ANONYMOUS

MINDEN, LA

1963

The stench of curdled milk left too long out in the sun floods my nose. And then it’s all over me—my hair, eyes, and clothing are dripping with it. I try to keep my mouth shut to avoid the gooey chunks from sliding in my mouth, but there’s much more of it, so much that I can hardly see. I try my very best not to breathe in as I can hear snickers, then the sensation of someone’s fist colliding against my jaw. I go flying backwards into the lockers, and my elbow strikes against one of the metal surfaces, causing a purple bruise to form on my skin. They carry me into the janitor’s closet; one of the many tiny spaces around the school they enjoy trapping me in—out of the sight of the teachers. Yesterday, it was behind the bleachers. I try to break free, but I’m too small.

“Someone forgot to take the trash out.”

Wild laughter echoes in my ears—crackling and spreading outwards like wildfire. My face is burning, this milk is like acid. I don’t make eye contact with Oliver Holden, so I just stare at his scuffed up black converse with his mismatched socks, the ones that he’s added stickers all over. I see his minions Jerry McIntrye and Sam Bishop, swarming around me like countless flies coming to feast over a carcass. Sam takes my backpack and tosses it over into the sink, before twisting the knobs.

The squeaking sound of water gushing from the faucet makes my stomach drop. My comic books are in there. I try to get up, but Oliver roughly slams me down into the linoleum floor again. My upper lip smashes against the nearby wooden bench, and I can taste blood. They’ve got me cornered in the janitor’s closet. I know that no one can really hear us through the cinderblock walls.

I’m not going to survive next period.

I’m not going to survive eighth grade.

So far, I’ve managed to be here for about two weeks. I’m not even going to survive being at this school, and it’s far worse being a transfer student than just beginning the new year. I’ve begged Mama a million times to just homeschool me, but she’s picked up a couple of new shifts at the local hospital as a janitor to keep up with the bills. She bounces between keeping me home to learn or public school. Seems like she can never make up her mind these days. I keep telling her that I can get a job next year, soon as I turn fourteen, even register for boot camp, but she won’t let me.

This isn’t a school, it’s a damned country club.

Try coming in right smack in the middle of the third quarter, where everyone’s already made their friend groups, everyone knows each other, everyone has nice clothes and cars and moms who are devoted members of PTA meetings. The teachers are snobs, the work is ten times harder, and no one ever looks in my direction. The only benefit is that they have a really big library, and it’s been my safe haven, especially after school. The librarian, Ms. Winters, is very nice. She was the first person who had introduced me to manga—Astro Boy, Speed Racer, Adventures of Goku—and a large stack of comics in my backpack, which are now ruined.

I’ll never be able to borrow a library book again.

Oliver raises his meaty fist again. He’s breathing heavy and unsteady on his feet due to having too many Twinkies. He’s always the last to finish during gym period, especially when Coach Adams makes us run around the soccer field. I spit on the toe of his converse, leaving bright pink spots from my bloody mouth. He swears under his breath. I feel his hands grab me by the shirt collar, causing it to rip. I collide with the wall, and I’m so dizzy at this point that I can’t really see who is who. They look like a blur of smeared paintings. My left eye is swelling up like an expanding balloon.

”You little shit,” Oliver fiercely whispers in my ear. I can smell cigarette ash on his breath. “Thinking of snitching on me? I’ll show you how we deal with snitches around here.”

I hardly know what he’s talking about—he was the one who had decided to directly copy my answers during the history test. It’s not my fault Mr. Anderson had given him detention. Oliver had gotten it in his empty head that I had directly told the teacher—I could care less about the Revolutionary War— a topic that was sure to fascinate eighth graders. I hadn’t been paying much attention in that class, so my grade was slipping below a C. It’s probably why Oliver is supposed to be a sophomore and has been held back twice, but of course I don’t say this. No one else does, but we’re all thinking it.

