Awakened

by K. G. Duncan

  Flick. Chucky, a few years later, his face squeamish, being held at knife point, being forced to watch as 10-year old big brother Henry nails the still living fish to a tree. “Don’t you turn away!” Henry barks, pointing the knife at Chucky’s face before he turns back to the fish and begins to peel and scrape off the scales of the wriggling fish. The sharp boning knife slitting into the belly of the fish. The careful, meticulous cleaning and gutting of the fish. Henry stepping back to admire the way the still-moving fish twitched, the way the light of the sun glinted and danced on the glistening flesh, making patterns that Henry could connect all together. An ever-changing dance of geometric shapes. Henry’s joy. Chucky’s horror. Perfect.

  Flick. Henry captivated by shapes and patterns in nature: the perfect triangle made by a darting martin as it flew down to the ground, across the grass, then back up to its perch again. The spiraling eddies in the water of the bayou, which matched the pattern of hair at the crown of Chucky’s head. And yes, in the wriggling flips and flops of the fish he had nailed to the tree—all points connecting. All shapes dancing.

  It was in those times that Henry felt a sense of wonder and joy. It was in those moments that Henry transcended his sociopathy and found beauty. It was in those moments that Abby could love him.

  Flick. Fast forward through the muddling and awkward teenage years—the first fumbling sexual encounter—and afterwards, the laughter of the girl that made Henry’s cheeks burn with shame. Abby cringed. A stronger man would get over it and not spend the rest of his life taking it out on other women. Like Momma Bea.

  Flick. The rush of adrenalin when committing petty crimes… Beneath the glare of a back room green light, drugs bought and sold… a daily meth habit developed… a young girl looking for a fix. Henry explaining the price… His hand moving up the girl’s leg, slipping under her skirt.

  Flick. Enter Momma Bea. Take it up to the present moment. Abby had access to it all: the total blur and mostly mindless existence that was Henry’s life. If Henry had his druthers, he’d just stay at home all day drinking beer and watching football on the TV. Then he’d sneak away when Momma Bea was out or too busy to notice, and Henry would do some of those other things. Bad things. Loathsome things. Abby knew about it all. Too many images to count.

  Oh, Momma Bea! Why don’t you have the strength or resolve to just leave him? Kick him out!

  Snap! Abby sat up. She was fully back in her own mind, her mind clear. She knew what she needed to do.

  Abby got up from her little window seat and wandered over near the hallway leading into the small and cluttered family room. She could see Henry sitting in his recliner chair—his back to her—and Beatriz sitting on the sofa with a basket full of laundry. He was scoffing, like he always did, at Beatriz, who was holding an open letter in her hand, while he pointed the remote control at the television and systematically flipped through the channels.

  “Finally get some peace and quiet,” Henry was needling her between gulps of a Miller High Life. “You know I missed the games on Saturday cuz of all the circus show you got going on ‘round here.”

  Beatriz was quiet, reading the words on the paper in front of her.

  “Criminal negligence.” Henry’s nasally drawl was the rather unpleasant string that drew Abby deeper into the room. He had been at her momma for a few minutes. She went and sat next to Momma Bea on the sofa and took her hand. Momma squeezed it tight. Abby glanced at the letter. It was some kind of notice from the county.

  Henry was still cutting into her from his recliner, and damned if he didn’t seem to be enjoying himself. “Isn’t that what the lady-boss said? That woman from the county? Criminal negligence. Ha!” He chortled and nearly choked on his glee. “Once you get the letter, likely as not, they gonna put you away.” He took another swig of his beer and grinned. “And if you ask me, I think they should put you away. Not a modicum of sense or adult responsibility. At the very least, it would get you away from me, and I’d have one less mouth to feed. No wait,” he turned and looked directly into Beatriz’s grief-stricken face. “Make that two less mouths to feed!”

  His smile widened. “I keep forgettin’ that Protective Services is most likely gonna take baby girl away now, too. My, oh my… And it’s not like I would miss her. Don’t know why you carry on so much about her. It’s not like she’s even yours. Or did you forget that?” Henry belched then chortled.

