Here's a story that was originaly inspired by a dream, but later grew to encompase a personal experiance both myself and my older sister shared when we were little kids liveing in Nebraska. Pretty creepy stuff, I didn't hear any voices myself, just saw the little kid and the wagon, but my sister did. This was a story I wrote for a creative writing class for my ever so insperatinal teacher Dr. Hunt. It wasn't really well recieved then because it seemed to be three seperate stories melded into one, non of which fit each other. Plus, it was really sloppy then, that was before a major re-write of the story. I am working on a longer version of the story, a MUCH more bizzare and sereal version, I might post that another time, but its far from finished and I don't spend much time with it these days.
The Wonder Child
Yet another meaningless day, yet another meaningless class of advanced math, another utterly worthless hour and a half to my utterly worthless life. Middle school could be so pointless sometimes. Its not like I need all this education, I already know everything.
The bell rings and I stand up from my chair and exit the classroom.
Now, finally, it’s over. I make my way towards the bus terminal, my head down, shoulders held low and defensively. I try not to draw any stares but no matter where I go someone always has to point. Why? Why can’t they just leave me the hell alone? I turn left and walk down the hall. I look ahead and see three cheerleaders talking in low voices in the corner. When they see me walk by, they turn away and talk quieter. Were they talking about me? Or am I just paranoid?
“Tara!” my friend Peter calls from behind. I pretend I didn’t hear and walk on. I just want to be alone.
“Tara, hey Tara wait up!”
“What Peter, what is it?” I say, turning around to face him. I can’t very well ignore him after he knew I heard him, Peter is one of the only friends I have, but right now I don’t really feel like talking to anyone, especially someone I know.
“Hey, I tried to call your house last night but no one answered.”
Shit I almost blurt out, never losing my smile. I hadn’t told anyone that I was going to be on TV, to be paraded around like some carnival attraction for everyone to see. To be put in front of dozens of blood thirsty camera men, all wanting to take a picture of the skinny little fifteen year old genius freak. Look at me, look at me, I’m a freak. Next week we’ll bring out the bearded lady and the man with no arms. Except they didn’t treat me like a freak, they treated me like I was special, and wonderful, and deserving of all the praise they could shower upon me. Which in a way made it even worse because now they were lying about me, and telling everyone how amazing I am when I’m really not great at all? However, I couldn’t tell Peter that, not after the way he always insisted on treating me like I was a regular person, and that I was fine just the way I am, even when I know he’s wrong. So I just play along, hoping he won’t catch the hesitation in my voice.
“You did?”
“Yeah. At least I think it was you. Is your name Tara Venow? If it is than yes, I did see you. If it’s not, then I’ll have to interrogate you until you tell me where she is.”
Peter takes a small flashlight from his side pocket and shines it in my face, as if he were an interrogator and I his helpless victim.
“Where have you taken her, what have you done to Tara? WHERE IS THE REBEL BASE!?”
“Stop it Peter, get that light out of my eye.” but I can’t help but laugh
at how silly he is. Peter has always been the clown, someone you could always go to cheer you up, that is if you wanted to be cheered up, which at this time I don’t. But it’s a nervous laugh, not the kind of laugh that said ha, ha, that was sooo funny, but the kind that said ha, leave me alone, and Peter knew the difference better than anyone. He stops fooling around and looks at me, trying to figure me out.
“What’s wrong Tara?”
“Nothing, nothing wrong” I lie without hesitation, but Peter saw right through me. The one downside to having friends who know you so well is that they can always tell when you’re lying, or when you’re not being yourself.
“Come on Tara, I’ve known you long enough to know when something’s wrong, now what is it?”
I can’t tell him, he won’t understand. After all, it was meant as a complement, to show the world what a wonderful little girl I am and how I’m going to change the world someday. They called me The Wonder Child, thinking it a great nickname for a high school girl, but I hated it. Not just because all the stupid people in school would tease me, why I even care is behind me, but I do, but also because. . . I don’t know why. I have absolutely no reason to hate being called that, but I do. Not just hate, loath it, to the point of wanting to stab my ears with a pen until my eardrum pops every time I hear it. Maybe because I know that I’m not so wonderful as they think. Or because they made me sound like I was a little kid. The Wonder Child, how much stupider could a nickname get?
“Its nothing Peter, I’m just feeling a little sick.”
“Come on Tara, you’ve never been sick a day in your life.” He paused “It’s because of what they called you, isn’t it?”
“Yes” I tell him, hoping he won’t laugh and tell me I’m making a big deal out of nothing. Somebody else would have, almost everyone else would have, but not Peter. He looks down at my face and smiles knowingly.
“Does it really bother you that much?”
