They bled from the moonlight

opened up like a murder victim

belly to throat with their high

pitched squeal no yellow tape, no warning of danger, just teeth glistening

above the din illuminated

by an October street lamp

you told me not to worry

they wouldn’t swoop down

lay eggs in my hair

another halloween lie

you wanted to make sure

I knew

but when they swooped down

like kamikaze pilots targeting

I ran like Hell

and to this day, I’m still running

My first memory was at 8 months old. I know that sounds unbelievable, but the details I can recall are undeniable. After a while, no one debated it.

My dad, grandpa, uncle, and two of my adult half-siblings (from my much older father’s first marriage) were in the car that morning. The six of us loaded into our minivan and drove out on a day trip. Suddenly, an 18 wheeler ran a red light and plowed right into us. I was the only one who didn’t get seriously hurt. In fact, I didn’t have so much as a single scratch on my delicate infant skin. Things like that aren’t supposed to happen.

I don’t remember the accident itself because, apparently, I slept right through it. I woke up as the first responders began contorting my tiny body in order to pull me from a narrow, sliding back window. They then placed me into the backseat of a police car. I was left alone for a long time while everyone else was being cared for. I never cried, I just watched. I watched everything.

I held myself up to look out of the open back window of the police car. It was absolute chaos. I’ll never forget the strange taste of the blood-filled air as my dad’s legs bled profusely; hearing my half-brother cry out as glass was pulled from his eyes; seeing how my uncle struggled to breathe from his ribs being crushed; smelling the hot asphalt as my half-sister lied on the ground with a brain injury; and feeling the cruiser shake every time the cop reached in to use his radio to insist that my unconscious grandfather wouldn’t survive if the ambulance didn’t get there soon.

Just a few days later, I have vague memories of taking my first steps. My mom said I was determined to chase after my brother (my only full-sibling). They were both safe at home and sleeping that morning because my brother was sick and wanted to stay in bed with my mom after her night shift at the hospital.

My brother is 3 years older than me and I just wanted to do everything he was already doing. So, by 1 year I was running and swimming. My mom would tell anyone who’d listen how I jumped into the deep end of the pool and just started swimming all on my own. “Like a fish returning to water,” she’d say.

Most people don’t have any consistent memories until about 4 or 5 years of age. Anything before that is maybe a couple of memory flashes (like how I remember taking those first steps). I have several of these memory flashes after the car accident, but my active consciousness didn’t wake up until I was 3 years old.

It was a cloudy day on our beach vacation in California. My mom and babysitter took me swimming in the ocean while everyone else was at the hotel. We made it a girls day out. Being the astonishingly great swimmer I was, I was easy to lose track of. According to another mother on the beach, I set my sights on the horizon and got trapped by an undertow that swept me much further out to sea. My babysitter ended up rescuing my limp body from the water and carried me to shore. Thankfully, my nurse mother was able to resuscitate me, and from that moment on, my brain went live with a photographic memory.

From the second I woke up (after vomiting salt water), I started blabbering about “the man.” Frustrated that my mom didn’t know who I was talking about, I then went on and on about the car accident 2 years prior. I tried to tell them about what I’d experienced—what I saw as I watched from the back of the police car, and what I’d just seen in the ocean when I died. My dad didn’t go to California with us because he was very ill, so as soon as I got home, I ran and told him everything (thinking he would understand since he was in the accident with me). At first, no one took me seriously. Over the years, however, my family could no longer deny it.

Everyone was clear on the fact that I slept through the accident itself—but what no one knew was that I was dreaming about a giant truck running us over when it happened. The memory of this dream was lost until I was sucked into the cold, dark void of the Pacific Ocean.

To this day, no one has ever found the truck driver that almost murdered my family. Well, “almost” is debatable. With the exception of myself, everyone inside our minivan died within 6 years of that accident.

My grandpa (9 months later): went into a coma and never woke up due to a rare illness no one knew he had. He died weeks later.

My half-sister (4 years later): died of a massive seizure in her sleep after developing epilepsy from her TBI. Before she went to bed that night, she complained of smelling road asphalt.

