by Anna Oney
Back then, there weren't any neighbors or highways close to where people lived. They were secluded, so Samuel's (at that time) sixteen-year-old mother never had any friends for him to play with. Often they'd played with dolls created from anything they found lying around. When Samuel reached the age of four, his favorite game had been to see how filthy he could manage to get his mother. It was as if he'd craved the grimy and gritty feel of the dirt.
One day, Samuel had discovered that if he mixed the nearby puddle water with loose soil, he could create an astonishing substance: mud. A substance that, Mary remembered her granddaddy telling her, the boy had enjoyed caking onto his beautiful, jet-black hair.
"What kid doesn't like getting dirty?" Emma laughed.
"No kid I know," Mary replied. "Anyhoo . . . "
Continuing with the story, Mary explained that after the third ball of mud hit the back of his mother's head, she had decided they were long overdue for a bath. There wasn't any need to remove his clothing because Samuel had seldom worn any. At his age, his mother hadn't seen the harm of allowing her son to run around naked. On the off chance they were expecting visitors, the mother had forced him to wear clothes.
The cool water had put an end to his fit long enough for her to scrub his head with their small supply of lye soap. The boy's father never liked to come home and see his son filthy, so the boy's mother had scrubbed until there wasn't a single speck of dirt left in his hair.
"It . . . it wasn't until early the next mor . . . morning that she . . . she realized all of his hair had nearly fa. . . fallen out during the night," Mary said. "Samuel's black strands of hair were sprinkled on his pillow like fairy dust."
"All of it?"
"Not all right away, th. . . though it only took a couple of days for him to go completely bald."
"Was it because of the soap?"
"That's what Granddaddy told me. He said they mu. . . must've run into a bad batch. It took weeks before a couple of red hairs sprouted up. By the end of the month, his whole head was en . . . engulfed with—"
"Lemme guess," Emma interrupted, pointing toward her scalp. "This crimson shade?"
"Yep . . . it sure did. Granddaddy said Samuel must've been the weirdest-looking child there was. Beautiful tan skin with coppery red hair . . . must've been a str. . . strange sight. You reckon?"
"Pretty strange."
After patting Emma's arm, Mary brought her hand to the bed. Lifting the comforter, Mary beckoned Emma to lie with her underneath the covers. Embracing her niece, Mary kissed her head, and whispered, "I . . . I hope these stories have meant something to you, my dear. It . . . it'll make it easier on you when I'm gone. Remember those stories."
"I'll keep them close. Right beside this cross here."
They lay together for some time, until Emma noticed through the window that the sun was descending. Emma knew Farrah would be bringing Mary's dinner. Bidding her farewell, Emma gave her great-aunt a swift kiss on the cheek.
Before Emma could climb from the bed, Mary grabbed her by the wrist, and said, "Hold up . . . before you go." After rummaging through the nightstand drawer, Mary's hand finally emerged holding an envelope. "Here . . . this is for you."
The envelope had Emma's name written across it in blue ink. As Emma began breaking the seal, she asked, "What's this for?"
"No . . . not now. Take . . . take it with you. But don't read it until you're at your lowest."
Eyeing her aunt suspiciously, Emma stuffed the letter inside of her pocket and was rising to leave when Aunt Mary stalled her again.
"Hey," she said. "Remember . . . you can never go wrong with being humble and kind. And if I don't see you tomorrow . . . I just want you to know, I sure do love you."
"Love you, too. I guess I'll be seeing you later?"
Strangely, Mary replied, "No . . . I'll be seeing you."
Upon her leave, Emma was pulled toward the dance hall by the smell of deer steak and freshly boiled potatoes. Darby, Link, the girls, and Cooper were settled in their regular corner. Both Stella's and Ripley's jaws were resting upon Link's and Claire's knees, begging for a sample of their human food.
The only person Emma noticed missing from the scene was Tom. Joining the group, she scanned the crowd. Noticing, Darby elbowed her shoulder and motioned toward the dock over the pond. Tom's back came into focus. Emma's friend of many years glared at her; without Darby having to say a word, Emma knew she'd been ordered to join him.