  He continued, “The way I look at it, everything can now return to normal. It’s high time for some peace and quiet ‘round here, and everything back to normal. Yes ma’am.”

  Momma Bea got up, set the notice down, and walked over to the window and peeked out through the shutters.

  “Oh, they ain’t comin’ yet,” Henry twanged, almost like he was reading her mind. “But when they do, I’ll be sure to hold the door open for them.”

  She sighed heavily. Henry was probably right. Beatriz had never really “officially” adopted Abby. Abby’s birth mother had simply shown up one day with an infant in her arms and said, “Keep an eye on my baby for a little while.” Then she had left and never returned. No further correspondence. No further explanations. That was over eleven years ago.

  “I have half a mind to give ‘em a call today,” Henry continued, eyes fixed on the ever-changing television screen as he flipped through the cable channels. “Maybe there’s a finder’s fee or… or a reward for turning folks like you in. You know they paid me two hundred dollars back there in Mandeville when Baby girl went a missing in that tornado. Yes ma’am. Channel five paid me two hundred dollars to let them set up in the driveway.” He glanced over at Beatriz and belched again. “Maybe I just give them television folks another call and update the story. Headline: “Whatever Happened to the Miracle of Mandeville?” “Mother of the Miracle Child Found Negligent in Houma.”

  Henry turned and looked back at Momma Bea. “How much you think baby girl is worth today?”

  “You are a vile human being, Henry Thierrey!” Beatriz spoke in a soft, monotone hush.

  But Henry’s words had cut deep. A helpless feeling settled over Beatriz like a black caul, slowly tightening, constricting her entire body and soul. She hadn’t felt this much despair since that fateful day six years ago, when Abby had been ripped out of the back of the car by a monster tornado.

  It’s okay, momma.

  The memory came back again, stronger and more vivid than ever. Abby’s calm and controlled eyes in the face of the whirling, screaming vortex. Her eyes were the same grey-green color of the sky. Beatriz just couldn’t shake the image from her head. Something had compelled her to go out into that storm, directly into harm’s way, and she had nearly lost A.B. for good.

  “Guess that makes me a vile human being…” Henry’s relentless, droning attack continued. “I don’t know how vile you think two hundred dollars is. That was easy, good money, darlin’. Easy good money.” He snickered and belched again before turning back to the TV.

  Beatriz shuddered as she reflected, taking a long, hard look at herself.

  It’s me that is the vile human being.

  Yes, a little self-loathing ought to balance out her despair. Take all the blame inside and just hold it there without mercy. No forgiveness. No absolution. Just what the doctor ordered.

  Abby was nearly torn in two by the grief and despair that flowed through Momma Bea. Now was the time she had to help her. Now was the time to act!

  As if she knew what Abby was thinking, Momma Bea looked at Abby, sobbed, then turned and left the room. Abby heard the front screen door open and bang shut.

  Abby turned back to look at Henry who glanced over at her and smirked.

  “She gonna go water her garden now,” he quipped. “That’s how your momma cries.” He chuckled again before turning back to the TV.

  Yes. Do it now. He won’t know what hit him!

  “You know,” Abby began slowly, “I used
to like the way you would help me with my school work. That was nice.”

  “What you going on about, baby girl?” Henry continued to flip through the channels.

  “Do you remember helping me out with geometry?” Abby asked softly. “With all the shapes?”

  Henry paused the remote and cocked his head slightly. He took a swig of his beer, but Abby could tell she got his attention.

  “There was that one time,” she continued, “Oh when was it? The third grade? Second maybe? You know, when you helped me find things all around the house with different shapes? That was the assignment. Find things and name their shapes. You remember? The Kleenex box was a rectangle. The stop sign out on the street was an octagon. The batteries were cylinder spheres…”

  “And my coke can,” Henry perked up. “Don’t forget the coke can. That was a cylinder, too!”

  “Sure. The coke can, too.” Abby smiled and walked over to stand in front of Henry, who looked up at her and grinned.

