by Nate Allen
number.
“Uh,” she says, now blankly staring past us.
“Ms. Brands?” the Principal is sharply authoritative.
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”
“Go home, Ms. Brands. We’ll decide what actions to take tomorrow.”
Without another word, she gets up and leaves. Her eyes don’t meet mine. She just leaves, eyes still completely lost.
John Doe
The closer I get to the shed, the more everything about it returns. It begins with daddy. It always has. Not the man I am remembering, but the man he has been to me for the past twenty six years. It begins with how I helped Teddy become as strong as he is, because when it all started, he couldn’t shield me from their eyes. He couldn’t keep me hidden. He instructed me on how to grow that power in him, and that covering over me. And I listened.
“It begins with his blood.” he told me after the cops left. “Use the leftover needles in your mom’s bag. Withdraw a sample of his blood from the floor, and inject it into his cigarette box. Leave it out and on display in the shed. There is power in the blood, John.”
I did what he told me to do. The pack is still on display. It’s the first thing I see whenever I go back. And then I see the teddy bears on the highest shelf, with eyes painted to match the child they belong to.
Even as I think about the shed, memories of before continue to spill in. He was a happy, hopeful man. You could see it in his eyes. He carried it like a badge. He loved my mom with all he had. You could see that too. And he loved me.
The shed has always been a place for keeping things hidden. If Teddy were talking to me right now, I know he would say that this time is different. There was something about Matthew that weakened him. This isn’t just another visit to bury M. He wants Matthew dead like her. He wants to showcase his power. Just like with dad twenty six years ago, he wants me to help.
I don’t know why Teddy hasn’t said a word to me since nearly killing me. The radio program had the feel of Teddy, but it was distant. He wasn’t in the deepest parts of my brain, fighting for control. He was on the outside. The only thing that has changed since he nearly killed me is the light I saw, the light I don’t deserve.
Is that your weakness, Teddy? Light? I saw it in Matthew and it was the brightest I have ever seen in M. If what she said is true, Teddy, the light isn’t gone from me. Not completely. And now you can’t control me like you did. You can’t keep me from remembering dad before the shed. Every trip has been to bury things, but this time, Teddy, I’m going to dig something up. I’m going to find the reason dad changed. He had love once. Where did it go? I think you know, Teddy. I think you know.
Matthew Mills
After Ms. Brands left, Mrs. Fig stuttered through a badly rehearsed speech. Words like don’t worry and keep the faith were peppered throughout. Janet and I left her office with the same fake handshake we met her with. I have learned nothing about what happened to Marcy. The words I was told inspired nothing in me. No false hope. No new insight. Nothing.
We are both walking slowly. My eyes glance at Marcy’s empty locker. Janet’s fall on it and stare.
“Everything is going to be okay, sweetie.” I don’t know why I am saying this. By the way her eyes look at me, she doesn’t either.
I have had faith in every aspect of my life, from marrying Janet young, to trusting the Lord in the loss of my first and now second son. But, every time I try to wrap my head around the reality of Marcy’s death—I feel like I am floating away. Janet’s hand is holding mine, but her closeness is fading.
Grief is a vast sea. I was on land. But now, I am drifting away. There is only one truth I know for certain. I will not be able to drift for years like I did when losing my dad. Right now, I won’t even make it weeks, maybe not even days.
Janet’s pace has suddenly quickened. She is pulling me with her. Marcy’s locker blends in with the rest; the doors are only feet away. We break through. The sunlight doesn’t have the same clean feeling it did when I left the house. Now my face is throbbing. The nose pieces of the glasses feel like tight fingers pressing together. I pull off the shades.
We turn to leave the way we came. Ms. Brands is standing at the end of the sidewalk. Her back is hunched, staring across the street. She still looks lost.
“If you want to talk to her, you can. I’m going home.” Janet says. And with that, she leaves my side. No kiss goodbye. Just a quiet exit.
Before I arrive, Ms. Brands turns to me. “Albert’s eyes were scared.”
“What?” I ask, staying a few feet away.
“Albert’s eyes were scared. Pained. Terrified.” by the way she now looks, those words could be describing her.
“Who’s Albert?”