I nod my head slowly, keeping it low, looking at my skinny chicken legs. I hate how skinny my legs are, but no matter how much I eat, they never get any fatter. Funny, while some stupid girls starve themselves half to death trying to get thin, smart ones, like myself, have to eat like a food whore just to put on a little much needed weight. It’s a cruel, ironic world we live in, ain’t it? Peter puts his hand under my chin and lifts my head up to where I was looking into his face.
“Hay, don’t worry about it. Nobodies’ going to make fun of someone who Oprah thinks is a Wonder Child. And if they do, just tell me and I’ll go over to them and uh. . . . do something bad, to them.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
This time I really do laugh. I tried not to, I was afraid that it would sound fake again and that I’d make him feel worse than be probably already did, but it came out genuine, happy, like the laugh of a small baby who has found a new toy to play with and was enjoying it before its mother could some and take it away.
“Well, I have to go now. I have baseball practice at two. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“All right, see you then. Bye Peter.” I yell as he runs off. He turns and waves back at me.
“See you later Tara. Call me.”
***
Walking down the street in my neighborhood is one of the only times during my days when I can truly say that I am happy, especially in the fall. There is just something magical about the way the trees change colors when the air is cold, and turn into dazzling shades of orange, yellow, red, and then fall from the heavens like a gentle rain, covering the ugly dead grass on the ground with a layer of crunchy flakes. I like to pick up leaves from the ground, then crush them in my hands and throw the pieces into the air as I walk by.
To me, at least, there is not greater beauty than what nature provides. Yes, I appreciate the arts, music, writing, painting, sculpting, acting, I love them all. But all these things suffered from one common flaw; human error. Nothing subjected so such a thing could ever compare to the snow peaked mountains of Colorado, or the huge expanses of nothingness that cover the Great Plains.
My house lies on top of a large hill, large that is if you live in a place like Nebraska, looking down onto the street before it with two second story windows that resemble the eyes on some deformed mans face. It’s painted the color of honey comb, with large wooden beams crossing over the front, making the house look like an old abandoned barn. It’s a nice house, well kept and big enough to fit three families, but it was creepy. Something about it just didn’t seem right. It didn’t look any different from any of the other houses, but for some reason all the kids in the neighborhood were afraid of it, and to be completely honest, so am I.
I walk up to the front door and put my key into the hole, giving it a quick turn to the left and walking in. Nobodies home yet, but I hadn’t expected any different. Dad rarely came home before eleven at night, working late he always said, but I know he’s really too busy with his mistress. Funny how he thinks she doesn’t know. The only person who doesn’t know, it seems, is my mother. She always stays up late at night waiting for him, even though she had to be at the gas station for work at five the next morning. And when he finally come home, the scent of sex and a cheap hotel room still lingering on his trench coat, she would wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him until she was out of breath. Dad would lie about how hard work was that day and how happy he is to see her, and then they’d go to bed. I hate him for that. Not just for having the affair, but for making mother believe he still loved her; and I hate mother for believing the insincere lies every time. I tried telling her one time, but she hit me and called me a liar. The next day I told Peter I fell down the stairs and hit my head. He gave me a suspicious look but dropped it. Later I found out that he watched me after this incident to make sure it never happened again, and when it didn’t, he let it go.
After taking my shoes off and putting them away in the garage, I walk up the stairs and head to my room. It had been a long day, and I need a nap.
Cold, I feel cold. A thin haze of blue mist floats all around me while crows sing their song of sorrow in the amber sky above me. Something touches me arm.
Tara…
I hear a faint whisper in the air. Someone is talking, calling my name, whispering into my heart. I shiver in the cold and wrap myself in my arms. I start walking forward in the blue mist, holding my arms in front of me, squinting in the haze to see what lies ahead. In the distance I see the face of a large rock cliff. I hear the whisper again, this time coming form the cliff, drawing me towards it. A feeling of dread crawls out form my heart and covers my whole body, and yet I find myself still heading towards the cliff, ignoring the warning my mind and body are screaming.
Red lights dance in the haze around me, leading towards the cliff. I look up and see a giant crow with gold wings and a silver breast perched at its peak. As I approach the red dancers become more erratic, flowing back and forth as if they were the branches of a tree swaying in a cool summer’s breeze. Then, with a great gush of wind, the god like crow lifts its magnificent wings as a sign for the dancing to stop. It’s only then that I notices the blood stains which cover the tips of its feathers and the necklaces of skulls he wears around his neck. A small opening appears in the wall underneath the giant crow; the smell of rotten cabbage and sulfur emit from the dark opening.
“Come my Wonder Child, we’ve been waiting so long for your return,” the crow says. I know I shouldn’t enter, but something about the crow’s voice makes me want to. It’s so knowing, so loving, so full of wisdom and knowledge. Nothing that sounds so beautiful could possibly mean me any harm. This creature actually wanted me.
