck!” yelled the nurse. But she didn’t care and continued to flail.

  Her mother finally turned to her, boring her brown eyes straight into hers. She had seen this look before, and it was one that she never liked — calm but so icy it could freeze the Sahara desert. Josephine cowered and whimpered, akin to an unwanted stray animal.

  “Stop it,” she hissed. “Stay here and behave until you’re well enough to come home. Don’t embarrass your family.”

  Tears streamed down Josephine’s face as she hung her head low.

  “Settle down.” This time it wasn’t her mother’s voice she heard. It was Dr. Suttworth’s. “This will only sting a little.”

  She did not relax, but she didn’t protest either. Her small body had lost the energy to fight, admitting defeat. The last she remembered was the tunneling of her vision.

  Then complete darkness.

  Chapter 1

  Josephine

  January 10, 2021

  Ten Years Later

  The bell rings, marking the end of the second round. It was a bloodbath, and the bloodstain I’m wiping off my forehead is a testament to that. Hers, not mine. I never bleed. They don’t call me, Lightning Jo, for nothing. Three years of fighting and a fingernail has never scratched my cheeks, a bony knuckle has never broken my nose, and I have never gotten a black eye. My face is the holy grail, and I must guard it with my life.

  My body is another story. The girl round kicked me so hard, I thought a bone detached from the rest of my rib cage. But no matter, the pain will subside and the bruise I’ll cover.

  Just stay away from the face, Tricia.

  She sneers at me as if hearing my thoughts. Her right lid protrudes from her eyeball, swollen, but she smiles and licks a bloody lip, making her look grotesque. She could murder me. Her torso, hips and legs form one giant boulder, solid and impenetrable. But I want that money, and I’m hungry.

  The jeers and yelling bounce off the walls of this dingy abandoned warehouse while the crowd rattles the cage. I wipe the sweat off my nose and hit my clenched fist against my palm. After adjusting my mouthpiece, I signal for round three.

  She flies towards me growling, ready to damage every nerve in my body. But she’s too late. I’ve been devoid of sensations for years. I got nothing to lose but everything to gain.

  With a long grunt, I pivot my leg and kick up—my shin striking her where it counts. A mixture of sweat and blood sprinkles the air as she falls.

  The deafening cheers drown out the announcer, but I hear him call it a knockout. I won, but I’m not here to bask in the glory.

  “Dominating the ring again, Lightning Jo,” said the referee, taking my wrist to raise my arm for the spectators.

  I shove his hand away. “I just want my money, Bruce.”

  He chortles a smoker’s laugh. His breath smells of cheese and spoiled milk, laced with cheap cigars. “You’ve always had a nasty attitude, Jo.”

  I shrug as I gather my things from the corner of the octagon and wipe my face with a towel. A greasy palm reaches up to my ankle, but I shove it off with my foot. The guys here are dirty with a warped mentality—spending their nights betting on fighters in this illegal fight club. And they don’t care that underage girls like me, seventeen and barely legal, battle for money, too.

  “But you’re one bad motherfucker in the ring,” Bruce continues. He shoves a wad of cash in my hand and leaves.

  I shuffle the hundred-dollar bills and let it fan my face. A thousand dollars. I shove it in my duffel bag and climb off the octagon. But hey, who am I to judge? Morals or not, I’ll take their money.

  As I strut to the exit, I put the hood of my coat over my head and fend off the congratulatory pats. I want none of these people touching me.

  As soon as I push through the door, the breeze slaps my cheeks and smacks my nose. California winter, though frosty, is never this bitter. I zip up my jacket to my chin and pull the strings to tighten the hood around my face. The chill seeps through the cotton, anyway, nipping at my skin as I enter the seedy, rat-infested Jack Lane, known as Jack the Ripper Alley by the locals. The street stretches deeper than five miles, and with its sparse lighting, whores, drug dealers and pimps, it’s easy to see how it got its nickname.

  Help me.

  And so it begins. A whisper in my ear and a tug at the elbow disturbs my force field. But I keep walking, concentrating instead on the crunch underneath my boots as I stomp on potato chip bags, newspapers and other trash scattered around the small street dotted with liquor stores and massage parlors.

  My turn.