“My Albert.” the reply creaks out of her, soft and troubled. “My Al-Albert.”
“Your husband?”
“Not anymore.” she answers, as if talking to herself. The answer isn’t directed at me. It’s just a reply. Her eyes have yet to focus on mine. “He’s dead now.” now, her eyes look empty. There is no sadness to them, or bitterness, or hostility.
What I know of Ms. Brands is what I have heard over the phone. Whenever Marcy was sick, she would take the call-in. Ms. Brands’ voice was tight and strict. She was an old woman who had been doing the job too long. Everyday was routine. Children were headaches. That was the woman I knew over the phone. This woman is a scooped out shell, troubled and lost.
I haven’t thought about this morning until now. The Lord prompted me to anoint Marcy. When I look into Ms. Brands’ eyes, I get that same chill I had when Marcy looked at me before running down to the devil’s call. The visions of blood, the restless nights—it makes sense now. The Lord knew something was coming that would directly affect me. He was preparing me. But, I don’t feel prepared.
John Doe
Perspective is beginning to grow in me. I don’t know where it’s coming from. The only time I remember having true perspective was before the shed. I have lived in a fog, completely aware of it without trying to escape. There was nothing outside of Teddy and our existence together. No brighter days. No happiness. No light. After dad stuck me with his piece, Teddy became my only friend. A companion who helped me carry my shame in secret, in hiding.
Teddy never implanted in me a fascination for children. There has never been an attraction to them, nothing close to it. But, this is where my perspective ends. Why I have lured so many children away from their protected lives to let Teddy kill them, I will never know.
I am fighting. Even if there is light in me, do I want it to be there? Do I deserve to feel any sort of redemption? Any kind of relief from this fog? Any light in the darkness of me? The man I was at the beginning of this day is not the same man I am now. Not completely. I don’t feel so trapped inside myself. The view from my eyes has cleared and I can see things for what they are now. Not what Teddy says they are.
I don’t miss him. I thought I would. I thought it would feel like a friend abandoning me. But, instead it feels like chains being loosened.
I can see M in the rearview mirror. Her skin is still the color of pale cream. She has yet to appear what she is: dead. I look at myself in the same mirror. The man looking back at me is unrecognizable. My facial hair curls unevenly across my top lip and bunches in uneven patches across my cheeks, chin, and neck. My teeth are something to be hidden, but I look at them anyway. The cut from where I dug my nail is now a hardened scab. Everything about the way I look is the same. Yet, I don’t recognize myself.
Drug addicts describe this feeling as clean. There’s something inside that is different. It’s what makes the reflection seem like a stranger. They have only known that dirty feeling for so long, that clean is unrecognizable.
My sins aren’t piling up in my head. I am completely aware of what my role has been in killing children. I deserve the dirty feeling. There is no other truth. I deserve to feel trapped inside myself, yet I don’t.
I take a deep breath, and
then another. Clean. It’s all I can feel.
Matthew Mills
I asked Ms. Brands to tell me about Albert. The reply has been vague. He was her husband, but only at times does that register any emotion in her. I haven’t tried to bring up Marcy again. Ms. Brands can tell me nothing about it. Though, the darkness in her knows. It’s what The Lord has been preparing me for.
“What are you?” I ask.
Her eyes snap alive with piercing accuracy. “I am powerful.” it whispers. Her hand touches mine. But, it’s not her hand. It’s tighter than that. My eyes close. I can’t stop them. Children are screaming: Help me!, but it’s muffled. There is only darkness. The cries have become laughter. Deep. Distorted. Now, it’s building. There is more than one. It’s a symphony of mocking sounds. I can hear the cries. I can hear the laughter.
As soon as it started, it stops.
“Marcy is next!” it resumes, fuller and more chaotic than before. I try to call the name of Jesus, but my tongue won’t form words. I try to pull away, but I am paralyzed.
“He-Hel-Help,” it’s all I can say. It does nothing. The darkness has faded into the image of our last time together. But, the view is not mine. It’s from across the street, through eyes that belong to someone else. I am watching me. We are being watched. Or, we were—I still am.
“Daddy!” it’s Marcy. I would know her voice anywhere.