  “The thing is, Henry,” Abby continued, and their eyes locked. “I remember that and more. I remember it all. Your love of shapes and patterns. How you genuinely enjoyed working with me on that assignment. You took me all around the house, out in the yard… the shed house. It was amazing to discover all of those things… through your eyes. It was enough to make me love you.”

  “Oh!” Henry scoffed and leaned back in his recliner, started switching through the TV channels again. “What you going on about? You think you can weasel some money outta me today? What? How much you gonna ask for today?”

  “The thing is,” Abby continued, ignoring his question, “I remember all the other things, too.” She stepped over and in front of Henry, blocking his view of the television, forcing him to look up and meet her eye.

  Abby continued. “How you pick your moments to torment Momma Bea—bring her down just when she’s about to find something happy. How you creep out at night and piss in her garden bed, which kills her herbs and her vegetables. How you snicker when you watch her dismay as she fusses over the spoiled shoots and greens, trying to figure out what went wrong.”

  Henry barked out a laugh. “You little sneak. You been spying on me?”

  Abby didn’t blink and continued, “How you take her money from her little stash in the hidden coffee can on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet—yeah, you know it. The one behind the bags of flour? You take that money and sneak out to go get high. How you justify your theft by thinking that you’ll replace the money later, and she’ll never be the wiser, now will she?”

  “Hey now!” Henry sat up and snarled at Abby. “Don’t you go poking your pretty little nose in other people’s business!” He set his beer down, raised a fist and spat, “Don’t you think I won’t teach you what it means to go prying into my affairs.”

  “Thing is,” Abby continued, ignoring his threat. “you never do pay that money back, do ya? But that ain’t even the half of it,” Abby paused, took a breath, and stepped in closer to Henry. His eyes widened and started to dart about. He lowered his hand.

  “I can see more than that. Go deeper.” Abby was almost whispering now. “I can go back further. I can see how you are so full of bitterness. How you blame your mother for loving your brother Chucky more and not loving you enough. How your little mind was full of murder. How you enjoyed hurting your brother. How you used his humiliation and fear to fill up that empty hole inside of yourself. How you do the same thing to Momma Bea now that little bro grew up, got smarter, and had the good sense to move away.”

  “Hold on now…” Henry protested and sputtered, but his sneer had been replaced by a look of uncertainty and doubt. “You the Devil himself… How… how you know these things?”

  “How old is Caroline?” Abby abruptly changed the topic, and Henry’s eyes widened and betrayed a look of recognition.

  He stammered and replied weakly, “C-C-Caroline? Who?”

  “Maybe fifteen? If that?” Abby leaned in closer, and Henry recoiled. Abby could see the fear and panic taking over in his eyes. “Why, that’s not much older than me, now, is it? She’s a pretty little thing with a meth habit. The things you make her do…”

  “W-what? What?” Henry stumbled over his tongue, casting his glance all about. He started to twist away and attempted to rise up, but Abby firmly placed both hands on his shoulders and pushed him back down. Stunned, Henry fell back hard in the recliner and gazed up at her, open-mouthed.

  “I’m not finished yet,” She said, calmly, behind clenched teeth. “That’s statutory rape, Henry. With a minor? Do you know that?” Abby paused, and she could swear those were tears welling up in Henry’s eyes.

  “Yes, I believe you do,” Abby continued, softly. “Poor Henry. Is it hard to hear the truth now? Well, let me tell you a little more about the truth—about what is going to happen next.” Abby leaned down just inches away from Henry’s face. She could smell the beer on his breath.

  “If you ever… ever start in on Momma Bea like that again… if you ever do anything to hurt her and cause her to feel pain of any sort, then so help me God, I will bring all of your pathetic, dark little secrets out into the open. I will turn you in to the authorities, and I will tell them everything—everything that you’ve done to that poor girl. Not to mention the drugs and all the other criminal activities. How much time do you think you’d do for all of that?”

  “You…you been following me around?” Henry was dazed and confused. “You been watching me?”

  “You will go to prison, Henry.” Abby pulled back and raised her finger right in front of his nose. “A weak little weed, like you? Well, I shudder to think what your life would be.”

