POLLOX THUMB
The children are always taken from their beds in the middle of the night. They are always girls. The Cleanser sneaks in like a phantom, injects the clear liquid into the sleeping form, and steals back out into the darkness.
And then there is one less child for a parent to love.
And, for the Cleanser, sleeping is somewhat easier, the dreams more pleasant. Because when the girls die, the nightmares fade.
For a little while, anyway.
In the Shelter, the work begins. The girl wakes up slowly. The sedative wears off.
The Cleanser stands, towering over the eight-year-old, bound to the chair, hands and mouth taped.
Escape is impossible.
This child saw her last sunset seven hours ago. Ate her last dinner eight hours ago. And played her last game of hopscotch nine hours ago.
Her small blue eyes flutter open once, twice, and then explode into life. And that is when true fear hits her. The moment she realizes she’s no longer in bed, safe at home. Instead she’s tied up, a dirty floor below her, dry, cracked walls around her. A lamp on the floor gives off weak light. A hooded figure stands over her and looking up, she sees darkness where a face should be.
Eternal darkness.
“Wake up, little angel,” The Cleanser says. And the voice sends a chill through the child’s bones. The voice is that of a dead soul, a voice that belongs to a body that gave up its lease on life, one that cares no more. It’s a tired, hollow, dying voice.
Then the child tries to scream.
“Mmmmm.”
“Shhh, shhh, shhh,” The Cleanser says trying to sooth her, trying to calm her. “It’s okay. Just settle down.”
And the girl actually does. A little. She’s still breathing hard through her nose and her eyes are like full moons, but she stops screaming under the tape.
“That’s better. Would you like it if I took the tape off of your mouth?”
The girl’s head bobs up and down four quick times. Tears fill her eyes and spill down her cheeks.
“I will. But you have to promise me that you won’t scream again.” Not that anyone could hear. “Can you do that?”
The girl hesitates and then nods slowly.
“Good.”
And with one quick swipe, the tape is ripped from the girl’s mouth, leaving a red mark on her top lip like a fruit punch mustache. A weak, pained moan escapes from the girl, but she sits very still, looking up at her captor.
“Now, that’s better. Isn’t it?” The Cleanser asks.
“Where’s my momma?”
“Shhh. I’ll ask the questions, child.”
The Cleanser begins pacing back and forth from shadow to light, and back to shadow. “What’s your name, angel?”
The young girl only sits and stares, afraid to answer. More tears fall from her eyes. The smell of urine is strong from where she’s wet herself.
“It’s okay. I just want to get to know you a little. Please, tell me your name.”
After a few moments, she finally says, “Kelly.”
The Cleanser stops pacing and turns back to the girl, face still hidden in shadow. “Kelly? That’s a pretty name.” Then steps forward and squats down, knees popping like kernels on a hot skillet. “Do you know why I brought you here, Kelly?”
Looking into the abyss where a face should be, Kelly shakes her head and a single teardrop lands on her white pajamas at the thigh.
Standing back up and turning from the child, The Cleanser says, “Kelly, there is a lot of pain in my life. So much pain. There are things you couldn’t ever understand. Things that have torn my life apart. One thing particularly. But for years I’ve had this hollowness, this emptiness inside of me. A void that should have been filled, but wasn’t. Sometimes I feel like an oyster. And where a beautiful pearl should be, I have this annoying, scratchy, ugly bit of sand in its place. And I can do nothing with it. It just sits there and irritates me more and more as the days pass.
“Well, Kelly, I’ve know for some time now that I won’t ever have a precious pearl. I will always just be an empty husk in an ocean of sadness, as the tides of time wash over me. Not cleansing me, but pushing more salt and sand into my wounds, leaving me crusty, cracked and sore.
“God is tidal waves in that ocean, pounding me relentlessly, slapping my face. While all I do is lay and hope that someday the beatings will stop and He shows some mercy.
“But, of course, I know that He will never cleanse me with His love, and so I cleanse the lives of others. Taking their children from them and making them suffer like I am made to suffer. My loss becomes their loss.”
It’s the same speech that has been told to the other girls that have been brought to the Shelter.
The Cleanser turns back around and faces Kelly. “I know that probably doesn’t make much sense to you. You’re much too young to know about pain. But there is one sure thing, and I envy you this, you won’t ever know that pain.
“Now, ask me any question you like.” The Cleanser finishes in a voice that is not only dead but sounds as if it is crying as well.
With a whimper and a sniff, Kelly asks, “Where am I?”
“The Shelter. Next question,” and the pacing from light to shadow begins again.
The child hesitates, terribly frightened, and she has every right to be. “Wha… Where’s my momma?”
“Probably home sleeping. Unless she’s gone in to check on you and discovered that you’re no longer in bed. Then she might be up waiting for the police to arrive.” The pacing stops for a moment and the hooded figure turns to the girl, “Any more questions?”
After a few more moments of shaking and sobbing, Kelly asks, “What are you going to do to me?”
The Cleanser begins moving around the cracked floor of the Shelter once more, then answers, “Cleanse. It’s all I know. God gave up on me years ago. So lately I’ve been sending Him little messages, to let Him know I haven’t forgotten Him or the joke He’s played on me.”
The Cleanser then steps into the darkest corner of the dry, dusty room and picks up an object.
Kelly’s tears have subsided somewhat but somewhere in the back of her small child’s mind she knows her fate, even if she doesn’t want to believe it. She is still very scared, but thinks she needs to tell this monster something. So in her strongest, big-girl voice, she says, “In Sunday school they tell us that God loves everyone. No matter what you’ve done, He will forgive you. God loves you, too.”
Coming back over with the round object held in both hands, The Cleanser says, “No, Kelly, God loves you, that I am sure of. You’re a beautiful child. Your parents must love you very much too but He gave up on me long ago. And when my time comes, I won’t sit with him in his kingdom. But you will.”
With that, The Cleanser raises the porcelain jar high. Cookie Monster’s blue face and bulging eyes reflect the lamp’s light as it’s brought down on the child’s head with a sickening thump and breaks open into eight pieces. The Cleanser selects the largest and sharpest piece: One googley eye and half a furry grin form a wicked triangle, perfect for slicing.
And the work begins on the young, unconscious girl.
Part Two:
The Dog
Frisbee Page 26