"Okay, okay, okay, I'm going," Emma said, snatching a piece of venison from her friend's plate.
"Hey!"
"Ya snooze, ya lose." Emma giggled, escaping Darby's grasp.
In an attempt to use her newly learned stealth skills, Emma approached Tom one tiptoe at a time. Nearly there, he startled her as he asked, "Where've you been?"
"Dang! I was trying to sneak up on you."
"Even when you're not saying anything at all, you're still the loudest person in the room."
Emma sat beside him, and the bullfrog choir began their main chorus. The fireflies hovering over the pond reminded her of stars within reach.
"Why are you out here by yourself?" she asked.
"No reason in particular. Just needed to be alone. Can I ask you a question?"
Nervously, Emma shifted on the bench, and thought, Depends on what it is.
Without waiting for her to answer, he asked, "Are you happy?"
"Heh." She chuckled. "Who's happy?"
"I am," he said. "I am when I'm with you."
"Oh, come on! That's the cheesiest shit I've ever heard. My happiness doesn't concern you."
"I think it does."
"Why?"
"Because," he said. "I care about you."
"You don't know me well enough to care about me."
He scooted closer to Emma's side of the bench, and leaned toward her.
"Now, you see, it hurts me when you say that," he replied.
"Oh? So now I'm the one hurting your feelings?" Tom didn't have a response. Instead of arguing further, he stormed up the dock. Cooper, had left the group, and had been eavesdropping on their conversation. He was the only person who went after Tom, and he gave Emma a sour look as he walked by.
Heading back to the group, Emma spotted Darby striding toward her. Darby snatched the front of Emma's shirt, and then bolted up the hill toward her friend's front porch. Looking back, Emma realized the girls and Stella had obviously been ordered to stay behind. All of them stared after the two women as though they felt guilty for following through with Darby's commands.
"You broke his heart, didn't you?"
"I might've. Just a little bit."
"By the look on his face, you did. Why?" she said. "Why on earth would you do that?"
"I . . . I just don't think I can give him what he needs."
"What a crock of horseshit! How do you know you're not capable of giving him the love he needs?"
"I—"
"You wouldn't know because you've never tried!"
"Life would be a whole hell of a lot easier if people started thinking with their minds instead of their sappy hearts."
"You're a coward." Darby didn't give Emma the chance to defend herself. Instead, she left before her friend could say another word.
These days it seemed Emma was letting down everyone she cared about, and she was certain she'd just added another name to the list.
I'm not a coward, she thought. Am I?
Emma escaped into the comfort of her own home, and remembered she had the house to herself for an entire night. She wouldn't be woken by the sounds of little girls' nightmares or silly questions during late hours. Despite Emma and Darby's argument, the anticipation of being able to savor a full night's sleep brought excited jitters to Emma's stomach.
After she entered the bedroom, she immediately changed into her pajamas. She placed Mary's letter on the nightstand, and threw herself into her queen-size bed. Stretching out, Emma allowed her aunt's soft quilt to comfort her and fell fast
asleep, knowing she would soon be on her way.
Emma stood in the middle of a driveway. A driveway she wasn't familiar with. A redbrick, two-story house stood a few yards away. There was no evidence of a nearby fire, but flames' shadows danced on the front of the house, beckoning her toward it. As Emma looked up, she saw neither stars nor the moon filled the night sky. She was engulfed in darkness. If Emma were to step back, she was certain she'd fall into a deep abyss.
Turning around, she found herself standing on a porch. Emma was given only one choice: She had to enter this house. At the door's threshold, Emma reached to grab the knob. As soon as her skin touched it, her hand was burned. Jerking away, she promptly assessed the damage. Two words were seared deep into her flesh: "Innocence lost."
The door opened on its own. Inside, the walls were painted white, and black picture frames, empty of all photos, hung from them. To the right was a staircase, leading up to a burning red light.
