Summer was slowly coming to an end. It was a hot and sticky Friday and the first week of school had just ended. Tasey Ginny--my best friend at the time--and I were walking home from school, singing songs that Mrs. Henderson, our music teacher, had taught us. Normally there'd be other students alongside Tasey and I on our walk home; however, on this day we were late leaving the classroom and we were the only ones on the path.
As we made our way home, Tasey noticed a white car parked just off the path. There was a huge dent on the driver's side of the car.
As we drew nearer to the car, I could see someone in the driver's seat; he appeared to be reading a newspaper.
We were just about to leave the car behind us when the man in the car opened the car door and hollered out to us, "Hey there. Little girl, come here, I've got some candy."
I thought to myself, as I watched this white haired man motioning us over with a candy bar in his hand, what a lame excuse to get us over to the car. My mother had taught me well. Stay away from strangers, she would say. Oh, they'll offer you candy or some other cute little thing just so they can grab you and steal you away, she would often tell me.
However, someone had not taught Tasey the finer points of avoiding strangers, for she started to walk towards the white haired man with the dumbest look on her face. The stranger was smiling back at her.
At first I was horribly amazed by how stupid Tasey was that I found it extremely difficult to speak. I wanted to say Stop! Finally, I snapped out of my puzzleheadedness and I hollered at my friend, "Tasey, we're going to be late. Papa is waiting for us just around the bend!"
But she paid me no mind; she just turned her head my way, smiled that silly smile, and with her hand told me to wait for her there. I grumbled at this and started to follow her towards the white haired man, scornfully watching every move the white haired man was making.
"This won't take too long, little lady," the stranger assured me, his eyes like those of an angel. I noticed a long scar running from ear to chin on the stranger's face; I was startled by his disfigurement, gasping like a fish out of water. And then, out of now where, as I saw him coaxing Tasey with the Hershey in his hand, in my head I saw a vision of the stranger, holding a knife, there was spittle on his chin, and he was laughing at me. Suddenly, in a flash, the vision went away; my eyes widened as I noted on the stranger's back seat, beaming sunshine, the same knife in my vision.
"Tasey!" I yelled out.
But I was too late, for the stranger reached out quickly, grabbing Tasey by her long blonde hair; his other hand, dropping the candy bar, then grabbed her by her skinny arm. He yanked hard on both her hair and arm with the ferocity of a gorilla. Tasey began to wail and scream as the stranger began to pull her into the white car.
I jumped at the man, punching and scratching at him; I managed to draw blood from his chin--my fingernails were extremely long and sharp then. And then something strange happened: As I continued to pound away at the creep, in my mind I was wishing he would let go of Tasey with all of my heart; and then, suddenly, with a hurtful yelp, the stranger let go of her. He began to howl in pain, looking terrifyingly at his fingers, acting as if he had been burned by Tasey's skin and hair. Tasey quickly darted away from the stranger's reach; feeling she had escaped the stranger, she stopped running, turned around, and watched as I was dragged into the car by the white haired man. She cried out my name, tears streaming down her face, and watched, miserably, as the car drove away down the street. And as I saw her fade away behind the cloud of gray exhaust, my own tears began to fall.
The white haired man had tied my hands and ankles together, tightly. I could feel my hands going numb. I begged him to loosen them, but he ignored me
I closed my eyes, sobbing softly. All I could think about was my mother the whole time I was tied up in the back seat: of her lovely blue eyes and long shiny black hair; of her tender smile. I kept repeating the word mama in my head. Over and over again.
"We're almost home, sweetheart. Daddy's almost home," the white haired man informed me; his angel eyes were back again and staring at me from the cracked rearview mirror of his car.
"You're not my daddy," I told him brazenly in a whispery voice.
"Don't be silly, Hanna, you know very--"
"My name is Miriah! Miriah Owens!" I yelled at him. "And you are not my father! My father died a long time ago!"
The white haired man slammed on the brakes, sending me crashing into the back of the driver's seat and onto the floor board. The man, moaning as if in great discomfort, quickly reached over the driver's seat, grabbed me by my shirt, and yanked me upward from the floorboard. He was obviously mad, his eyes were burning on fire. I even thought I saw steam rising off the back of his neck. He then brought me closer to those eyes; I could easily smell his stenchy breath, now that I was so close to his face.