My uncle (4 years later): suffocated to death after being crushed for hours in a machine at his job.

My half-brother (5 years later): was thrown face first through a 12 story window and fell to his death. It was ruled a suicide but we’ve never believed that. They found glass shards all over his body, including in his eyes.

My dad (6 years later): bled to death and was found in a pool of blood around his legs.

My dad’s death affected me the most. I was 7 years old and a total daddy’s girl. By the time they found him, he was supposed to be on a plane flying back home to us. I didn’t sleep at all that night in anticipation of my father coming back to me.

The last time I saw him was about a week after his kidney transplant. My mom flew my brother and I to the Denver hospital where he’d gotten his surgery. I was so excited to show him the special drawing I made for him. I was in second grade and my teacher had recently given us an audio/visual assignment. She put on beautiful instrumental music and told us to draw what the music made us feel. I was thinking of my father nonstop, so of course he was the focus of my artwork. But, to this day, I’ll never know why he smiled when I gave it to him. I ripped it to pieces when I got it back a month later.

My mom, an RN, had flown into the Denver airport on a cold winter morning so she could care for my father on the plane ride back home. When he never showed up at the airport where they’d agreed to meet, my mom took a taxi to the hotel where he’d stayed the night after being discharged.

Something went wrong with his kidneys and by the time he woke up, he’d been bleeding internally in his sleep for some time. He was too weak to get help and fell to the floor where he died. The blood filled his lower quadrants, then seeped out of his body and pooled around his legs.

When my mom found him, there was a child’s drawing on the nightstand next to his bed. It was the special picture I gave to him in the hospital after his surgery. That was the first time she’d ever seen it, and all she could do was scream.

With my favorite crayons, I drew a winter mountain scene. At the base of the mountain was a grave with “PAPA” written vertically down the cross. The sun was peeking through the clouds and a yellow ray of sunshine illuminated his cross. At the bottom of his headstone were blood-red roses growing from the snow covered ground.

One of the most vivid memories from the scene of the crash when I was 8 months old was when I looked over at the massive truck which hit our car. The driver side door had been ripped off by the firefighters and there was no one inside. I stared endlessly at that empty cabin, wishing someone would magically appear. The cops kept asking my family and the witnesses if they saw the truck driver. They all said the same thing:

“We never saw anyone behind the wheel.”

The road where we were T-Boned by the semi truck is right in front of the military cemetery. All 5 of my family members from the crash are buried there because they all served in the US Armed Forces.

When I drowned in the ocean at 3 years old, I didn’t just remember the premonition dream of the semi truck all on my own—someone down in the darkness showed it to me. He’s been with me my whole life, and he still visits me in my dreams. The only name I have for him is, “The Shadow Man.” He’s shown me so many things that I don’t have answers for. All I have are my memories, but the one thing I am absolutely sure of is this:

He’s thinking about ending you.

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I’m Thinking About Ending You

Based on true events

A “Those Damn Enigmas” Production

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An untitled, handwritten, and psychotic poem I have no recollection of writing at 10 years old after a sleep paralysis episode.

Dated September 6, 1996 in my journal.

Stillness interrupted

By the smell of black in the morning

I just want a hug

In this glass breaking symphony

It doesn’t taste like Cherry Kool-Aid

When light lets the darkness fade

I sat at the kitchen table, small legs dangling from the chair, facing the closed bedroom door. Waiting. Listening. Although the sound was muffled, I could hear their angry whispering punctuated by the occasional --

“Kathryn….”

“Theo…”

It wasn’t yet dark though the light from the kitchen window shown orange and red on the floor before me. I tried to catch fairies flitting and floating along the sun’s rays, as I waited for the voices to stop hurting.

The door flew open, and I jumped as it banged against the wall.

“Look what Daddy did to Mommy,” she said, kneeling before me, her upper arm red and blue.

