Dawn's Tale

by Nicholas Knight

“Well,” Dawn paused, “I appreciate you stopping,” Dawn repeated, not sure what else to say to the psychedelic couple.

  The boy and girl, both of whom looked to be in the 6-7 range, were obnoxiously loud and carrying on. They were screaming in a high-pitched squeal and seemed to deliberately misbehave, with no regard whatsoever to Dawn being there. The kids were yelling profusely about wanting to go trick or treating, even though it was far from being close to sundown. The impatient, undisciplined kids weren’t buckled up, or had unhooked themselves, but either way; the parents seemed more than unconcerned. The unwed couple in the front seat never took notice, or if they did, never bothered to say a word to their rowdy, unhinged children. Dawn kept getting smacked in the face by both kids, not being able to differentiate if the young siblings were quarreling or just being nauseatingly awful. Then, before Dawn knew what she had done, the little boy had taken out his chewed stick of Bub’s Daddy brand gum, and handed it to his sister, who then proceeded to stick it in Dawn’s hair.

  “I feel wired,” Moonbeam said, bouncing up and down in her seat, like an overly hyperactive child on a sugar rush, “Let’s find a music festival somewhere. I think someone told me there’s a major gig happening in California somewhere, sometime this week.”

  “Right on,” he agreed, “California dreaming all the way, baby!” Starfire looked in his rear view mirror, and admired how tasty Dawn looked, “Speaking of all the way, you look like a far out chick, who knows where it’s at” the father harassed with ease, “Would you maybe be interested in jelling with us for a while?”

  Dawn had to lean in, and cuff her open hands around the outside of her ears, just to strain to hear what the couple was saying to her.

  “We’re kind of on a trip,” the wife added, “Don’t really have a destination yet, just seeing God’s green country. We’d love to have you accompany us, while we follow that highway star. It should be really groovy.”

  “Yeah,” the father said, “We want to live, before we burn out. You could share our motel room, when we stop to sleep,” he added, hinting at wanting some threesome action with her. “I got a feeling you have a tush under those jeans, that I’d like to rock and roll all night.”

  “We’d play in here,” Moonbeam added, “But, as you can see, this isn’t much of a shaggin’ wagon.”

  “I’m kind of involved,” Dawn responded, “I appreciate the offer, but I’m not an easy rider, if you catch my drift.”

  “Involved?” the man asked, “My wife and I are too...but we’re liberated...you know, all about the free love, baby.”

  “Why so paranoid?” his wife asked, “Don’t you think we’re hip? Am I not pretty? Give us a chance, before you stone us. Is it because you’ve never been with a girl? It’s all good, sweetie, I’ll show you the way. You won’t be disappointed. I promise,” she said, turning her head to smile at Dawn, while her unruly children persisted in tormenting their guest passenger. “You need to loosen up, baby,” she said, “Starfire, do we have any weed, or acid left? That might help expand her mind to the idea.”

  “You know,” he started, “usually, when we find a hot little teeny bopper like you, it’s because we get vibes from your body that turn us on,” the dirty old man said, as if trying to guilt Dawn into obligated submission. “That was the whole purpose of picking you up, sweet thing.”

  “That’s okay,” Dawn said, “I’m flattered, but...no. I think my Summer of Love is over,” she said both sarcastically and seriously.

  This same mystical force that seemed to choose this vehicle for Dawn to take a ride in, appeared to join in on the popular fad of tormenting her. The car radio had lost the interest of the driver, so he popped in an 8-Track tape, that he took out of the glove compartment, and began to play yet another song from Heart. As Dawn now listened to the lyrics of Dog & Butterfly, it once again brought her depressed eyes to burn with painful tears, as the words only reminded her further of her all-too-brief relationship with her lost love.

  The distraught man and wife looked at each other, as if they were highly offended somehow, that the young Dawn wasn’t interested in sleeping with them.

  “Why you got to be such a bummer?” Moonbeam asked, becoming more and more volatile, and even a bit hostile, in her tone. “You want to make this a bad trip?” again trying to guilt her into doing what they wanted. “You know, we’re on a dime bag budget here. You should show us some gratitude, and quit being such a drag.”