"Don't make Daddy mad, Hanna. You know what happens when Daddy gets mad right? Or must I remind you again?"
I didn't say a word. I could see, now, that this man was utterly crazy. I would have to humor him from now on.
"I was kidding, Daddy. You know me," I told him, demurely. It sickened me to humor him, but I was determined to get out of this mess.
He just looked at me strangely. His left eye began to tremble nervously. And then suddenly, with his free hand, he slapped me, and tossed me back onto the seat. The slap stung, badly. This was the first time I had ever been slapped.
"I don't want to hear another word from you Hanna! Not another!" He hollered at me, glaring at me through the rearview mirror with evil eyes now.
He stepped on the gas and we roared down the road.
I closed my eyes once again and began to repeat the word Mama in my head, over and over, and over again. The sound of her name in my head seemed to comfort my troubled soul.
The white haired man stopped the car in front of an old, run down house; peeling blue and dark blue paint was hanging shamelessly from the house. The windows (one of the windows sported a long crack) were murky with dirt and dust. Slowly rusting underneath an old oak tree, and pendulating in the soft breeze, was a child's swing. Thick shrubs growing around the house, however, hid most of the defects from prying eyes. The gloomy within the gloom.
As I sat there in the back, waiting for him to let me out, I noted there were no other houses nearby his house, which would make it easier for him to sneak me inside. He opened the door.
"Hanna?" He said softly, his angel eyes slowly returning.
"Yes, Daddy?" I replied.
"I'm not going to release you from your bonds till we get inside the house. I don't want you running away again like you did last time. You know what happened last time you ran away, right?"
I went along with it and nodded my agreement.
"Good," he replied; he then reached in and lifted me up off the seat, placing me over his shoulder. I could tell he was out of shape, because he made an awful sound when he slung me over his shoulder--he wasn't an old man, though he did have white hair. He trotted painfully up the rockery leading to his front door with me over his shoulder, occasionally glancing left and right for any prying eyes that may be witnessing his sick little game. Reaching the front door, he stuffed his hand in his pocket and pulled out the house key; I saw dangling from the key chain a flat metal plate with the word Daddy inscribed on it.
A sickening smell of rot and decay assaulted me when he finally opened the door; I nearly gagged from the stench. It was very dark inside the house, even with the sun still out. I could barely see what little furniture he had.
He threw me on a poor excuse for a couch; what felt like small blunt knifes poked into my side. I softly whimpered my displeasure.
"Is something the matter, Hanna?" He said, sweetly, in the darkness. A moment later a lamp was turned on, revealing the innards of the white haired man's living room . . .
I was exposed to the most horrible sight in my life. The walls were covered with dirty black wallpaper; on parts of the walls, like the flaking paint outside the house, patches of black were peeling. Child like illustrations made with red and yellow crayons were covering most of the walls. And covering the dirty black wallpaper and the crayoned illustrations, the most disturbing sight, were the pictures of little girls. Dozens of photos without frames. Clinging to the walls by tacks or tape.
I'd been so captured by the pictures on the walls that I had not noticed my captor missing from the living room. He then reassured me that he was not too far away.
"Hanna, are you hungry?" He asked me, appearing slowly from the dark hallway. He had a cigarette lit and fuming from his left hand.
"No," I whimpered.
"Well, no matter, you must eat. How does a sandwich sound?" He said; passing by me, he strode into the gloomy kitchen. I could hear the opening and closing of wooden cabinets and the clanking of metal coming from the kitchen; minutes later, the white haired man came out, in his hand was a sandwich. He handed it to me, but since my hands were still tied I could barely hold onto the sandwich. He looked at me strangely, and began to snicker.
"I'm sorry Hanna," he said; pulling out the knife that he had laying in the back seat of his car, he then sliced the rope he had tied around my wrists. The blade felt horribly cold as it brushed my skin. "Here, this might do you better." And the rope floated to the ground.
"Thank you daddy," I replied. I was stopped short from taking a bite when I saw that the sandwich bread had thick mold growing all over it. The smell then struck me. I brought the sandwich back down, slowly, on my lap. The white haired man took a long puff from the stinky thing in his hand, then stared at me with a strange look on his face. He was waiting for me to take a bite; however, I was not going to make him too proud of me.
