Miss Olivia
06-26-2006, 11:35 PM
The night was dark, and it covered the girl's steps. She walked without purpose, without sight, as automated as the scuffed dimestore clock that ticked on the wall back at the house. She had been here for a month, bought and paid for with a short stack of grimy twenty dollar bills. Her father had made a deal with the man who simply called himself Brother, and he was well pleased with the money. Her father had never given her a name, had cursed her from the day she came silently into the world, killing her mother in the process. She was Girl, and Girl she stayed.
There was never a sound that passed from her lips, not when she was sick, not when she was scared, not even when her father beat her for existing. He had stopped when she was still young, unnerved by the dull thud of leather on flesh, and the blankness of her face. They had lived together in a ghost world, passing each other in the tiny house with no sign of recognition for each other, no look or gesture of acknowlegement.
The man called Brother had seen her quite by accident, while dropping off a load of fertilizer for the scroungy five acres owned by her father which had not yielded a decent cotton crop for several seasons. He was a filthy man, who seemed to leave a grime on anything he touched. There were permanent gray lines ground into the creases of his neck, and his clothes almost seemed to have a life of their own. He saw the girl on the porch, saw the lank blond hair around the remote moon-face, and noted the father's studied indifference to her presence. He asked a question, and soon the deal was struck. He paid two hundred cash, and drove away with the girl in his dirty pickup truck. She did nothing.
The man was less than human, less than an animal. He made her do things and submit to things that should never be wrought on anyone, but she endured it all in silence. Never a cry, never a smile, never a twisting of anger. Her face was a blank page. That was what he had wanted. She stayed where she was left after he succumbed to his fatigue and whiskey, and every night was the same.
Until tonight.
There was no reason for her legs to propel her stealthily up and out of the door into the humid evening air, down the dirt road, walking as with a purpose never before found. One leg after the other at a pace never met before. A faint sound of breathing, then the breath speeding faster and faster as her legs quickened and she ran, ran for the first time in her life, ran as though just awakened from a terrible nightmare. Running until she fell.
She lay on the red dust of the road, and the moon stared down at her with an expression that matched her own. She watched the moon watch her, and it seemed that they spoke to each other, spoke in a language that was silent and unfathomable, until, at length, a resolution seemed to be reached. The girl picked herself up and walked back up the shadowed river of a road until the house came upon her out of the night.
She stepped back through the screen door and waited for a sound. Finally a fleshy snore came from the back room, and it seemed to be a signal to move.
She walked to the sink and took the knife from the dish drainer.
The man was sleeping deeply in a whiskey stupor, and he never knew what hit him.
The first cut was deep.
The second was wide.
The third was low.
The fourth took his tongue, that filthy tongue that had been all over her.
There were many that followed, blurring together in the repetetive motion, over and over, over and over, over and over, Amen.
And sitting in the corner of the room, with the unrecognizable sticky thing sprawled on the bed.....the girl smiled.
The girl laughed, and the sound was as beautiful as bells, as big as the world, and as unfathomable as the moon.
And only the moon knew.
There was never a sound that passed from her lips, not when she was sick, not when she was scared, not even when her father beat her for existing. He had stopped when she was still young, unnerved by the dull thud of leather on flesh, and the blankness of her face. They had lived together in a ghost world, passing each other in the tiny house with no sign of recognition for each other, no look or gesture of acknowlegement.
The man called Brother had seen her quite by accident, while dropping off a load of fertilizer for the scroungy five acres owned by her father which had not yielded a decent cotton crop for several seasons. He was a filthy man, who seemed to leave a grime on anything he touched. There were permanent gray lines ground into the creases of his neck, and his clothes almost seemed to have a life of their own. He saw the girl on the porch, saw the lank blond hair around the remote moon-face, and noted the father's studied indifference to her presence. He asked a question, and soon the deal was struck. He paid two hundred cash, and drove away with the girl in his dirty pickup truck. She did nothing.
The man was less than human, less than an animal. He made her do things and submit to things that should never be wrought on anyone, but she endured it all in silence. Never a cry, never a smile, never a twisting of anger. Her face was a blank page. That was what he had wanted. She stayed where she was left after he succumbed to his fatigue and whiskey, and every night was the same.
Until tonight.
There was no reason for her legs to propel her stealthily up and out of the door into the humid evening air, down the dirt road, walking as with a purpose never before found. One leg after the other at a pace never met before. A faint sound of breathing, then the breath speeding faster and faster as her legs quickened and she ran, ran for the first time in her life, ran as though just awakened from a terrible nightmare. Running until she fell.
She lay on the red dust of the road, and the moon stared down at her with an expression that matched her own. She watched the moon watch her, and it seemed that they spoke to each other, spoke in a language that was silent and unfathomable, until, at length, a resolution seemed to be reached. The girl picked herself up and walked back up the shadowed river of a road until the house came upon her out of the night.
She stepped back through the screen door and waited for a sound. Finally a fleshy snore came from the back room, and it seemed to be a signal to move.
She walked to the sink and took the knife from the dish drainer.
The man was sleeping deeply in a whiskey stupor, and he never knew what hit him.
The first cut was deep.
The second was wide.
The third was low.
The fourth took his tongue, that filthy tongue that had been all over her.
There were many that followed, blurring together in the repetetive motion, over and over, over and over, over and over, Amen.
And sitting in the corner of the room, with the unrecognizable sticky thing sprawled on the bed.....the girl smiled.
The girl laughed, and the sound was as beautiful as bells, as big as the world, and as unfathomable as the moon.
And only the moon knew.