ANONYMOUS


    MINDEN, LA


    SEPTEMBER 1986


    I am making a dandelion wreath.


    There are so many out here. With my dirty finger, I braid and loop the fragile green stems.


    It’s mostly due to the rain. I’ve picked them up from my yard, where they are embedded around Juno’s parked car. It took me two hours to do so, and I consider the task to be very well worth it. The stalks are extremely thick and strong, good for a strong base. I braid them together. Blood drips down my nose and stains the collar of my button down shirt, which has become faded over the years from constant wear and tear. But that’s what clothes are for, right? With my sleeve, I dab at my face to stop the bleeding, which is leaking through my fingers.


    It is a very hot, but lovely day. And it is such a shame that we cannot sit out on the porch with a cool glass of lemonade and enjoy the weather together. Sweat drips down my chin and lands on my collarbones, mingling with the dried blood already escaping down my throbbing nose. I lick my dried lips as I carry my wreath back into the darkened house and silently shut the door behind me. It is so warm that my button down shirt and jeans are glued to my skin. Grass blades cling to my bare feet.


    My family is sitting at the foot of the stairs.


    A few feet away from her lies a shattered vase, which I plan to sweep up with a broom. Moments before, it had collided with my face—a present from Juno. As a result, I shackled her left bare foot the end of a long chain, which just allows her to access the bathroom and the kitchen, if she ever needed either of them. I really didn’t want to do this, but it was the only way to calm her. She wouldn’t stop screaming and hitting at me again, now she has terrible hiccups from all of the carrying on today. But I understand that I must be patient with her. At the sound of the door closing, she immediately jumps to her feet, shivering. It breaks my heart to see her like this.


    I don’t want to shackle her.


    With both hands, I hold out the wreath. I hope she likes this better than my childhood toy, Mr. Bear.


    Juno’s face contorts as she begins to viciously yank at the chain. The way her fingers are digging deep into the metal band, it looks like she’s planning to tear her foot off. As I rush forward and pry her hands free, this seems to infuriate her more, and as she’s beating down upon me, I roughly grab her arms. A fierce look flashes across her dark eyes—I think I see Mama’s for a moment. They are blacker than the night sky.


    I squeeze her hands.


    Startled, she stares at me. The only silence is the rattling of the chain against the steps.


    Juno grits her teeth and attempts to tear it off again. The skin has loosened up, bloody and torn. I can see how it peels and folds back like paper. Now, I have to bandage and clean it. All because she wouldn’t wait.


    Let me help you. My breaths are heavy as I secure my hands around her wrists, tight, but not too much to cause harm. I’ll help you.


    She tries to tug away from me.


    Gently, I caress the side of her damp face.


    Juno looks away. A tear slowly escapes down the side of her face, pooling directly under her chin, before splashing on the collar of her nightgown. My chest grows tight.


    Oh, no, no, no—please, don’t cry. With my thumb, I lightly trace her cheek. Please don’t cry. You are safe here.


    No response.


    I have a surprise. A weak smile falls across my scabbed lips. Strands of hair are clinging to my bloodied nose, which she may try to break again. Yeah? See, I got you a present, love. See, look. My wandering hand picks up the wreath that I dropped upon the ground. I place it on top of her head. I would like to give you a present. That’s all. That’s all I want to do. I want to give you more.


    Juno’s teeth chatter. She tries to yank her arms free from me, but I hold them tight. When she starts kicking me, I have to hold her arms tightly against as her right bare foot repeatedly slams against my ribcage. It hurts, but not as much as the expression on her face. Her brown skin is as soft as Mama’s, so smooth and delicate to the touch.


    Please. I mean no harm.


    Her mouth twists and turns as a glob of her saliva sprays onto my face. She has spat at me yet again. It dribbles down my nose, but I hardly flinch. Mama did this all the time. It is evident my reaction only further infuriated her, as she begins to struggle. As I wipe it off with my sleeve, my grip tightens.


    ”Let me go,” she shrieks, and the anguish in her voice makes my vision go blurry.


    You think I got you here for all the wrong reasons. You gonna hurt yourself real bad, and I can’t stand by and let you do it to yourself. I don’t want you to hurt.


    “Go away,” she sobs. “You’re a murderer. You’ve taken away my best friend.” Her brown eyes narrow. “You’re a murderer, you hear?”


    Murderer. The word stings. The old man who lays down there is a threat against our family. How could she refer to me as such? I can be a better best friend than he. She shall be my very first one, and must leave him behind; forget his name. He is nothing but a dead memory, and belongs only with the cobwebs and spiders. Why must she insist she dwell on such things? A deep weight settles on my chest. I wish she hadn’t formed such an attachment to him. I only wanted to protect her from him. I wouldn’t have laid a finger on him otherwise.


    Murderer.


