by Nate Allen
waiting.
There is no good in me. It died long ago, just like daddy. Teddy has cemented a truth into my life that one girl’s smile can’t change, no matter how bright it makes me feel inside.
I put the Buick into drive. We pull up to and then past her house. And as I expect her to, she says, “Mr. John. Where are we going?”
I’m sorry, Little M. Teddy told me to.
Matthew Mills
I thought my eyes would close. They did, but then they opened again. I’m tired. I know that much. Food doesn’t settle well. And the taste has all become blah. It’s all the symptoms of tired, yet no matter what I do, I can’t sleep.
My mind has become an active machine, always calculating, always running at its fullest speed. I have always been a deep thinker. But, this is different. It feels like if I were to let my mind slow down, I’d drop into a place of despair. The Lord is my shepherd. I am his sheep, and I’m nearing a dark valley. I’ve seen darkness before. But, I’ve never felt like this.
Maybe Janet is someone I can’t help right now. Maybe the weight of her hurt on my shoulders would cause my knees to buckle. Maybe the Lord knows this. And maybe that’s why I can hardly be near her since the miscarriage.
… Or maybe that’s what I tell myself, so I don’t feel guilty for failing as her husband.
I sigh, once and then a second time. I’m sitting instead of lying down. My hand runs through my hair. I sigh a third time.
From beneath me, I feel vibration. My phone must have fallen out of my pocket, and is now wedged between the cushions. I fish it out: 3 Missed Calls.
It’s the school, all three times. There are two voicemails. My stomach is a mess of knots and sick stirring. The operator tells me of messages ready to expire. I re-save, and then she says, playing first unheard message.
There is silence and then this: “Mr. Mills, Marcy is missing. Please call us back at the number provided.” It’s very professional.
The second message isn’t: “Mr. Mills, Marcy is missing. Ms. Brands remembers nothing about it. Please come down to the school.”
I close the phone before hearing the operator again. The first message was professional. It was direct and under control. But, the second message says they know nothing about where my Marcy is. The sick feeling in my stomach has now become a pit.
John Doe
M continues to ask me where we are going. I haven’t given an answer. I continue to avoid her eyes in the rearview, and Teddy’s in my own mind.
“Mr. John?” the fear I expect to fill her voice isn’t there. “Jesus wants me to tell you,” she pauses. “He wants me to tell you the light isn’t gone.”
Teddy has what feels like a thousand needles stabbing into my spine. His fingers seem countless. They prod the deepest parts of my brain, pulling the reigns free and grabbing control. I pull the car to a stop at the side of the highway. My hands reach for an empty plastic bag. But, it isn’t me. It’s Teddy. I can’t stop my hands. The edges of the bag curl back. I watch. It’s all I can do. I turn back to wrap it over her head. She is sleeping.
Thirty seconds ago, she was talking. Now she’s sleeping. Or is she? I don’t hear the breaths anymore. And her skin looks white.
Teddy’s voice is loud, outside of my head now. It slips from the vents. It comes from my own mouth. He is furious. He turns the bag back toward me, and wraps it over my head. I should be terrified, but I’m not. I am a man who has nothing to offer, nothing to give. And Teddy has the power to kill me now. Do it, Teddy! Do it!
The plastic is covering my mouth, suctioning over my nostrils. I can’t breathe. If I even could pull the bag away, I wouldn’t. This is right. Teddy has always told me of my defects. Everyone I’ve ever met has. The only people who are nice to me are children, and I kill them.
No. What’s happening? The bag is loosening. I can breathe. I was beginning to see black, but now the color of this world is becoming sharply vivid again. I used to love the color. Back when mommy would tell me about a place better than this world, I imagined beautiful things.
Now nothing is beautiful.
Matthew Mills
Why can’t I move? My eyes haven’t blinked, or if they have, I don’t remember it happening. I’ve been staring at the wall in front of me. Marcy’s life hasn’t flashed in front of my eyes. I haven’t seen her as the little bundle I brought home from the hospital, or the wonderful memories that followed. But, in my heart, I know that she’s already gone.