"What's the matter?" He asked, his voice changing, getting deeper.
"I told you I wasn't hungry."
He then slapped me again, harder than he had did the first time. A tear guttered from my left eye.
Taking a another puff, he walked angrily over to the front door. A trail of gray smoke swirling and rising behind him.
I wanted badly for him to die from that cigarette he was smoking. Not in ten or thirty years like it would probably take, but right now. I wanted the smoke in his lungs to choke him to death; I wanted the smoke billowing around him to smother him. And I wanted it to happen now!
I watched as he smirked at me through the fog of smoke. "What are you looking at you little brat. Never pleased are you. Always wanting something, always asking for something. Never happy are you."
The hate within me was begging to burst through my skin, my eyes, my mouth; I felt like a dragon about to blow out fire.
I watched the smoke begin to swirl around the man, orbiting him like a thick gaggle of ghost. It was the strangest thing. I watched as his eyes began to tear, and he started to cough. The smoke began to thicken around him, as stray smoke (second hand smoke) from around the room began to move in on the man, joining their ghostly gray comrades. He was coughing loudly now, and waving the smoke away from him, still holding the cigarette he had been smoking in his left hand. Smoke from the fuming cigarette began to swirl and spin around the man. A deluge of tears was now streaming down his face. The man turned for the door and opened it, and fortunately for him the smoke that had been swarming around him began to disperse and spill outside. The wind had saved his life.
"I'm . . . going" he tried to speak, "to the store for more cigarettes." He started to cough again. "Don't try anything stupid. I've . . . locked the doors from the outside and the windows too." He threw the half smoked cigarette into the wind. "I really need to quit." He then slammed the door shut. I heard then the metal Clank of the lock locking.
I realized something after he had left, watching as the second hand smoke began to fade away and fall to the ground, that somehow I had something to do with that last episode; that I had caused the smoke to act as it did. My hate the mover and the shaper. My mind the maker. Or was I just going crazy? Was this nightmare doing my mind in? But I knew, deep down inside me, my soul was as sane as the ocean on a calm, sunny day.
The only question was how in the world did I do it.
My mother was in the living room. "Don't despair my child. I will be with you soon." I heard her say. But then I woke to find that she was never here at all; that I had only been dreaming her here. Tears resultantly slid down my face.
There was no clock, that I could see of anywhere, or any other device that could help me decipher what time it was. However, it was now dark, which meant it was at least some time after eight o'clock. And still, the white haired man had not returned from the store.
I was startled by a something darting across the living room floor. I jumped up, then looked that way. But I saw nothing. But then the thing darted out from behind a cardboard box. It was a small rat. It stopped to take a peek at me, as if I were something to marvel at. I wasn't scared--I was scared but not of the rat. It continued to just stare at me, edging closer to me. Still I didn't move.
"Hi," I said to it. An idea came to mind: I'll give it my sandwich to eat, that way Daddy will think I ate the miserable thing and he won't think of killing me so soon. "Come here? Are you hungry?"
It wriggled its nose at me and jumped up on the sorrowful couch. I handed it my sandwich, which it took a moderate nibble off, carefully. The creature looked up at me again, mouth full and moving; its eyes were shining like tiny diamonds. Somehow, strangely, I could sense gratitude in the creature's eyes. The creature wriggled it nose again, then, its tiny jaws opening wide, hungrily returned to the sandwich, oblivious to the mold.
"Daddy must be starving you," I said to the rat, my tiny fingers stroking its oily fur as it ate.
After the rat had finished the sandwich, it slowly, carefully, stepped away from me and leaped for the ground. It turned its shiny eyes back at me, as if to say thank you, then turned them away from me, and scurried back to the dark placed it had been hiding in, somewhere down the hallway.
I felt a chill, as I heard the words thank you echo in my mind. Words I did not put there.
I had fallen back to sleep; and since there was no way of telling what time it was, I didn't know how long I had slept. I was brought back to reality by the unlocking and opening sounds of the front door. The white haired man had returned, and in his arms were a few paper Albertsons grocery bags, stuffed full and spilling with groceries. In his mouth was another cigarette. He staggered over and into the gloomy kitchen and placed the three bags on the table. One of the bags toppled over, sending bottles and cans of food and drink to the floor.