    For a moment, Juno is silent. I hold my breath. Will I finally be able to trust her so that I won’t have to restrain her here? But her next words destroy what remaining hope I had. Her eyes are glistening wet, and I reach into my pocket for a crumpled napkin. She does not accept it when I offer it to her, and turns away from me. With great despair, I study it in my hands.


    “Go away,” she repeats in a shaky voice, and her shoulders rise up and down.


    Please, I did this for your own good. The old man was going to hurt you. He was going to take you and the baby away from me.


    “I have to go to work,” she says in a shaky voice for the millionth time, eyeing the door. Her stomach was quite upset last night, so she should be thinking about resting after all that vomiting she did. Not working. There are bags under her eyes. I made her some chamomile tea this morning, but all she did was dump it on the floor and throw the cup at me. I’ll try to get her to eat something later.


    “My shift starts today.”


    I know, love. A chill runs down my spine. I am still very proud of her for finding a job, even though it is now useless in the grand scheme of things. I manage to look at her again. It amuses me how she ever thought I would ever let her be exposed to such an environment. And willingly. Why should she slave away at a dirty restaurant for a few measly bucks, when I could provide her the whole world at her fingertips?


    “My boss is expecting me to come in.”


    I gestured at the dandelion wreath sitting on her head. Don’t you like flowers? Such a very pretty girl like you deserves nice flowers. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Hatred fills her dark eyes. She is mostly still upset at me for destroying her phone. But I can’t have that around her.


    With a heavy sigh, I release her and stand up. I love the way the wreath looks in her hair, how the sunlight falls on her curls. Hasn’t she realized by now I can take care of her? I have my huntin’ gun. There is plenty of game nearby in these woods, so she would never be hungry. And she could give me a list of what she wants. I could go right down to the supermarket, get her ice cream, candy, soda. Anything she wanted.


    She just had to tell me.


    Devastation falls upon her tear stained face. “Please, just let me and my boy out of here.”


    My smile slightly falters. How does she want to leave so soon? She is my family. I wish I could leave every wall, floorboard, and brick behind, too. But I never can. My soul is forever tied to this place, in bondage with its very foundation. I know I am attached to this house. I dig my nails into the fabric of my jeans. Rush is taking a nap at the moment, sleeping peacefully in his cradle. I can’t leave. She makes this house a home, and that is the first time anyone in my family has done so.


    Juno turns away from me.


    I slowly reach over to her, before removing the shackle around her bare ankle. It clanks loudly against the rotting wooden steps. She abruptly clutches her foot, wriggling her toes around. There is a bit of blood present directly below her shin. I slowly reach out to begin to clean it up, but she roughly slaps my hand away.


    “Go away, please,” she sobs.


    I could wash it up and bandage it real nice for for her. I want to tell her this, but I can’t have her hear my voice. A lump rises in my throat.


    Juno struggles to her feet, gripping the railing with her brown hands as she hobbles down the steps. She winces each time she puts some weight on her foot. I notice how she keeps looking at the door. I stand up and abruptly open one of the windows, where the torn netting blows in. It’s mostly dark still, so she only can see my shadow. But it leaves a thick ray of sunlight in the small hallway.


    I can show you my garden, I want to say. It’s closer to the edge of the woods. I also hunt and fish there, too.


    Juno is shaking. She is still wearing her vomit stained nightgown, which stops just below her knees. I have clean clothes for her. Even as I help her stand up in the shadows, I can see how frail she is becoming—she is becoming dangerously underweight. She goes over to Rush’s crib, picks up the sleeping infant, holding him for a while. When she sets him back down, I know that the wheels at the back of her head are spinning. They shall continue to endlessly spin. I drum both of my hands against the table and lean sideways against it. I wish we could do something fun together today, like play a board game or garden outside, but it’s not going to happen. At least, not for the time being.


    Like a lost child, she wanders in the living room in a daze.


    Oh, love. How I wish she could hear my voice. How I wish she could understand me.


    She avoids my gaze.


    I brought a huge tin of oatmeal a while back. If you sit down, I can whip you up some. There’s also some canned peaches. I know you haven’t been feeling well, but you got to get a little bit down. I begin to rummage through the cabinets in the kitchen.


    Juno begins to bite her nails.


    I look down at the floor. This is not good. If she is too distraught to eat, that means that the baby won’t get the nourishment he needs from her. I hold her smaller hand, which she eventually lets me take, and guide her to the other window. When I pry it open after struggling for a moment, since it was mostly jammed, fresh air leaks in. A cool breeze settles in over the living room, a relief to the sweaty layer that has settled over my skin.


    We remain together in front of the window; the full view of the front yard is visible in front of us. She is much shorter than me, but as I tuck a few strands of her curly hair away,I can see goosebumps rising at the back of her neck. I stand directly behind her, my fingers loosely wrapped around hers—she does not pull her hand away from mine.