Daddy was already on his way out the door. He always went to work at night. His was the first face I saw in the morning. He made me breakfast before the bus for preschool came to pick me up, and lunch when it brought me home. Then, he would take me to the babysitter before going to work and Mommy would pick me up there.

But it was Saturday.

Mommy gave me a bath and brushed my teeth, but she didn’t sing me to sleep that night. She just tucked me in, kissed my forehead and turned out the light before closing the door.

I fell asleep soon enough, but sometime later I woke up. I stared into the darkness, holding my teddy bear close and the blanket just under my eyes as the shadows came to life, silent monsters with sharp nails and teeth, and massive arms looming ever larger…

I leapt from the bed and ran to the door. Opening it onto the empty kitchen, I turned left into the living room and then right into the open door of my parents’ bedroom. Their bed was empty. I stopped short.

“Mommy?” I whispered. Silence.

“Daddy?” I whispered. Nothing.

For a long moment, I just stood there in the doorway, listening to sounds of the night. I turned back to the living room. The moon lit the room a little and my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Looking towards the kitchen I could see the table. A chair. The edge of the refrigerator, its daytime hum silent. No monsters were peaking from my room. The bathroom was awash in darkness and shadows. I didn’t stare too long lest I see something separate and come my way. I tiptoed to the couch and climbed up to turn on the light. I sat on the couch, legs stretched before me, just long enough for my feet to touch the edge of the cushion.

At some point, I heard a car. I started to climb down and head towards the window, but it didn’t stop.

I sat back down.

A little while later, I heard another car that seemed to stop. When I heard voices, I dragged a chair to the window and climbed up. I listened. Three floors below, sitting in a car with the window open and smoke billowing out, I heard what sounded like Daddy’s voice.

“Daddy?”

The voices stopped speaking.

“Daddy!” I repeated, louder.

“Baby?”

“Daddy, you get up here right now!”

I watched as he opened the door and got out of the car, looking up towards our apartment. The car was pulling away from the curb when I heard him say, “I’m coming, baby.”

I used to write you cards with little hearts and stick men.

I'd draw cards with hearts and clouds and a picture of us.

I would seal it up and slip it under your door saying 'I Love You."

My small hands used to grip yours as I said "I Love You."

My first moment of consciousness I remember believing that I'd always love you.

Now I'm older I find myself fumbling over those three little words.

I stutter when I use it.

I drop the "I", thinking 'love ya' is easier to say.

Because now that I'm older I don't know how to say "I love you."

I miss the days when it was simple.

I miss the days of childhood innocence.

I miss believing in love.

How do I say I love you now I'm older?

Little pictures just won't do.

I'm too old to hold your hand or sit on your lap.

How do I say I love you?

I wish I could go back in time.

Back to the old days sitting on the speckled green countertops.

The kitchen window open; crushing Oreo's for a cheesecake crust.

In that moment of childhood consciousness, I knew it was never going to be easier than it was in that moment.

I knew with white floral bowl in your hands; you stirring the mixture; dancing to some heart broken love sick bachata balled that life was not always going to be this way.

With my legs too far from the ground to reach the floor, my mind far from fully conscious. I remembered feeling strangely sad.

Because the moment was fleeting.

This perfection was temporary.

When you dipped your finger in the batter and dolloped it on my nose saying "I love you."

I knew I'd always keep that memory close.

We never made Oreo cheesecake again.

Rightly so.

And after that day I clung to childhood innocence.

Hanging on by a thread.

Waiting for the day the thread snapped, telling me my time was up.

Childhood was over.

The thread snapped its frayed edges I held close to, perhaps that's the reason I still don't know how to say, "I love you."

A rustic kitchen starts to fill with sound in a farm house in Chillicothe, Ohio. The air is thick with the sweet scent of homemade blackberry cobbler. It almost drowns out the bitter stench of the paper factory in town.

My attention pulled from watching the sun reflecting on the spoons hanging in the kitchen window by a loud slap of a screen door slamming. I got up to walk to the back porch out toward the woods. The day was early inside the house, but what was on the other side of that porch seemed to be the heat of a midday battle. A flurry of voices and ramble of my cousins were seemingly having full on fits to the sound of Conway Twitty pouring out of the open door of a pristine Chevy Caprice Classic.