It seems like an eternity before the three of them leave. The sink is still running, and when I stand up, I can’t help but wince due to the pain seeping through my mouth. When I manage to turn off the rusted knob, I realized that either Sam or Jerry must’ve elaborately tied the straps in a way around the nozzle that left behind a row of knots. My fingers are raw and bloody, and it takes me a good twenty minutes to pry my soaked backpack free.

When I make finally make it to Algebra, all eyes are on me. My untied sneakers squeak against the floor. Some of my classmates are giggling at me and whispering to each other as I slump into a desk at the back of the room. Mrs. Simmons reminds me of a crow—her round spectacles teetering over the edge of her beak of a nose, threatening to fall and crash to the floor. I do not have my homework, so I receive a zero for the day. The stench of curdled cafeteria milk has reached my nose, slowly making into my mouth. It has dried upon my skin and hair, peeling off in small chunks.

Water drips from my bag and lands on the floor, creating a puddle. Mrs. Simmons passes around a quiz, and I fill my out name on the top of the page and stare at the questions, which I leave blank. She goes to her desk and perches upon her chair like the bird she is. The clock is ticking louder each minute, threatening to shake the entire room. Oliver is in French, but Jerry and Sam are in this class with me. I want to take my pencil and drive it into their eyes—deep into their sockets until the lead snaps and breaks. My broken fingernails dig into my seat.

When the bell rings, I make my escape.

I do not take the bus.

* * * * * * * * *

“How is school?” Mama asks at dinner.

We never have dinner. I don’t know why she decided to cook tonight. Usually, for me, it’s either a sandwich or a can of spaghetti, if I can find something in the house. If not, I go and ride my bike to the nearest gas station, and load up on snacks to carry me over for the next day. I usually find quarters and pennies stuck between the couch cushions, but most days I haven’t been so lucky.

My skin is still sore from spending nearly two hours in the bathtub. I notice fresh purple bruises on my back and legs, an additional present from Oliver. It hurts to sit. No matter how much I brush my teeth, the aftertaste of the curdled milk on my lips is still there.

Tonight, we are having meatloaf and instant mashed potato.

There are still bits of plastic in the mashed potato because Mama forgot to remove it when she put it in the oven. The meatloaf is cold in the middle, but I slather it with ketchup so that I don’t taste the pink parts. Her eyes are halfway open, even though she’s been sleeping all day on the couch again. She stinks of liquor, dark circles are under her sunken eyes, and her hair resembles a squirrel’s nest. In the background, gray static plays on the television.

Her voice is slurred. “How is—”

”It’s fine,” I murmur, stabbing my fork into the mashed potato. My wet backpack is sitting on top of the heater, and my books are all lying on my dresser, facing my open bedroom window. Tonight they’ll be dry enough so I can get in a couple of chapters before bed.

Mama places a crooked cigarette in her mouth and lights the end. Her hand is a bit shaky, and I can see the crossroad of veins bulging through her bony fingers. Her cloudy eyes focus on me, as if she was suddenly seeing me for the first time. Gesturing to my swollen eye, a frown settles on her blistered lips, the one she kept chewing until they were gummy and bloody and she has no skin left on them. She pulls out her fingernails and her hair too—a giant bald spot is slowly beginning to form on the top of her head. It is pink and smooth due to her continuously plucking the hairs around it.

“What happened?”

”I fell.”

She frowned and leaned forward. “Now—”

”I said I fell, Mama.” The times of my fork scrape against the plate. “That’s all.”

With a heavy sigh, she adjusts the stained napkin on her lap and takes a large bite out of her tasteless meatloaf. Bits of it are stuck between her front teeth. “You like your school?”

I shrug.

“It’s a good school—not too far and in a good area. Much better than the last one,” she continued, talking slower than molasses. Smoke rises from her nostrils. “It…it takes some time. Give it some time. You like your teachers. And you’ve made many friends, I hope. You can have them over here for Saturdays. We can order plenty of pizza.”