    My scabbed lips brush against her ear. See that oak tree over there? My father had built a swing for me once, made out of an old tire and a rope, before he started drinkin’. I used to spend hours there. And Mama, she had her vegetable garden right nearby. She’d grow tomatoes, make a good soup with them. The best kind.  I slowly inhale. Come a time when I’m gonna clear all these weeds. I’m gonna make sure your boy has a swing on that tree, when he gets big enough.


    She flinched.


    And a garden just for you.


    With both hands, she wipes her cheeks.


    As I pull up a chair, she eyes the basement door, which is closed. I drag the busted stool from the kitchen next to her, avoiding the rays of sunlight spilling through the smashed glass. She doesn’t sit down, just continues to shiver. One of the petals from the dandelions breaks off and falls onto the floorboards. Beneath them lies many who have tried to threaten my family—threaten us. They are nothing but dust under my bare feet.


    She gives me a dark look, before bolting towards the cradle as fast as she could.


    It amazes me how ungrateful people can be.


    My fingers delicately wrap around the cartridge box sitting on the table. I watch her run from me, watch her rip out what remained left of my soul. I watch her behind the strands of hair hanging over my face, each one knotted and twisted and crawling over my skin like snakes. I watch her as the fire builds up inside my lungs, and I grit my teeth until my gums are bleeding and sore and ripe.


    I select a cartridge.


    There is a strangled cry; then silence.


    A couple of minutes pass before I cross over to the same spot she had been standing moments ago. She has departed for now. But when she returns, I will try again once more.


    I make my way over to where Rush is lying in his cradle, past the now empty hallway. Juno’s footsteps mark the floor. Her son’s arms are out, his face pink as he was startled by the noise, but I pick him up and caress him in my arms until he calms down. The house is completely still. My game console is glowing red on the table. Fortunately, Rush is now awake, and he gurgles as I bounce him up and down. This sweet boy is hungry, so I prepare a large bottle for him with three scoops of formula.


    While I wait for his meal to heat up, I sit down on the stool in front of the window with him in my arms. He has taken interest in a button on my shirt, and I kiss his tiny palm in my hands. My face is still stinging. The thick crust on my bloodied nose is starting to irritate me. I do not look at my game console or my joystick. The fire inside of me is blazing like a coal, but I manage to swallow it down. She is learning, I have to remind myself. And she is here.


    I suddenly smile.


    Somehow, I expected this, but it still deeply stings. I am so very disappointed in her, but I have faith that she shall learn in due time. We all must learn and grow. She will understand how much I love her. I love her more than she loves herself. Many people have a distinct learning style, with trial and error. One day, she will know for sure that she is all I have. We are a family, after all. My house has no place for such ungratefulness, such coldness.


    I eliminated it twenty five years ago with .38 caliber.


    I am lonely here without her.


    But she shall return. Taking a deep breath, I gaze at the dandelion wreath flattened on the floor. It has been trampled on by her feet. I should try daisies next time. Or roses.


    * * * * * * * *


    My fingers shake as I light a match and drop it on the pile of rubbish, dried grass, and twigs that I have carefully placed on the driver’s seat of the Camaro parked in the weeds.


    I walk naked across the yard, softly singing to myself, the box of matches in my hands.


    It is midnight, and Juno has not yet entered my world. I miss her badly, but I know I cannot interfere. It wouldn’t do her any justice. I can’t sleep, even though I’ve already cleaned up Rush and put him to bed. I shall know when she has proven herself enough to enter my own reality, where we can eat peanut butter sandwiches, drink tea, and count the stars. Where we can be not enemies, but friends. Family. But her broken down car remains with me, still hidden, trapped behind the thick, gnarled weeds. It is a good couple of yards in front of my house.


    I toss the box of matches in the grass.


    Every pretty girl deserves flowers.


    My shadow falls upon it.


    On the porch, my clothing lays discarded on the steps. The cold night air causes goosebumps to rise above my skin, but sweat pours down my naked body. The dandelion wreath sits on top of my head, leaves stuck in my tangled hair, which hangs past my shoulders. I turn and face my house, where the windows are dark and empty. I hold out my arms, as the wind blows my dirty hair from my face. The towering strands of grass brush against my bare hips and buttocks, the countless scars on my back and torso. It touches each bruised, protruding rib. Mud clings to my bare toes and heels, my heart pounding below my chest as I sway to its rhythm. My breaths are heavy, laborious.


    A smile is plastered on my face.


    Behind me, there is an exploding sound, the roaring sound of flames and sparks once they reach the moss covered gas tank, which is half full. The Camaro lights up like a star.


    I laugh.


    Orange, yellow flames latch onto the vehicle, before consuming the seats and melting rubber tires. The smoke is faint as first, before growing stronger until it is completely engulfed. Fierce heat presses against my back, but I keep my gaze on my house as the fire rages on and on. But I don’t turn around. I dance amongst the golden grass, sweat and water pouring down my face, glistening upon my naked, warm flesh, my arms outstretched.