"God Damn!" He growled at one of the broken bottles on the floor.
"Clean this up!"
I jumped. He meant me to clean the mess up. Instantly I got up and hopped (my feet were still tied together) over to the white haired man.
"Paper towels are over there," he growled again, pointing to the towels set near the kitchen sink.
"Yes, Daddy," I told him as I went to retrieve the towels from the counter.
"What did you do today?" He asked me in a much softer voice, taking a deep puff off the smelly stick afterwards.
This man was kidding, right? I mean what was I supposed to do, what can I do? My feet were tied up and hurting. The television had a huge hole in the tube, so I couldn't watch it. There were no books to read. I thought about saying that I spoke with a rat, but decided that too risky a discussion.
I got down on my knees, tiny pieces of glass from the broken bottle of mustard cutting into them, and began to soak up the mustard with the paper towel. Suddenly, I was pushed to the ground, my face shoved into the shattered glass and mustard by the white haired man; the glass was viciously biting my checks. I closed my eyes so as not to get the shattered glass in them. I started to whimper; in my mind, again, I began repeating the words, Mama help me.
"You little brat," the white haired man groaned at me. "See what you made me do. Clean it up!" He said.
I was so helpless. I felt faint coming.
As the white haired man continued to rub my face in the mess, I could hear, faintly, the booming sound of an airplane flying overhead. For reasons unknown, I began to concentrate on the sound, blocking all other sounds out, like a radio tuning in on a certain frequency. Then, seconds later, I felt the sound of the airplane begin to flow through my mind, like wind through an open window, and into my body; it felt so warm, so relaxed. After a few moments, my body, from all the sound it was absorbing from the passing plane, began to feel like a loaded sponge about to leak all over everything. And the next thing I knew it did just that, however not like a sponge, but like a stressed out and rupturing dam; the sound started to pour through out all sorts of places on my body: skin, eyes, fingers nails, eyelashes, mouth, my hair, feet and toes--the ropes around my ankles were ripped asunder--out my joints, ears. I had become radioactive; I was melting down.
Apparently, my meltdown seemed to have had an effect on the white haired man, for he had let my head go and was standing a few feet away from me. His eyes were turning red and tearing. His hands were cupping his ears. And I could see through the haze of expelling clamor that he was in great pain, moaning loudly his discomfort.
"That sound!" He hollered at me, slobbering and spitting now. He was staring strangely at me. "You're doing this! You little witch brat!"
I just shook my head at him.
Angrily, the white haired man stomped over to me and lifted me off the ground; small eddies of that ghastly sound, like water permeating a cloth balloon, was, still, seeping out of me, and wrapping themselves around the white haired man's fingers. Fortunately for the man, the meltdown I was undergoing was swiftly losing its power, so the eddies made little effect on him.
He dragged me down the dark hallway, threw me into a dark room, and slammed the door. "We'll talk more later," he grumbled loudly. I could hear him breathing heavily behind the door. And then after a couple of seconds there was only silence and darkness. And that stench, that God awful smell of decay.
I heard a squeak in the darkness. And in my head I heard the words, Don't worry my friend, Caspy is here. At first I didn't know who was in my head. But then I felt something pounce lightly on my leg, and instantly I knew it was my friend. The one I had shared my food with. Mister Rat.
Sunlight entering through the cracked window above my head warmed my face, and I was slowly stirred from sleep. Although my body felt like it had gone twelve rounds with Mike Tyson, I yawned and reluctantly got up, stretching my tired muscles and stiff joints.
I went over to the door to see if I could open it, but found that the man had locked it. I then put my ear to the cold door and to my surprise heard two distinct voices coming from the living room. It was the white haired man talking to someone. Instantly a wonderful idea came to mind: someone had come to his door to sell something, or perhaps a Jehovah Witness peddling the coming of Christ--which was very common around here. I started yelling: "Help me! Help me! He's got me locked up in the back room, please help me!"
I yelled and yelled, for nearly five minutes. But no one came to my rescue. No one hollered back a reply. The white haired man must have done something to the person, something awful perhaps, I thought. I was quickly becoming sick to my stomach. And then I heard a reply.