  “How you…how…how did you…?” Henry had gone completely limp. He was spent, diminished and muttering more to himself than to anyone else. “Nobody gets hurt. No harm done, right? She… she tells me it’s all right. How… why you doin’ this to me? Oh, sweet Jesus… I’m sorry… I’m sorry.”

  Abby slowly lifted herself up and stood above him. Henry was crying and blubbering all over himself. His body wracked with each shuddering breath. She turned and walked away. She headed out the front door in search of Momma Bea.

  She would find her in the gardens, then, and she would hold her. She would tell her that everything was going to be all right.

  Tiamat cried out in distress, fuming within herself,

  “How can we destroy what we have given birth to?”

  —From The Enuma Elish

  Air.

  A warm draft.

  Electricity.

  Flex and extend.

  Lifting up.

  A slight turn of the wing, a sudden plunge.

  Dip. Tuck. Roll.

  Speed. Exhilaration.

  In the distance, a metallic screeching roar.

  The company of another.

  Answer the call.

  Turning. Yearning. Rumble deep inside.

  Below. Coolness. Fetid reek. Methane.

  Water. Swamp.

  Silver glint of fish.

  Feed. Later.

  Climbing now. Night sky. Wisp of cloud. Stars.

  Roar of triumph.

  Shuddering release.

  Calling me home.

  I am free.

  From the Audio transcripts of Dr. Joanna Kinsey

  Chief Psychiatrist, CHNOLA Northshore Center,

  New Orleans, LA

  Excerpt of Audio File Transcript #AR10089-31

  June 19, 2022

  Subject: A. B. Rubideaux. Female. Age: 11

  Transcript of recording begins: 10:17 AM EST.

  Kinsey: You are in a particularly playful mood today, A.B.

  A.B.: Well, it’s just my truer nature. You should try smiling more often, Joanna. You’re pretty when you smile, and you get all those crinkles in your cheeks, and your forehead goes completel
y smooth. It’s a complete crinkle transformation from forehead to cheeks. (Giggling.) Quite remarkable actually. Are you sure you’ve never made the change yourself?

  Kinsey: (Laughing.) Well, no, I’m quite sure. And thank you, A.B., I think… for the compliment. But I’d say there’s quite a bit about you that is remarkable. Some very significant people are starting to take an interest in such a precocious young lady. How old did you say you were?

  A.B.: This body is 11 years, 10 months, 15 days, 10 hours and 26 seconds old. 28, 29, 30…

  Kinsey: (Chuckling.) Okay, I get the picture. But that’s not what I meant. I have the school records of one Aurora Borealis Rubideaux. We have your false birth certificate but no medical records, and I’ll take it for close enough to the truth that you were born in or about September of 2010. Right? I’m asking you about the dragon inside of you. Your truer self. How old is the dragon?

  A.B.: Hmmm, now that’s tricky. We don’t measure time the same way that humans do.

  Kinsey: We? You mean there are more of you?

  A.B.: Oh yes, of course. There are any number of us anywhere at any one time. What, did you think that I alone existed?

  Kinsey: I never really thought to ask about it before. But let’s go there in a moment. How old are you, really, A.B.?

  A.B.: (Giggling.) Well, “really,” now that’s the thing. You see, I do not exist in the linear scheme of things. Time itself, as you measure it, is a linear progression, yes? The past to the present and into the future… It’s a very convincing experience: I know that in this human body the week-to-week, day-to-day, hour-to-hour progression of time seems indisputable. Even comforting in its simplicity. A child is born, discovers awareness, experiences youth, journeys through the middle stages, then eventually, inevitably, grows old and dies—all in the course of a clearly defined and linear time. But this concept of time is a focused and localized construct. And I’m sorry to say it’s a limitation of most intelligent beings. To more completely understand time, you must “defocalize” your perception and experience in the space-time continuum, and you must come to terms with a “non-local” viewpoint. Some of your physicists and molecular biologists are beginning to understand this. Quantum physics. Field theory. Shamans in the rainforests have always understood this. We’ve been talking to them for thousands of years.