The reality of that hasn’t sunk in. It will though. And when it does, I don’t know what man will come out. I want to believe that the man of faith I have been for years can look past the pain and into the eyes of my Savior. I know the Lord has this in control. Yet, no matter how much I say it, the anger is still building inside of me. The man of faith is fighting against the grieving father, while the man of anger, the man of profanity is slipping out of me. I can hear the string of words I haven’t used in years coming from my mouth. I’m whispering it, almost soft enough that it’s not being spoken at all. Deep inside it makes me feel guilty, but at the surface, it’s all I can say.
I close my eyes. I can only feel this pain rising from someplace in my stomach, and pressing against my throat. It’s squeezing out of me. And with it comes even longer strings of language. I finally move. It’s my hand. I sway it in front of my face, and then close it into a fist. I look at it without blinking. It blurs as I slam it into my own face. Immediately, I can feel my right eye bubble with pressure. It’s already swelling. But, the pain is still stuck in my chest. The language is getting louder. I’m nearly yelling it, or at least it seems that way. I slam my fist into my face again. The pain isn’t transferring to my swelling eye. It’s staying in my chest, making the sick inside of me want to come back up. I slam my fist into my face a third time. This time I hear a crack, and blood spills from my nose almost immediately. The pain hasn’t transferred. Instead, it’s only built in my chest to a point where my heart feels ready to give out.
I try to take a deep breath, but it catches on the pain. I can’t relieve it. I pound my fist against the wooden coffee table. Pain jumps to my hand, though it doesn’t relieve. I’m gasping, but can’t catch my breath. I inhale heavily, still unable to release. The air is slipping from my nostrils, but I’m still suffocating. I inhale again and again, but there is no release.
It’s building to a point where my head feels ready to burst. I make a fist with my other hand. I want to slam it into the other side of my face. I want the pain in my chest to transfer to my swollen eye and nose. But, it won’t. It hasn’t. It wants to stay deep inside. It’s the pain of tears building, but I can’t cry for her. If I do, then everything will move ahead. The reality of never getting to see my little girl again will crush me. Everything will crumble.
My anger has become aimless. I scream. I don’t know what I’m saying. I only know it’s loud. I may still be cursing. All I hear is a deafening ring. I can feel the pressure relieving. I can feel the tears pouring out of me. My little girl is gone. The pain of backed up tears has become something much sharper, a pain I can’t begin to describe.
Perspective/Drifting
John Doe
M is dead. I checked all places of pulse. There is none. Her face is the opposite of terrified. Mine is flushed of whatever life there was, but hers, hers is filled with peace. Teddy tried to kill me. The bag was over my head, and I was beginning to fade away. And then he pulled it off.
But, Teddy is quiet now. He spoke from the car vents. Furious. Final. He was going to kill me. I could hear it in his voice. The immediate anger that M’s final words brought out of Teddy is something I’ve never seen before.
Many of the other children would cry. Terror would fill their eyes. They would struggle and scratch. They would bite, fighting in any way possible to get away from me. For every kill, Teddy has been in control of these hands. And I’ve watched from the only place that is still mine: the eyes. I have watched the bag w
rap around their head loosely, and as they fought, form to the shape of their faces. It didn’t matter what the child looked like, when under the bag they all took the same nameless form. Their face became hollow indents, as their hands would grab for anything, first desperately, and then nothing whatsoever.
Teddy would step out of me. My body would become mine again. An air of joy would cloud around Teddy. It would linger in me, until it finally faded away. I would have to dispose of the body. That was my task. Teddy didn’t help with that. He did the killing. I did everything else…
… Except with M. She is still the sweet, blonde haired Marcy Mills. She isn’t a nameless form like the rest. The bag never took her away. Teddy never took her away. Maybe that’s why he almost took me instead. There was no joy when Teddy stepped out of me this time. No air around him. No fading streaks of it in me. And now I can’t feel him at all.
Somehow, I don’t miss Teddy. The weight of him has lifted. M’s final words fill my head. Without Teddy to stop them, they pour in: Jesus wants me to tell you the light isn’t gone. I hear it in her voice. I close my eyes. There are no blotches of blood. There is no daddy waiting to stick me with his piece. There is just light.
Matthew Mills
I don’t know how long I screamed… or when I stopped. I don’t