  “I’m actually dropping a cherry bomb at the moment,” Dawn explained, both being honest and trying to turn them off to desiring her, “so I doubt you’d really want to get me into bed right now, anyway.”

  “Shit,” Starfire said, “Is that all? Hell, I don’t mind. I mean, Moonbeam might, since it might make it a bit difficult for her to go down on your hoochie koo, but it don’t bother me none.”

  Dawn started to understand why their kids were so miserable to be around. She couldn’t believe the things they were saying, right in front of their children. It was bad enough that this creepy couple, who were clearly closer to Reuben’s age, was trying to pressure her into hedonistic sex, but it somehow made it much more disgusting for her to see that they were capable of raping her right in front of their two young offspring.

  “You could always give him a head trip, if you get my meaning,” Moonbeam said.

  “That would be nice,” Starfire immediately agreed. “Could you dig that, then? Perhaps, afterwards, we can all get in a stranglehold together,” he added, continuing to make excessive references to Casey Kasem’s Top 40 hits.

  Dawn only understood about half of what this pushy couple was saying, but the parts she did understand, was more than enough to make her uncomfortable being in the car with them. When Dawn didn’t answer right away, Moonbeam got even more agitated with her.

  “Well, what’s it going to be, little girl?” Moonbeam asked her. “Do you feel like we do?”

  “No offense,” Dawn said, secretly eager to teach these people a lesson, and starting to feel better than okay with planning on taking their ride, clothes and mullah, “but I don’t know you people. Why can’t we be friends?”

  “That’s okay, Moonbeam,” he said, “If she doesn’t want to visit the head shop, we can’t make her,” he said sarcastically, referring to his over exaggerated, over hyped, dick.

  “That aint’ cool, baby. That aint’ jim dandy. You were generous enough to give this chick a free ride. The least she could do is give you some afternoon delight, and not be such an ungrateful barracuda. We don’t know her either, but what better way to get to know someone than taking them to bed? She’s making me feel like she’s taken us for a couple of chumps. You know what...we need to stop picking up these young hitchhikers, baby. You’re too nice to these girls, baby. No more Mr. Nice Guy, ” she said, conveying intense emotion that wasn’t so sweet.

  “So...” the husband asked, trying a little too late to lighten the mood, “Where are you from?” he inquired, as he drove the car down the highway. “We should at least be able to carry on friendly conversation, while I drive us all into that waterloo sunset, right?” he said, clearing his throat, as if suddenly embarrassed of how he had been talking to his alluring hitchhiker. “We’re going to need to stop in a little while, so the kids can do some candy hunting, but that won’t take long, and then we’ll be back on the road.”

  “That reminds me,” Moonbeam started, “Shouldn’t you be in school right now, sweetheart? What’d you do, runaway?”

  Suddenly, the two shameless, negligent parents no longer heard a peep from their otherwise rambunctious kids. Turning around to see if they had abruptly fallen asleep, they saw both of their children decapitated, with blood splattered all over the back seat, and all over Dawn’s face, hands, and clothes. Dawn looked at them with a barbarous glare, as her salivating mouth hung wide open, in a fiendish grin, exposing her crimson-stained teeth. Her mystical blue eyes were now as black as pitch.

  “I’m an escaped mental patient,�
�� she answered.

  EPILOGUE

  November 1, 1977

  It’s bright and early, Tuesday morning, on the first of November. A sharp dressed man showed up at the horrendous scene. He was dressed in semi-formal attire that was topped off with a suede trim, plaid blazer, but made a point to not advertise his occupational title. The psychiatric entrance to the hospital is roped off with yellow barricade tape. Several local officers and federal agents are there, scrounging and searching for hints of evidence. The bloodbath had left the facility in ruins, with sections that had been damaged by arson but were luckily contained. Holding his black tie, he ducks under the Caution tape, having no clue what awaits his discovery. The FBI had been called in, and were scattered throughout the crime scene, wearing rubber gloves and doing their nauseating duty. As he moves through the chaotic aftermath, he comes upon William’s defiled and mangled corpse. William is being thoroughly and intensely examined by one of the seasoned investigators. Suddenly, the other carnage and wreckage seemed insignificant at best.