“Yeah,” I lie, placing my elbow on the table. When she’s not looking, I steal the pack of matches that she has left on the table and slide them into my pocket.

“Good,” Mama beams, “very good.” Her eyes blankly focus on the wall. Once more, she has forgotten what to say. A spider is busy crawling its way through the worn paper, but she doesn’t seem to react. “I’m going to lie down a bit, baby. I’ve been dealing with a nasty headache all day. I have to be up by six for work tomorrow, so keep the TV low.”

We both know it is a lie, like I won’t see her sprawled out on the couch when I head out to that pathetic excuse of a school tomorrow. The electricity might be shut off in a couple of days because she forgets to pay the bill. She’ll probably be looking for a new job soon, before she gets fired again. But she looks so convinced of herself, I can’t help but want her to believe it. It’s nice to pretend sometimes. I want her to be happy.

I wonder if she thinks about Papa.

She gets up, plants a weak kiss on my cheek. She grabs her pack of Camels and limps upstairs—each individual step creaking below her weight. I scrape out both of our full plates into the trash can and place them in the sink overflowing with dirty dishes, which has attracted flies and maggots floating in the gray water. My stomach grumbles, and I think it’s time for a nightly gas station visit. My eyes wander to the stack of envelopes on the yellowed table, next to her vinyl purse.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

After quickly peeking to make sure Mama had gone upstairs, I reach over for her wallet. Under the mountain of past due bills, my hand brushes against a small, colorful laminated flyer. I hold it up so I can see it better in the dim light, the lightbulb in the kitchen than keeps flickering on and off.

Time Zone.

* * * * * * * * *

Oliver has a half sister named Amy.

She looks just like him, with the same round, chubby face and beady black eyes. She is always dressed in frilly pink dresses, and carries a doll on her arms. She attends the elementary school across the road from mine, and she has large ribbons in her braided hair. She is either in the second or third grade, and after school, if I am lucky to escape Oliver’s clutches by leaving class early before he does, she is always waiting near the front. He promises to take her to the park, but never does.

Yet, I always see her looking out for him on the front steps, her long legs swinging back and forth as she plays with her doll. I hear him constantly complain about her with his friends, that she never leaves him alone, that he wishes she and her mom never came to live with his pa. I hear him say that he wishes she never existed at all.

On Monday afternoon, Oliver pushes her to the ground. His friends snicker as she laid on the dirt, near tears at the sight of her skinned knees. He destroyed her doll and tossed it into the bushes. He yelled at her to stop following him, and that he hated her, over and over and over again, until her eyes were wet.

As soon as the coast is clear, I carefully approach Amy. She is sobbing so hard that she has hiccups, and when she notices me, her beady eyes get wary—no doubt her brother spoke of me a lot at home. But as I kneel down next to her, she wipes her snot ridden nose with her muddy hand.

”Don’t cry.”

“Go away,” Amy snaps, although she’s fighting back more tears. She hugs the remaining head of her doll, shielding it away from me.

“I’m a friend,” I whisper. “Your friend.”

She looks surprised at my quiet tone, before her face crumples. “My doll,” she wails.

”It’s okay. I promise, it’ll be okay.”

Amy’s nose is bright red. “How?”

“No need to worry,” I say. “I can get you a new one.” Hopefully by the next week or so, if I can get access to Mama’s purse. “It’ll be better than your old one. Much better.”

Her beady eyes widen. “You promise?”

”I swear.”

”He always breaks my toys.”

My skin tingles. “He won’t break the next one.”

Amy doesn’t say anything, but I can tell that she is starting to calm down. As I help her up, I notice marks on her arms and legs. I know where they come from, and I don’t ask. I don’t want to bring up the memory for her. I only know what I must do so that she will never experience this from anyone again.

“How about we go to the park? I’ll push you on the swing,” I quietly say. “And we can get candy afterwards. Whatever you like, just tell me. I have a dollar.”

Her tear-streaked face brightens. “Really?”