"Hanna?" Followed by the sound of the door unlocking. The door swung open; I backed away. "Is something wrong?" The white haired asked me; those angel eyes, the very same ones he had sparkling the day he so sweetly beckoned Casey and I to take the candy bar, were back. "I was just talking to a very good friend of mine. I'd like you to meet him," he said, stepping aside as if to let this friend of his come inside. "Meet Charlie," he said with his open hand gesturing to the empty air beside him. And with his own, changed voice he spoke, "Hi Hanna."
And he smiled at me. "I'm going to walk Charlie out. Then I'll be back to deal with you, shortly," he told me as he closed the door again.
I gulped in terror, knowing he would be back to hurt me; perhaps even kill me. I started sobbing softly as I turned my attention to the sunlight beaming through the window. I started to pray.
It seemed an hour had gone by before I heard the sound of the door unlocking again. Frightened by the sound, I made a sudden bound backwards. Frantically, I watched as the door then swung open; in walked the white haired man holding a belt in his hand. He didn't look too happy: his kindly smile and angelic eyes were gone, replaced by the most hateful grimace. As he slowly made his way towards me, slobber trickling from the side of his mouth, I started to squirm, moving backwards into the corner of the room. The belt was swaying ominously in his hand as he drew closer to me.
"Hanna," he grumbled, stopping a few feet away from my tiny, cowering body. "You've disappointed me again." There was a tear emerging from his left eye. "Why can't you be like all the other good little girls? No you just have to be different don't you. Can't settle for the normal." He started to raise the belt, slowly, over my head; and then he wrapped it around my neck. I started to whimper miserably.
"I'm sorry Daddy, please. I'll promise to be good." I pleaded with him, tears were streaming from my face as he proceeded to tighten the belt around my neck.
"No," he replied in a menacing tone. "I'm sorry. This is going to hurt me more than it'll hurt you."
He yanked on the belt. Resultantly, air was no longer going to my lungs and I started to kick with my legs, and gag. Fear of death quickly sent my fingernails flaying at the man's teary eyes. Instinctively, his face moved swiftly to avoid my flaying fingers; however, my sharp fingers managed to slash and gouge viciously into his left eye. The white haired man howled loudly, yet he did his best not to let the belt fall from his grasp. Instead he yanked at the belt even fiercer, and I jerked upward with the yank. It felt like he had broken my neck; it hurt so bad. I started to black out as he raised me into the air by the belt, my legs swaying and kicking freely beneath me.
Darkness was coming quickly when fortunately and suddenly the man cried out and let go of the belt. I fell to the ground, landing on my bottom. I reached for the belt around my neck, groggy still, and flung it off me. As my vision gradually returned, I saw the white haired man bouncing around the room, yelping like some hurt animal, with my rat friend on his back, biting his neck.
"Argh!" The man cried, his hands trying to reach the animal behind him.
And then I heard the words, Run my little friend. Get the hell out of here!
Thank you Caspy, I thought back to him; I then quickly darted for the exit of the room.
As I dashed down the hallway, I heard my friend behind me squeal in pain. The white haired man had gotten to him.
The door was just ahead of me. Quickly unlocking the locks, I grabbed the doorknob and turned it. But when I went to push it open, I found that it did not wish to be pushed open. I pushed harder, but still it would not budge. Again. And I push again, yet again it did not move. I concentrated greatly on the door, move I said to it, and with one good push, the door finally flew outward. As the door flung open all the way, a strong, warm breeze forced itself upon me; the air smelled so fresh, so clean.
However, before I could step outside into the clean air, I was yanked backwards by my hair, by the white haired man. I cried out and he yanked me back onto that painful couch.
"You really thought you could get away without your just deserves, did you, you little witch brat? Well not today," he said with an evil laugh.
I gave him the most hateful look. I was swelling with hate. My eyes seemed to be on fire.
