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Feb. 6, 2006 She knelt there on the floor with her hands behind her back and then, blackness. She was a smart girl. More than smart, brilliant! I don't know much about her childhood – I can only guess. I imagine that she tried to hide her beauty as a child like she did when she was an adult. She was likely never comfortable with her tall lanky body or her very pretty face. See, as long as I'd known her, she wore clothes that were much too big for her. She was so brilliant that she went to Yale. She studied theology, but while that environment nourished her mind, it ate at the rest of her. Her parents finally flew out when they hadn't heard from her in weeks. She had been skipping class for a long time. They found her there in bad shape - her teeth were starting to rot and she was unkempt to say the least. She "dropped" out of college less than a semester shy of her degree. Most of the time that I knew her was as a small child. She was the perfect babysitter, the perfect Mary Poppins. She was smart and could answer all of my questions. This was after Yale, but to a child's eyes, I didn't know. She took me to see The Empire Strikes Back and E.T. She bought me toys and was around at holidays and became part of the family. She also became my mom's best friend and helped her learn English and my mom taught her to read German just after we moved to the US. We moved away while I was still rather young and when I saw her next, I saw her with the eyes of a young teenager. And, I could see she wasn't alright, that she didn't really fit in. She was quiet and timid and would sort of zone out for a few seconds at a time and sort of grit her teeth and shake just so. Still, we got along great and my grandparents, who I stayed with for four weeks one summer, let me spend quite a lot of time with her. I could see that she still had a very pretty face, but the rest of her was buried under layers and layers of dreary clothes. I had no clue about the shape of her body but she seemed skinnier than I remembered - too skinny, actually, judging by her cheeks and her hands. When I got back from my vacation, my mom explained the Yale incident as I explained with my wiser eyes the state that she was in. No one was sure what happened, it seemed. That she was raped was a leading hypothesis; my mom wasn't sure if there was an official investigation, or if she left without fan fare. All we know is that she was found in a rather horrible state and that she was never the same again. Several years later she moved in with us. My mom wanted to help her. We helped her get a job and thought that being out of her parent's house was a good thing for a woman in her late 30s. It didn't work out. She still zoned out and we never really talked about it. At first, I would try to look away as she shook, but eventually, it became so normal that I would just pause what I was talking about (she would do this in mid conversation) and resume when she was back in the real world. We never talked about Yale and she never talked about her college years or her childhood. She spent most of her time locked in her room. She hardly ate and she smoked like a chimney. Life didn't improve for her and so she heeded the call of her parents and moved back. She got a part time job at a local drug store. We eventually moved back too to be closer to my grandparents. One night not long after we moved back, she was working with two other employees at the drug store when someone with a key let himself into the back. The employees must have seen him, because he killed them, all three. He had them kneel down and shot them execution style, like something out of a half-believable crime drama, and then stole $6,000 out of the store safe. It made national news. I found out first and had the job of letting my mom know the day after as she came home from work. She was just near that store, and saw all of the police and hubbub – she knew what I was talking about before I could even get the first word out; the look on my face was the other 2 that made 4. This happened during my last year in high school, but it still brings tears to my eyes. Knowing how scared she was of the world (and how cruel the world was to her), I can just imagine the fear she must have felt moments before she was shot in the back of the head. I can't get past how long it must have seemed to her, how her back must have tingled like mine does when I find myself in front in racquetball, knowing that at any second my back might sting like mad. I can also see very clearly the exact look of her father's face as he smiled weepy-eyed at the open casket, remarking to me how amazing it was that they made her look just like she really was. To my eyes, her face was all wrong and her head was too fat. I guess it's not easy to reconstruct someone's shattered skull, but I understand. If I was looking at one of my kids in a casket, I'd probably see what I wanted to see as well. This is a true story. ------------ About the author Frederick Smith: I enjoy writing about the positive virtues of humanism - humanists are the good guys. I now have a blog that I will start to increasingly maintain and update. Here is the link: fredsuberview.blogspot.com/ This is my second foray into the UK writing discordia. This time around, I want to be a tad more raw - maybe a bit edgier (does that sound "art-see"?) Maybe I'll address even more issues that most Americans consider taboo... About my personal background and life: I was born, I got some education, worked, ate, and had some kids. It seems I like to write � something that was unknown to me until relatively recently...How's that for detail? ;) Hate mail is welcome unless you are from the Army Of God. Please! It's not that I mind seeing pictures of aborted fetuses in my inbox, but once you've seen one you've pretty much seen them all... Email: dahlek65@yahoo.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com. Please link to this article rather than copying and pasting it onto your site (which would be unauthorized and illegal). |
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