  “Jesus Christ,” one of the sickened deputies said, finding the remnants especially revolting. “You would think this had been a goddamn bear attack.”

  “It was probably a fucking Muslim that did this,” he said quietly to himself, while fighting back the urge to cry over his decapitated nephew.

  “Excuse me!” Sheriff Morte called out. “Excuse me!” he yelled again, following after the trespasser, who simply and blatantly ignored him.

  Sheriff Morte finally caught up and tapped the unwelcome intruder on the back. “Hey, this is a crime scene investigation, asshole. I don’t care what bullshit tabloid you’re with. Get the Hell out!”

  “My name is Agent Shelling. I’m the lead investigator on this case,” he said, turning around and flashing the presumptuous Sheriff his pocket badge.

  “Oh,” the Sheriff said, stepping back to give him his space. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know who you were,” he promptly apologized, oblivious to the fact that this FBI agent had a conflict of interest with one of the murdered victims.

  “Do you have any promising leads?” he asked the embarrassed Sheriff, who was too focused on his mistake to hear his question. “Hey?!” the Fed probed again, “Major Tom? Anyone home?” he asked disparagingly while snapping his fingers in the humiliated Sheriff’s face. “Do-you-have-any-breaks-in-the-case?” he asked much slower this time around.

  “We haven’t been able to find a single print of anyone who wasn’t supposed to be here. There are no witnesses, at least none which are willing to talk.”

  “So, I take it your answer is No then?” Agent Shelling asked, daunting and discouraged.

  “We have no solid evidence to direct us to the responsible party. There is also no ballistic element, since there was no gunplay. We did, however, uncover some interesting…um…not quite sure how to put…”

  “What? What is it?” Agent Shelling asked frantically and impatiently.

  “Well…there’s only one mental patient who remains unaccounted for. We can’t substantiate that she is the killer, but it has raised a red flag. For all we know, she was a casualty like the rest of them, and just happened to be the only one that the killer saw fit to dispose of. We frankly don’t know either way…but,”

  “Give me what you have on her,” Agent Shelling insistently interrupted. “Do you have a case file on this patient?” he urgently inquired, already labeling her as Public Enemy #1 in his own mind. He had taken it upon himself to be both her judge and jury, and had already slammed down the gavel. His only concern was revenge, even if the justice was misdirected or unconfirmed. Someone had to pay for the barbaric execution of his troubled nephew, and he didn’t necessarily care whom that turned out to be.

  “You know I…” the inadequate Sheriff began again, no match for this vindictive Uncle. The Sheriff could see that this Fed meant business, and was not going to tolerate anything but forthright cooperation. In fact, Sheriff Morte hastily grew suspicious of Agent Shelling, as he could indisputably detect a searing animosity in his eyes, which could only be paralleled to homicidal tendencies.

  “And don’t give me that jurisdiction nonsense,” Agent Shelling forewarned, not letting on that he had a personal stake in this case.

  “Her name is Dawn Moon,” the Sheriff coughed up in a faint murmur, making an earnest effort to be discreet. “She has no criminal record to speak of. She’s a preacher’s kid, whose father lives and practices in Silver Spring. There’s something else, which has our department completely baffled,” the Sheriff said, still reluctant to divulge what he needed to share with the Bureau.

  “What? Goddammit! What?!” Agent Shelling interrogated.

  “Well…we have found several traces of animal hair, spread throughout the interior of the ward.”

  “Animal hair?” the Agent asked, uncertain that he heard the Sheriff right.

  “Yeeaahh. That’s not all, I’m afraid. Our lab has already analyzed it,” the Sheriff confessed in just above a whisper.

  “Yeah? And?”

  “It’s wolf hair,” the Sheriff said, knowing how crazy that sounded.

  ***

  Dawn furiously digs a grave in the woods, using nothing but her hands. As she throws the dismembered corpses of the flower people into the six-foot pit, she screams at the top of her lungs, venting her unfulfilled fury at her road kill.