The dust was stirred up so much it seemed like a cartoonish visual. Watching humans fight air made me feel a mix of fear and fascination, a witness to the darkest depths of my family's insane wrath. I could feel, not just see the seething rage that fuels their actions in play, a violence so deeply rooted it becomes a part of their very essence. One of my cousins screamed "Uncle Bobby getcher gun Uncle Bobby they coming for the house!!" Any other child may have been frightened, but somehow this level of intensity was programmed in me before I could tie shoes. Like the Marine he once was, my dad, a rugged and hardened man in his forties marched down the hallway as if he was in Korea again. It was like magic watching him walk into his boots while simultaneously grabbing one of the shotguns that were always part of the room, any room. As if he was folding a shirt the thing quickly made the unmistakable sound of racking. "Stay" he growled as he kicked the screen door with the tip of his boot on the way out, making it slap hard again against the porch.

I recall looking down at the long sleep shirt I had on and wondering if I would need to join the battle thataway. I watched my dad immediately swat his free hand in fury, holding the gun in the other as the chaos churned around him; he was still- watching. An incessant buzzing filled the air and amplifying the tension now to the tune of Willie Nelson singing about Poncho and Lefty. "RoyLee done kicked up some dobbers toward Nick- we was all out here smokin when he done it" Aunt Janet was hollerin towards my dad's direction.

He looked so stoic in that swirling production of violence and fear when my cousin Sonia screeched out "I BEEN STUNG REAL BAD UNCLE BOBBY" as she fell to the ground. To this, he had a reaction... he started laughing. He pulled that one arm up, pointed that gun about 4 feet above that girls head and she in turn pulled herself in the fetal position and he shot the gun. The smell was fantastic and him laughing as Willie Nelson wrapped up his soft ballet filled me with remarkable pride for some reason. Nick yelled at him from about 30 feet away "In the air Unc INNN THE AIRRRR" to which immediately my Aunt Janet responded "you idjit' he knows howda use a gun boiiiii". I swear she was trying to be funny even though it didn’t look like it- her running over past the car to hide.

"Fuck you mama" Nick yelled and pulled out his own handgun, I do not know what it was- but he shot off 4 rounds into the sky while yelling like a ban-chi- somehow more focused on being in control of attention instead of himself over the hornets. At that my eyes went right back to my dad, who only slightly turned with a crooked smile and 3 or 4 of them hornets attached to his head he pointed that shot gun again- and Janet from behind the Caprice yells, "Don't do it bobby he ain't right for that" just as the Oak Ridge Boys 'American Made' pours from the car. What started out as a brawl with pestilence became a full on fist fight and gun fire amidst the still swarming winged savages.

I can still feel it in my throat as I watched my ol' man B-line towards his cousin with those hornets still on his head- his eyes darken, a sinister resolve etching itself onto his war weathered face. The chaos of the scene morphed into a haunting symphony of familial violence, where blood runs thicker than reason.The crack of knuckles and the sickening thud of fists merging with jaws and relentless buzzing of the hornet, as if orchestrating an eerie symphony of brutality played on as my mother, about 19 at the time, if I was 4- come around the porch with the hose and the handle of an old flat headed shovel that we sometimes would club snapping turtles with. FEROCIOUS VOICE (snarling) "Roylee, you better finish what you started!" my dad bolted his voice out as if his words were bullets... the song hits the slow bit and RoyLee (coldly) shoots his mouth back "Oh, don't worry, I plan on it" and the two men collide. The radio goes quiet for a second between songs and it is like everything is slow motion and so many things are happening at the same time. I remember thinking I wish my ma had not come out, and also I wish she would just turn on the hose. What was once dust started turning into mud as 4 grown men and a teenager were rubix cubing one another’s expressions. A loud ad for a local tire dealer filled the air and it was sorta like everyone felt the music stop as the blast of water came upon em.