  Another whisper. The sudden boom of bass from hip hop beats sounds off in the distance, and I pick up the pace. Relief waits for me between Fat Flask Bar and North Star Grocer, where Club Diamond sits quiet and dim until music escapes through its door when opened.

  Listen.

  “I hear you,” I said under my breath. “But I can’t help you.”

  My guests have worn out their welcome a long time ago. They’re always there. And so I keep walking.

  The stench of urine attacks my nose, and I look up from the ground. No sense of propriety exists near the club as men piss on whatever wall they can find. The dizzying smell of ammonia is stronger here, too. No one drinks water in these parts—only hard liquor will do.

  As expected, the blue diamond sign hangs off a rickety rod above a black door. Meanwhile, the bouncer sits on a stool too small for his offensive lineman build. His massive hand rests on his thigh while the other scrolls through his cellphone. Nothing happens at midnight. The action starts at two.

  As if sensing my presence, he lifts his head and squints at me. But after a second, he shrugs and returns to his phone. He recognizes me, but then again, no one cares that an underage girl is standing in front of a strip club way past curfew.

  The door swings open with a loud bang, catching the bouncer’s attention. A middle-aged man talks to him from the entrance, giving me a glimpse of a topless curvy woman gyrating on stage. The dancer focuses on a customer sitting below her. Her shadow lands on his entire body, obscuring his profile, except for the glass of auburn liquid in his hand. I step forward and squint to see clearer. Curiosity forces me to fixate on the stranger tucked away from the spotlight’s glare. Then the stripper turns and bends to allow him a full view of her firm ass dressed in a hot pink g-string. The mysterious figure leans towards the light.

  “I can get you a gig, if you like. I know the owner.”

  The door closes, leaving me unsatisfied—never to see the stripper’s customer. I grit my teeth as I turn to the person who obstructed my view. It’s the man
who was speaking to the bouncer a few minutes ago. He positions himself against the wall and lights a cigarette. Black shirt, slacks and dress shoes. Nothing extraordinary, except he’s staring at me with glossy eyes. As he lowers his cigarette, he tilts his head and gazes down my body. He grins, making me gag. Mistaking my movement as an invitation, he walks towards me. I grip my pepper spray in my pocket and ball my other hand into a fist. I’m bruised and drained from the fight, but I still have energy if he dares to touch me.

  “Get the fuck away from her, Eishen.”

  The man snaps his head towards the voice and sneers. But he backs off, revealing a petite guy with balding black hair. “Relax, Mooks. Just wanted to sniff her a little. S’all good.”

  “Fuck off, dickhead. Take a cold shower. By the way, your parole officer called.”

  Eishen sobers up and straightens his shirt before separating himself from us. Meanwhile, I fist bump Mookie—the reason for my trip to Breckinridge’s underbelly. “Thanks, Mooks. Fuckin’ creeper.”

  He places a hand on my arm and leads me away from the club. “Girl, I told you many times not to come here. It’s not safe.”

  I snort. “Says my drug dealer. Good one.”

  He bops my nose with a finger. “Listen, we can meet someplace else. Not here.”

  “And what? Risk my mom seeing me?”

  “We’ll go somewhere where she can’t see you.”

  I shake my head. “My parents have friends everywhere. They sleep at 10:00, so at 10:30 I sneak out. Unfortunately, that’s also the hour you work at the titty bar. But I got no choice.”

  He squints his eyes. “I sold you your stash five days ago. You’re out already?”

  I wince. “I need my fix.”

  He laughs as we shake hands. “Now, you sound like a crack whore. It’s just weed, baby girl.”

  I place the tiny bag that slipped through my hand and stick it in my backpack. A quick blustery breeze hits me and I peer at Mookie. He looks unperturbed and keeps talking to me. But a shuffle reaches my ears, making me turn my head to the right. My eyes widen upon seeing a guy standing next to me. I haven’t seen him before, and I have trouble discerning if he’s real or a recent visitor. These days, they’ve been so much clearer, I can’t tell sometimes. But he bewitches me, and I gawk at his haircut. Nothing special. Just sandy blonde, straight hair. Finally, he turns, but as he does, a bullet hole in the back of his head shocks me and I stumble.