"Be careful, an evil lurks here," a familiar voice whispered behind her. "Hey, sister." Griffin's voice was unnaturally hoarse. A shadow was cast over his vibrant personality. His perfect posture was now hunched as if he carried an unseen burden. From the looks of him, Griffin seemed to have experienced the harshness of a world Emma had yet to be introduced to.
Embracing her brother, she held him tightly, but he refused to return the hug. From the corner of Emma's eye, she noticed Griffin lifting his arm. Parting from him, she peered in the direction in which he pointed. As she headed toward what held his attention, Emma turned to beg him to follow, but he stayed stoic in his trance.
Turning her back on her brother, Emma gradually reached her destination. She stood in the middle of the living room where there was a roaring fireplace. Hanging above it was a massive black frame where a family portrait should have been displayed. Splatters of blood stained the white couches on either side of the fireplace.
As Emma tried wrapping her head around the strangeness of the scene, the howls of a dog erupted from behind the couch on the right. Assuming they were Stella's, Emma quietly called out, "Stella, Stella—come, girl." The barks coming from her friend didn't seem of distress or fright, more of welcome.
Whatever happened in this house, there was no stopping it. Emma had a strange feeling she was meant to be there, but she didn't wish to be.
Emma took a step back and bumped into Griffin, whose expression hadn't changed. He dropped his arm, and it collapsed to his side like a doll's. In an attempt to wake him, Emma whispered, "Griffin, I love you. Come back to me."
"To change is to survive," he said, snatching her hands from his face. As he did so, a burning sensation deep in Emma's throat caused her to double over in pain.
Clutching at her throat, Emma managed to ask, "Wh-what do you mean?"
A smug smile formed at the edges of Griffin's mouth.
"You. Are. Not. Evolving," he replied.
The words "innocence lost" burned deeper into her blistered skin, filling the letters with blood. Soon Emma's palm was drowning in the red liquid. Frantic, she held her hand against her torso in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but the only area on her body that became doused was between her thighs.
Just as panic consumed her, Emma's attention was drawn elsewhere by a loud banging, progressively getting louder and faster, emanating from upstairs. Frightened, Emma looked to the top of the staircase, which was still bathed in the bright-red light, now pulsating with the rhythm of the drum. Then she looked down to her hand, which had somehow been wiped clean.
Terrified, Emma turned to her brother, looked in his pale-blue eyes, and asked, "Who's making that noise?"
Griffin backhanded her across the face, rendering Emma speechless, and replied, "Tough love. It's time you've woken up." Leaning closer, he whispered, "Answer the fucking door."
Startled awake by the dream, Emma rolled completely off the bed. She sat on the floor in complete darkness, and suddenly the taste of blood sent her straight into panic mode. Clutching at her cheek, Emma realized she had undoubtedly been struck. Not only was her physical assault real, the loud banging continued to echo loudly through the house.
Crawling across the floor, Emma reached the nightstand and moved her hands over the top, on the lookout for a small box of matches. Finding them, she grasped her homemade candle and struck the match, illuminating a small area of the room.
Struggling to her feet, the pounding continued. Clutching her cheek, she slowly approached her back door. As Emma set the candle on the coffee table, the banging grew louder, and quicker. Whoever was there, Emma assumed, was growing impatient.
Emma grasped the knob, and then rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
"Who is it?!" she shouted.
"It's me—Tom."
In a state of alarm, Emma realized she was wearing her comfortable, oversize shirt with the words "Vegetation Time" written across it. The horror!
"Hold on a sec!" Desperately, she felt for the bottoms she should have worn to go along with this horrific display. "Lemme put some pants on!" Emma shouted while thinking, Real quick, let me go and jump off a cliff!
Donning a pair of yoga pants, Emma took a deep breath and opened the door to find Tom standing before her. He leaned against the doorframe, resting one of his elongated arms on either side. The faint light of the candle beautifully displayed his handsome features. Tom was dressed in his regular, fine-fitting jeans, along with a jet-black shirt with the Batman symbol across the chest.
Tom would make an awesome Batman, Emma thought. Shaking her head, she attempted to bring herself back down to earth. For goodness' sake, Emma, pull yourself together! Frozen by the magnificence of his beauty, Emma said nothing at all.