“Yes.” I slowly hold out my hand towards hers. Since I am an only child, I want to know what it is like to have the responsibility to protect someone who is smaller than me. Her grubby fingers latch around mine, and we walk together on the sidewalk. She is still hiccuping. My ears are burning, and as we approach the playground, I silently make a promise to her that she will understand later.

Every day for the next month I take her to the park after school. I buy her a new doll and a bag of taffy. During art class, I carve a small bird made out of wood and give to her, which she gladly accepts. It helps me not think about Mama.

* * * * * * *

Time Zone is only two and a half miles away from my school. I don’t have the courage to tell Miss Winters about my catastrophe, so I skip the library and take off down the sidewalk on my bike, my fingers curling against the handlebars. I’m usually supposed to come straight home after classes, but I doubt that Mama will really miss anything. After all, she’ll be asleep, and I’ll be home when she wakes.

Although I forgot the flyer at home, I remember the bold, elaborate tracing on the surface—which I see on the small sign hanging above. It’s quite easy to miss. The wind blows in my hair, and as I come to a stop near the front of a small, tiny building squashed between a pizza shop and the barber’s, I can’t help but stare in awe once I enter the dim arcade. There are lights.

So many lights.

* * * * * * * * *

Oliver’s shoes crunch against the dead leaves and dried twigs. My footsteps are not as loud as his, but I make sure mine align with his every move. He’s quite tall for his age and has to duck to avoid hitting the branches above. I left my bike at the edge of the road, but carry my bag with me. Inside it is one of Mama’s whiskey bottles.

It’s a humid evening.

School came by and went. During lunch, I placed a pack of Camels in Oliver’s backpack. I still haven’t returned my library books, and the stuck together pages are becoming so wrinkled—the text is unreadable. I’m not surprised to see that Jerry and Sam aren’t with Oliver. They’ve gotten into the varsity soccer team, but he hasn’t. He hasn’t beaten me up in weeks. It’s only a slither of what I want him to feel. I want him to feel a lot more than what he already does. He usually has a calm, laid back demeanor. But I’ve learned that confidence is always worthless, either real or imaginary.

I want him

to feel.

Oliver stops all of a sudden and turns around. His eyes are slightly red, like he had been crying. This delights me. I remain in the shadows. I’m used to moving quietly all of my life—something I had to pick up on quick when I was younger, especially if Papa had been in one of his bad moods. But I am no longer helpless—at least, not in the way that I used to be. I do not need an emotional crutch, like Mama does with her bottle or Mrs. Simmons with her numbers and formulas. I do not need to rely on anything, or anybody, and that is what makes people utterly weak and despicable.

Why try to establish something permanent on such instability? Call it happiness, if you may.

Oliver walks a little faster, and he keeps glancing behind him. We reach his hideout—a makeshift den that he and his now former friends would go out to smoke. I know because I’ve followed them out here many times. I don’t know why. To me, they put on such a strong show at school, but I don’t really know who Oliver is after the bell rings. But that gives me plenty of time to prepare, to understand that he is an actor, and nothing more. What he has done to me is meaningless.

What he has done to Amy is unscripted.

The ground suddenly gives way, and a shallow hole forms beneath Oliver. He gives a startled yelp as his right foot becomes sunken beneath the surface, resulting in a loud crunch. I can see his bone poking through his jeans. As he cries out in pain, I slowly step out of the shadows, keeping my gaze on him.

Oliver’s eyes are as wide as saucers. He gives me a look of disbelief once he finally realizes I’m here. He tries to speak, but his mouth only makes guttural sounds, like a demented seal. His hands claw at the soil.

I study him for a moment, and for the first time, we both truly see each other. Tears are streaming down his face, collecting at his chin, but I unzip my bag and pull out the small whiskey bottle I’ve managed to conceal beneath my still damp books. I pry open the lid, and, very slowly, began to walk towards him, making sure that there is a visible trail. As I finally pour the majority on top of his head, he finally finds his words. He’s trying to free himself, but I know how to dig a mean hole.