Everyone started slowing down a bit and the women of the mess started their blame yellin. I heard the man on the radio say 'Chillicothe' real clear as my dad was telling his cousin to get up and pick up his hots. I loved hearing that word. Chillicothe- like it meant somethin that day. Like this was what Chillicothe was, every time we come down to this place there was everyday extremes, in weather and in people. As my mom fixed the hose on the spot where the dobber come up, my Aunt was fussin with my Dad to get a stinger out of his head and as the music started back up, Sonia, now on her feet and muddy like the rest of em, looking at the ground said "You did get one Uncle bobby-- look'itcheer that's just the front end of one..." and a few of the men started over to look and see, like a bunch of kids. My mom never put that shovel handle down, even as everyone collected themselves and started filing in the house to eat. Mom and I looked at each other a second and she just sorta tipped her head a bit for me to walk back in the house... but I stood there a bit and looked at her. She sorta had a flat affect standing there in cut offs and an old Pepsi Free t-shirt... but somethin told me she was really thinking hard about snapping turtles.

The little girl lies dead still staring at him, eyes and face covered in blood. The surgeon stands behind her pulling strings like a puppet master. The nurse and the woman with fuschia nails hover above the sterile ground, watching. Her tiny hand slips out from the sheet and reaches for him, pulling back as the next stitch is pulled tight.

FIRST ER COPTER PILOT "Wait. They need to wipe the blood off her hands before you give her the lollipop, moron."

Memory a powerful force, evoking both nostalgic bliss or traumatic fires for those who remember the past. It possesses the ability to transport us back to places we left behind years ago, reconnecting us with the demons we flee from or the joyful heavens we long for.

When I was around 11 years old, I moved from a rural farming village on the outskirts of the city to the bustling urban landscape. Despite the relatively short distance of fifty miles between these places, they existed as separate worlds with distinct identities.

A few weeks after I arrived in the city, I began attending school.

The experience of learning my numbers and ABCs for the first time felt magical as if I were sitting on the wings of a dragon, soaring to the ends of the world. A fire ignited within me, and hope exploded in my mind. I couldn't quell my thirst for knowledge, constantly reading and thinking until the next day of school arrived. I would wake up before dawn, eager to go to school and feel a pang of sadness when it was time to return home. I yearned to spend all my time in the classroom, absorbing information and immersing myself in the school environment. My hunger for education was insatiable because back in the village where I grew up, there was no formal schooling. Our existence revolved solely around inheriting the traditions of farming. If it weren't for my grandmother, that would have been my destined path—a transition from one form of darkness to another.

The world we inhabited felt confined, like a tiny eggshell.

Raised by my grandparents, I formed a special bond with my grandmother. She was my favorite person, always delighted to have me by her side. She would narrate fairy tales to me, both soothing and spooky, and I cherished every one of them.

She often spoke of the worlds beyond our village, telling me, "One day, you will leave this forgotten place and venture into the city!"

Whenever she mentioned my departure, a smile would light up her face, as if she held the entirety of my future within her gaze. The thought of leaving her behind was daunting, but I listened intently to her words, yearning for the day when I could take flight on her wings and witness a different world.

"Are you sure I won't be here beside you?" I would inquire, tinged with both sadness and excitement.

"I am sure!" She would reply, her happiness undiminished. "You will leave this place, attend school, and forge a better life for yourself!"

Sometimes, I wonder what emotions filled her heart during those conversations. Was she as sorrowful as she was content to let me go? If she was, she never revealed it.

And so, one day, the dream transformed into a surreal reality that I struggled to comprehend. A feeling of excitement and fear combined as one, a butterfly feeling fluttered inside me.

Soon when the day arrived for me to leave, tears streamed down my face, knowing I wouldn't see my grandmother or hear her enchanting tales each night. It felt as though I were leaving behind a vital part of myself, for she was the only person I adored, and still do.

Now, as I sit here and look back, carried by nostalgia and walk on a memory lane, I keep wondering about that’s happened a long time ago and my heart is filled with laughter and loss as all seems a distant memory, yet still brewing inside my head.