Soon Tom noticed the swollen cheek, and pushed through the door. Planting himself before her, he raised her chin and thoroughly investigated the damage.
"What the hell happened to your face?"
"This . . . this is just my face."
"Don't joke. It looks like you took a good whooping."
Not knowing the answer to that question herself, Emma quickly came up with a believable explanation.
"I fell off the bed. My face caught the edge of the table. It's nothing really."
"Are you lying to me?"
"Oh for the love of!" Emma fumed, glaring at him. "No, I am not lying to you!"
"You know, you can't lie worth a shit."
"Do you have any idea how late it is?"
"Yes, I do. And I know how bitchy you get when you don't get enough sleep. So I'm risking a lot by being here."
"What is it that you want?"
"You. I want you."
"Would you please just leave it alone?" Emma pleaded, backing away from him. "You don't want me. Just leave my house."
"You're still that scared teenager stuck in the library, the one who never learned to let things go. You should know the only person who hasn't changed around here is you!"
"Have you forgotten why I was scared? Or why I feel the way I do? Huh? Have you?!"
"Like I said, I've changed—you haven't. Am I sorry for what I did? Yes! I'm sorry, but I can't change the past. Please . . . just forgive me."
"Well, I don't forgive you."
"Why are you so scared?"
"I'm not—"
"You're full of it. Even if you can't admit it to yourself, I know you have feelings for me."
"I- I- don't," she stammered, struggling to find the words. "I . . . " Oh dear Lord, help me through this, Emma silently prayed. I'm beginning to make myself sick. "I know who I am," she continued. "I know what I want. And what I want doesn't involve you."
"You're a liar."
"Oh! You think so? The image of you holding me down while you and your friends kicked the living tar outta my brother outweighs any feelings I could ever have for you. You're the reason for Griffin's downfall. It's your fault!" But that's not true at all, she thought. Memaw's death was what did the trick.
Tom pulled Emma toward him, and their faces were only inches
apart.
"That day you can't seem to forgive me for—it was exactly one year after the day my mother put a gun to herself. I know it's no excuse. But I was angry. Y'all were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I am truly sorry."
"So that's why you got away with it, huh?" Emma scoffed, causing him to loosen his grip on her arm.
"Em—"
"Cause your momma was too weak to hack it. And Principal McKinney was good friends with your rich daddy. Wasn't he? You and your buddies said Griffin provoked you. Didn't even matter what we had to say. Hell, Daddy didn't even believe us. He thought I was just sticking up for him again. We were just a couple of hicks placed in the wrong yuppie school district. Y'all got away with it, and my brother didn't have a chance."
It sounded like a clichéd nightmare, but it was the truth, all of it. She wasn't a fool; sooner or later, she knew one of the girls would let it slip that she had left. Emma needed Tom to hate her because she needed him to be safe.
"You're the only person who's ever been able fill the gaping hole I was left to tend to in the years following her death," he said, beginning to cry.
"Tom, I—"
"I don't want to miss out on the chance to make you happy. I love you. But that doesn't matter to you, does it?"
Aware of his vulnerability, she replied, "No." Fighting back tears, she continued, "It's not your job to make me happy. Being happy isn't rocket science; it's a choice. Just because I'm choosing not to be happy with you doesn't make me a sad person."
"What does it make you?"
"Content. It makes me content with the way things are." But if I was truly content with how things are, Emma thought, I wouldn't be leaving to change them.
"So you're sticking to your answer?"
"The harassment didn't end that day. It contin—"
"You make it look easy."
Before Tom could see her upset, Emma wiped a couple of unexpected tears from her cheeks.
"What?" she asked.
Opening the door, Tom glanced over his shoulder with unrestrained grief in his eyes and answered, "Turning your back on your heart."
His last words nearly knocked the feet out from under her, but Emma was able to stand her ground until Tom shut the door behind him. Every remaining ounce of self-control she had drained from her with the uncontrollable sobs that followed.