I take a step forward, hesitating only a moment, and walk for the opening. The lights dance again in anticipation and I hear a faint chant come from out of the mist behind me.
Return to us…return to us… be out wonder child… return to us…
The chant grows louder, louder, until the whispering voices are shouting their chorus into the midnight air, proclaiming to the heavens their desire and greed. The lights swirl in circles as I reach out my hand and touch the smooth surface of the rock wall. Feeling around, I notice to my surprise that it is perfectly smooth, not a single bump or rough spot to disfigure its perfect face.
The lights flicker in anticipation and I step forward into the cave. For a moment everything is silent, and then the crow, still perched upon the mountain top, laughs and flies off. The lights disappear the opening shuts, leaving me standing in complete darkness. The lights are gone, but the chanting continues.
Be our wonder child… our wonder child… wonder child… wonder child. Be our wonder…
***
Sitting at the dinner table that night, I slowly eat my spaghetti without a word, not even a ‘thank you’ for my mother for making the food. My mom sits at the opposite side of the table, glumly shoving large portions of spaghetti into her mouth.
“So,” she says, trying her best to start conversation, “how was school today?”
“Oh, it was good.” I pick up a piece of bread and nibble at it.
“Did you do anything interesting?”
“Hmm, not really.”
I take a sip of my water and start pushing some peas around with my fork. Mother stares down at her plate.
“Dad isn’t home tonight,” I say.
“No, he’s working late again on a new project. You know how it is.”
Eyes staring at my plate, I keep playing with my peas, fork squeaking against the china plate in front of me. The china was a gift that dad gave mother after she started suspecting him of sleeping around. He bought her a bunch of expensive gifts and assured her that she was the only woman he loved. She believs every word of it.
“What’s he working on?”
Without a word mother stands, takes her plate to the dishwasher, and leaves the room. I think she was trying to choke back tears, but I can’t be sure.
Slowly, without rushing, I finish my food. It was a good meal, if you don’t mind eating Spaghetti almost every night because your mother was too busy to make anything else. I don’t really feel bad about making her cry. She refused to accept the truth for so long it was starting to affect her health. She sleeps less at night because she always stays up waiting for her unfaithful husband. She’s a mere shell of what she used to be.
After finishing I put my dishes into the dishwasher and go downstairs to relax. The stairs creak in protest as I make my way down to the basement where the TV is kept.
I don’t want to think about my father, or my mother, or anything else for that matter. All I want to do is relax, sit down in front of the TV, and watch a movie; or something. I go over to the DVD shelf, look around for a few second, and take out my favorite movie, Spirited Away.
As the sound of the films main theme come on, I lay back in my dad’s sky blue leather recliner and close my eyes, listening to the beautiful melody and trying to fall asleep.
***
Tara....
I feel cold, oh so cold. Like I’m standing outside on a January night feeling a winter breeze blow over my body as I try to warm myself. Where am I? I sit up and look around, trying to pierce the darkness. Outside the sun is set over the horizon, a faint glow from the street lights can be seen coming in through the window, casting its gloomy yellowish light on the wall behind me. Lights dance along the room as the occasional car passes by on the street outside. I’m still sitting in father’s recliner, the TV is off. But I didn’t…
Tara. . .
“Who’s there?!” I yell, backing into the wall. For a moment the room is silent, my heavy breathing the only thing that can be heard. My gut tightens as the fear rises into my throat, but I can hear nothing.
Tara. . . come here Tara. . .
“WHERE ARE YOU?!!!”
Come here Tara… let us see you….
“No, please go away. Leave me alone, PLEASE!”
You know we can’t leave Tara ... we love you.
“I can’t, please go away.” I cry and fall to my knees, praying to God for these things to go away and leave me alone. But God can’t hear me, he never hears me, and the demon voices want me very much.
“Please God, please God, make it stop. Make them go away.”
You know He can’t help you Tara… He doesn’t want you… We want you… look at us…
The voices stop and I lift my eyes, hoping that maybe this time God heard my plead for help and He came to rescue me from the demon voices. The cold comes back, biting into my skin and tearing my flesh apart. The pain starts at my feet, freezing my legs in place, and then moves up to the rest of my body.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT?!”
To have you Tara…
In the corner of the room I see a white, cloudy figure, no bigger than a seven year old child, stepping out of the wall and pulling behind him a small white wagon. Inside the wagon is another cloudy figure, one that looks like a baby boy, jumping around in delight as he is pulled in the little wagon. They walk into the center of the room, then stop, take one look at me, and move on, disappearing into the wall on the other side of the room. The voices stop. I wait on the floor, not daring to move less the voices return. I begin to cry.