Midnightink 7-12-23

9 pm. Family sitting around enjoying each others company. The light from the day has disappeared and the stars are out shinning upon my rustic farm house. My heart beating to the rhythm of the conversation as we pass jokes along in a joyous manner. My two youngest brothers asleep for the night, all tucked into their cosy beds with the sound of laughter rising throughout the hall ways. Light peaking underneath their doors from the hallway light and their glow in the dark stars easing the petrifying darkness. My older brother cracks a joke about our country's leader and little me struggles to understand the humour. My younger brother has awaken from his slumber and has made his way to the top of the stairs. Struggling to adjust his eyes to the light, he missed placed his footing and his head leans back to see the tiled ceiling. The moss green carpet not breaking his fall, he slides down the entire stair case, his back and head hitting every single gruesome step. The thumps and shrieking making its way into the living room, my parents rush to see what the problem is. My older brother and I stare at each other confused and waiting for the cue to come assist in the situation. My father comes in, brother in arms, and lays him on the couch. I run to the freezer to grab an ice pack and my older brother grabs a soft pillow to put under his head. My youngest brother still fast asleep in his room, not even stirring. My father proceeds to ask the standard questions, what is your name, where does it hurt the most, and asks what happened to cause such a ruckus. My brother answers each question hesitantly and explains he just wanted to come down and join the "party". Everyone laughs at that answer and my mother makes sure he is alright. We finish off the night by playing a round of uno and then went up to bed to try to get some sleep after a night of laughing and shock. I lay down on my cosy bed, looking up at the ceiling wondering what we were going to do at school the next day. My big teddy bear tucked into my arms and my night light projecting a blue radiance that covered my room. My eye lids getting heavier until I am fast asleep, resting for the next day ahead.

There is lots of movement and cigarette smoking

at regular intervals when the adults all convene and decide to

"step outside" and the screen door slams shutting out the winter

while a multicolored christmas tree sits and stares silently at me

and I wonder what nicotine is like.

And the smell of smoke on a denim jacket hung on the back of a chair

still reminds me of my dad as if it were him walking through the

front doors of the hardware store I'm working at, and not some

random stranger.

And they're laughing in the kitchen about something I wish I understood

as I watch his face light up and control the narrative,

his brother and sisters all competing to make him laugh,

his mother in the living room with me just sitting

and we all said thank you for the meal.

Coffee is eventually made which triggers yet another sojourn to the driveway

I couldn't even stand the smell of it then,

and I follow them outside, not particularly unwelcomed, just to stand in the cold and

listen to them talking

about work, and kids, and making jokes

with not an ounce of tension anywhere

and I see snow blowing through under the yellow glow of a street light

and it was just as cold then as it is in my heart tonight

I hear a dull bell ring out behind my eyes

which makes a lingering, painfully nostalgic drone

that does not fade but gets louder, and it makes everything gray

and lifeless before me

except for that moment walking back into the house and it's so warm

and a Christmas Story is on the TV again for the 5th time today

as one of them offers me a plate full of cookies

with a look which holds me with a casual and undying affection

that had been the tether keeping me held to the ground

for many years until I purposefully cut it

and even though it is always still there,

there is a part of me that is constantly looking for something else to ground me

as if that wasn't enough.

A fragile world existed inside of my toddler mind. A world which my mother never had the patience, nor the interest in understanding. Each violent tremor and panicked scream, resulting from my insidious night terrors brought only derision and a scolding from this paragon of warmth and motherly tenderness.

I learned to hide my fears behind a mask of what others looked like, watching the rest of my family for behavior cues and trying to remember them, so as not to ruffle the mother-hen's feathers. Scary show on our forty-eight inch television with the eight inch screen? Look around the room to see if anyone else is hiding behind their hands or crying, then I would carefully craft a look of bored aplomb to match the others.

Never truly allowed to be my authentic self in front of my family I stuffed all those feelings down until no one would ever recognize them. Away from the fold I was friendly, downright chatty and pleasant. Laughter from people around me brought up a warmth that I never felt at home. School was the only place I felt safe to be truly me.