“No, no, no—-please—listen—-”

Mama’s whiskey bottle is now empty. I place it back into my bag.

“Look…..I’m….I’m sorry.” Oliver began to break down into sobs. “I’m sorry.”

“You can’t hurt her anymore,” I whisper.

”What?” he weakly stammers.

”Amy,” I whisper again, reaching into the pocket of my jeans and pulling out my box of matches. As I selected one and lit the red bulb, his agonized cries filled the air, but it didn’t matter. No one could hear us, as we were far out into the woods, and these roads were empty, barely maintained. “You can’t hurt her anymore.” My face is hot.

He shrieks.

I then drop the match.

The hungry flames travel up the path of whiskey I had planted, forming a long row, until finally settling upon and devouring him. The scent reaches my nose, replacing the sour milk I’ve smelled for so many days. I watch his flesh gradually bubble and swell upwards like the Jiffy Pop aluminum foil.

He screams and screams and screams—the orange and the red of the flames becoming brighter and brighter until they leap off the tree branches, causing embers to fall below. He’s desperately trying to bat the orange away, his skin resembling a night sky. As the flames become stronger, there is eventually silence, just a gentle, slow crackling. I gaze up at the sky for a moment, before a broad smile crosses my face. I then walk down the road, the heat comforting against my back.

I don’t look back.

As I ride home on my bike, with the humid wind blowing in my hair, fire sirens filled the air as several trucks blasted down the road—down near where several crowds of people had gathered and looked afar, pointing at each other. The smell of smoke and wood fills the air. I go to the candy shop and buy a lollipop the size of my head with my lunch money. As the trucks come down the road, one by one, the sweet flavor of raspberry lime coated my tongue. I sit down on the edge of the sidewalk to savor my treat as I watch people get out of their cars and scramble around like mice. There are ashes starting to blow in the wind.

I’ll get Amy a lollipop later.

From afar, I see the yellow haze in the trees above, spreading out over the horizon, people running out in the streets, shouting and pointing at the rising smoke.

* * * * * * *

It is early Saturday morning.

They canceled school yesterday. Mama hasn’t come out of her room for three days straight, and I leave meals in the hallway for her. I don’t want to check on her because that’s when she’s out of it the most.

I’m immersed in the middle of an episode of the Jetsons and am digging into a large bowl of cornflakes at the kitchen table when I hear a knock at the door. I set down my spoon, wait for Mama to come downstairs. She doesn’t. I’m still in my plaid pajamas, but I go and open it. It’s drizzling outside, and a tall man dressed in a suit and tie stands in front of me on our porch. He has a notebook in his hand, and gives me a polite smile.

I stare at him.

”Good morning, I am so sorry to bother you. I was wondering if either of your parents are home?”

I silently shake my head.

“My name is Peter Heffrey,” the man continues as he flashes a badge. “I’m a detective for the MPD. I’m sure that you’re already aware that there was a fire that broke out northeast two days earlier—not too far from here. So far, one body has been found, and our forensic team is still investigating the cause, although it may be an accident.”

“An accident?” I whisper.

I want him

to feel.

”We don’t know for sure, but we did find that the victim had a pack of cigarettes in his backpack, so it is possible that it could be a moment of carelessness. He also had a severe fracture in his right leg, so many are suspecting foul play, although it’s most likely the kid was just being irresponsible.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a small card. “Here is my contact information. When your mother or father gets home, please have them come down to the police station, if they can give an account. So far, we have no eyewitnesses. The Holdens are devastated and looking for answers. It’s a very difficult time for them—surely it won’t take but five minutes for your parents.”

”Will do,” I quietly say, slipping my sweaty hands into the pockets of my pajamas. The cornflakes are stale in my mouth. They are most likely expired. “I’ll let them know as soon as possible, sir.”

“Excellent,” Peter replies, tilting his hat at me. “Have a good day.”

I slowly close the door, watching him get into his car and drive off in the rain from the cracked window.