  “You dig?! You dig?! Huh? Do you dig, mother fucker?! Dig your way out of that, you sorry pieces of shit!” she yells as she pushes and kicks the mound of dirt back into the grave, burying the unsuspecting yet nettling family. She had diced and chopped them up, using nothing but her teeth and her claws.

  When she was done, she slumped down beside the freshly filled grave. She had completely exhausted herself. She looks down to see her razor sharp claws covered in soil and dried blood. The dirty girl brings her hands up in front of her face, and licks them, both back and front. The day’s events flashed before her tired eyes in explicit, graphic detail. Though Dawn had said her goodbyes to her stolen soulmate, she knew in her broken heart that she would never get over losing him. He would eternally be a part of her, and he would never truly be dead as long as she kept him alive in her.

  As Dawn walks back to the rusted, green Station Wagon, soaked to the bone in her confirmed dark and disturbed reality, it begins to shower down rain. Not only does the night sky help cloak the blood that she was coated with from head to toe, but now Heaven itself was either crying for or pissing on her, but either way, it was doing its job. As the born-again serial killer was washed clean by the pouring down rain, the young American Indian stood feet away from the waiting vehicle, and just let the inclement weather do what she needed it to.

  “Hahahaha,” she laughed mildly hysterically, “Woohoo! When it rains, it pours!” she said, grateful for the rainfall, while caught back by the ironic parallel. Taking a moment or two to just appreciate nature’s salvation, she stretched her arms out at her sides, and just like Lynda Carter in Wonder Woman, spun around like a top, but without magically changing outfits and with her head tilted back, giggling and squinting at the dark sky above her.

  As the rain fell like needles and refused to let up, she undressed right in the middle of the road. Popping the trunk, she found an unlocked suitcase, which included women’s clothes inside. She threw the soiled ones in the back seat, and after rinsing all the blood off her birthday suit, dressed in the new threads, right there in the delivering rain. As Dawn bared her ravishing self to the world, nobody seemed to notice, or if they did, they played as if they didn’t. Cars and trucks passed by, and either they didn’t see her, or they didn’t care. This surprised her, but she was certainly in no position to complain. Dawn drove, not having any focal point of direction or destination, but just eager to put as much distance between her and the crime scene as humanly possible.

  ***

  “We don’t want to cause a city wide panic, so please keep this confidential,” Sheriff Morte naively pleaded wi
th the happy-go-lucky freelance journalist.

  The next morning, the Falls Church Sheriff’s Office was literally mobbed with diverse members of the press.

  “Son of a bitch!” one of the more perceptive deputies said. “We don’t have a choice now, Sheriff. You’re going to have to give them something.”

  “Goddamit,” Sheriff Morte sighed, shaking his head and grinding his teeth. “I hate this fucking country. Everyone wants to pull over and watch a fucking train wreck. God bless America,” he muttered in shame and contempt.

  Though they weren’t thrilled about the idea of saying anything at this early stage, the desensitized deputy was correct in that the press conference was going to happen whether the department liked it or not.

  “Dawn Moon is currently our only suspect. She is an eighteen-year-old Cherokee half-breed, who was a registered resident of this ward. She has mysteriously vanished without a trace, which at this point is the only reason why she is wanted for questioning. We haven’t charged her with any crime, because there is no tangible evidence that she is responsible for this slaughter, but it does put up a red flag that she is the sole inmate unaccounted for,” the distressed Sheriff officially stated to the media cameras and audio cassette recorders.

  Agent Shelling stood back on the sidelines, psyching himself up for what he aimed to do. His left hand played pocket pool with his semi-aroused manhood, as he wanted Dawn so badly, that he could taste her. He craved bloodshed, and he was going to get it, come Hell or high water. Even if it ultimately meant the death of him, he would avenge his troubled nephew’s senseless murder.

  “Do you think that this young woman is guilty?” one of the anonymous reporters blurted out to the Sheriff, thereby publicly calling him out and putting him on the spot.

  “As a spokesman for law enforcement, I have no cause to point fingers,” the Sheriff said. “However, speaking as a husband and a father, where there is smoke…there is usually fire.”