The man drew closer to me, his hands reaching for my neck. But before he could wrap them around my already mangled neck, a glass brimming with water came crashing into his head. He yelped out in pain, his fingers caressing where the glass had struck him. "You think that will stop me?" He said to me. He then leaped at me, grasping my neck. With my mind, I sent an even larger object crashing into his back. The white haired man gasped and for a few seconds loosened his grip around my neck. Recovering quickly from the hit from behind, the white haired man laughed at me, with devil eyes budding from his face, and squeezed my neck harder. The blackness from just a little while ago was swiftly returning. I started to hear what sounded like voices singing as a circle of gradually expanding white light appeared up ahead of me. All I could think of was that I was dying. I was going to die.
I saw emerging from out of the bright circle of light the figure of a man. A tall, husky figure. He sported handsome features: blue, kindly eyes, light blonde hair, a thick, yellow mustache. He was smiling at me.
"My little one," he said sweetly. "My little Miriah. I've missed you much."
And then it came to me: I remember this man, this was my Papa I was seeing before me . . .
"Papa," I said.
"Miriah, you must go back. It is not your time yet. You have many years yet to live. Fight this as hard as you can, my baby."
"I can't, Papa. I am so tired," I whimpered.
"You must fight back," he pleaded with me, on his face was a most dreadful look. "You must fight back." And with that said, he began backing away into the circle of light, waving goodbye.
"Papa!" I cried out.
Suddenly, I felt a gusher of air swiftly enter my lungs, and I fell backwards onto the couch. I started coughing and gasping, loudly. The blackness and the white light was fading away, the room around me slowly returning. I looked up, focusing, and saw the white haired man, his arms and legs splayed and seemingly stuck to the wall in front of me like some sort of grotesque human cross. I saw something on his face I thought I would never see again: utter terror. He was babbling about something, looking dismayingly at the door to my left.
I turned to look then that way and saw standing there at the entrance, with her fingers pointing at the invisibly pinned man, my mother. Blinded by hate for the white haired man she didn't even bother to look my way to say hello, or to say how are you doing Miriah. All her contemptuous attention was aimed at the white haired man. I've seen her look angry, but not like this. She meant to do this man harm.
"Mama," I said softly to her.
For a few seconds, she turned her attention away from the white haired man and looked my way. "Sweetheart. I'm so happy that you are alright." She stopped to look back at the white haired man and grimaced, then turned her head back at me and said, "I'm so very sorry this had to happen to you. I will handle this situation from here on. Please, Miriah, cover your eyes; you shouldn't have to see what I'm about to do to this creep."
I did as I was told and covered my eyes. Seconds later I heard the man wail. I couldn't contain my curiosity any longer, so through my fingers I spied as the man was striped of his clothes: shirt and pants torn from him by invisible hands and made to burn in thin air. Next, his skin began to peel off him--I gasped at this--and swirl up and through the ceiling. The wailing was becoming louder. My eyes moved to the left to see my mother's hateful glare. I turned my attention back to the man plastered to the wall to see his muscles rip and pull from his bones; blood and guts swirling and disappearing into the ceiling above him. I was startled as I heard my mother direct a hellish scream at the man; apparently, the scream was intended to turn quickly what was left of the man (bones) to dust. And so, the white dust that was his bones fell to the ground like falling snowflakes. I watched as the pile of dust began to melt, then bubble, until nothing was left of the white haired man but an ugly, better forgotten memory.
I heard my mother sigh. She turned my way and smiled. I ran to her and we hugged each other for what seemed forever.
A few days later, after we had a chance to recuperate from this long and painful ordeal, my mother and I had a little discussion: about where we came from, about who we are--what we are--a discussion about so many things that would have been discussed at a later time, but was unfortunately and so rudely brought to light too soon by the evils of this world.
Bio:I was born in Cuba, about five years after Fidel Castro took control. Fortunately, Castro granted me and my family political refuge. I was a year old at the time. We fled to Madrid, Spain, where my twin sisters were born, and then to the United States. My brother, the youngest, was born in the United States, Cincinnati, Ohio. We moved to Tampa, Florida, where I had a poem published in the annual school poetry book at Alexander Elementary. I graduated high school in 1984; after which, I went to Tampa Technical for two years and received an A.S. Degree in Computer Engineering Technology. I am married, with three children (Nikita, Melissa, and Nicholas). My hobbies include computer programming, writing and reading.
E-mail: nandez65@bellsouth.net
URL: www.nandezstuff.50megs.com
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