Teachers loved my tiny, doll-like appearance and enjoyed my show and tell antics that I would never have dared to show and tell at home. In kindergarten my teacher was so amused by my furry pretend cat, which was my little winter hat that reminded me of a kitty. I invented my furry friend on the spot, pretending to walk it behind me and talking to it as if it could understand me. So enamored with my "unique imagination and acting abilities", she sent me to my older sister's classroom to re-create my kitty cat act.

I was horrified. My older sister was horrified. What was her bratty, little sister doing in her classroom, embarrassing her? I stumbled through my performance, immediately becoming sick to my stomach, as I knew how this was going to end up. All the rest of the day I feared the walk home with my sister and the resulting punishment my mother would dole out for my attention getting antics. We were allowed to be normal. Period. Bringing attention to ourselves was a sin punishable by belt and sitting in our rooms alone thinking about how we had embarrassed the family.

True to form, my older sister bullied me all the way home. This was normal. But my indiscretion brought out peculiarly brutal behavior in a sibling who thought brutality was a right of the eldest child. Suffering pinches, punches, kicks and shoves all the way up the half mile long hill to our house was nothing compared to what my mind did to me as I anticipated my mother's horror at my misbehavior.

Would she use the hairbrush this time? The wooden spoon? One of Daddy's belts? I agonized all through the death march up the hill with my warden, imagining red welts and split skin where I could never show another human being. My mother was smart about that. She was an emergency room nurse and knew what kind of injuries were 'just from accidents' and what kind were from abuse. Not that she considered beating me abuse. It was called discipline back in the day.

The first words out of my sister's mouth when we walked through the door were, "Mooom! You won't believe what she did this time. I can't go back to school. She just embarrassed me to death."

Arms folded menacingly across her chest, my mother asked, "What on earth kind of foolishness was she up to this time?" As she glared a hole through me, probably seeing a movie of my silly kitty cat act.

"Mrs. Rogers sent her to my class to do this stupid thing dragging her hat around on the dirty floor and pretending it was her cat. Everybody made fun of me all day and I'm going to kill her," my loving big sister roared out.

Turning her fury my way she said, "What have I told you about your foolishness? How many times do I have to tell you adults don't like show-offs and nonsense? Go to your room. I'll be in and we'll take care of business."

I wanted to be anywhere but my bedroom, waiting for my mother to decide which implement of torture to use on my bare behind and legs. If only for a moment I could be bigger and meaner than she was, I would show her what being her kid was like. I sat, frozen in fear on my bed waiting while I heard my mother trying to soothe my sister, as though I had punched, pinched and pushed her all the way home.

My imagination took me to a place where I was ten feet tall and built like Smokey the Bear. I would have big fangs and razor sharp claws. My forearms would be the size of my mother and I would pick her up by the neck and shake her, glaring into her wide, frightened blue eyes as I decided what to do with her.

After I rattled her senses I would set her on a tree branch so she couldn't escape and say, "You wait right there, Betty, until I decide what to do with you. It's too early for dinner, so maybe I'll just beat you with a log until it's time to eat, you foolish, little human."

Toying with her fear gave me great pleasure as the ten foot bear. I would never have to pretend to not have feelings anymore. I would never have to mimic the family's sour pusses when we were around other people. I could be myself- be happy and funny and never worry again about being beaten and scolded for being me. Then, I heard her furious footsteps echo down the hallway and stop at her bedroom door. Aha. The belt. I should have known. She loved the belt. She must have been using the wooden spoon for making dinner, which would be served promptly at six when Daddy came home from work. Everything in our lives ran on the clock, perfectly. We were the perfect family, if only I wasn't in it.

My last imaginary victory was shoving her off the branch with my pillow-sized claws, and listening to her bones snap all the way down. While she was writhing on the pine needle covered forest floor I looked down at her and said. "This wasn't abuse. This was an accident, Betty, and that's exactly what you're going to tell the nurse tomorrow at school, isn't it?"