Dying Orchids
by Brian D. Mazur

 She sits in the cool shade of the trees that surround the cemetery, a safe distance from the gathered mourners. Her outfit, khaki green pants and a blouse of green and white flowers, all stolen from a clothesline on the other side of town are meant for camouflage; as is the bush she sits behind.

She sits patiently, entangling the branches in her thin dainty fingers, snapping them one by one while keeping her eyes glued to the ongoing funeral.

Her name is Kimberley, at least today it is. Her real name lost long ago in a myriad of horrifying memories. Memories that are merely flashes of angry grins, sickening smiles and streaks of red. Memories that always make her flinch whenever they manage to break through the wall she has put up to keep them out. She has no good memories with which to build the wall, so it is a very fragile structure which to live behind, a sad thing for a seventeen-year old.

She glances at her watch, a cheap Timex with a dirty white band, taken she doesn't remember when, from an open window in some other town - it's noon, seven hours until sunset. That's all right. She has plenty of time.

The priest, who is presiding over the funeral, raises his arm over the small casket, then pauses. This is the part that she doesn't like, the part that always makes her cry. As he waves his arm, first up and down and then left to right, tears run freely down her cheeks. Damn the blessing of the casket anyway. Oh, it's necessary, she knows that, it helps all of them get to a better place. It's just that she doesn't like to cry, even if they are tears of joy.

Another ten minutes go by, the mourners begin to move about; placing roses on the casket they slowly walk away.

Finally, it's just about over.

One by one the guests hug the same man and woman then get in their cars and drive away. The bereaved parents linger after the rest have departed - Mom with her crocodile tears, Dad with an arm of false comfort for her.

Kim knows the thoughts that are running through their minds. Dad is mourning not the loss of his little girl, but the loss of his own sick, twisted perversions; Mom is crying over the guilt of not having listened to her daughter.

Kim's stomach turns.

Your daughter is in a much happier place!

Mom and Dad turn and slowly leave his arm still around her shoulders. Now comes the long part of the day: the waiting. Unfortunately it's a necessary part, as rushing out would simply draw attention and that is exactly what she doesn't want.

After another hour, a red rusted out pickup pulls up, commandeered by today's version of Laurel and Hardy. The big one climbs deliberately out of the drivers side, wipes his brow with a white hanky, then walks slowly around to the tailgate.

C'mon! C'mon!

The smaller one, walking equally slow, joins his buddy from the other side and says something, they share a laugh and a slap on the back, then get to work burying the newest resident.

Kim in the mean time waits and watches. Reaching behind her, under a pile of brown leaves, she grabs a backpack that she took with her when she had left . . . left . . . where? She wasn't sure, exactly, where it was she had come from. All the memories were blurred, mixed. Everything was becoming one. But does it really matter? She shrugs and digs some sandwiches from the bag.

It's hot and the men take frequent breaks, giving the illusion that time is passing even slower than Kim thinks it is. Not until five o'clock do they finish.

"Finally," she mumbles, as the men drive away.

Getting to her feet she looks around.

Nobody.

She fights back the impulse to dash across the plush green lawn to the burial site; to do so would mean breaking her routine. Repetitive actions, she found, kept away bad luck. It also kept them away. The police. Which was most important. Getting caught would mean not fulfilling her destiny, letting countless other kids suffer the way she suffered, alone. A thought she couldn't bear.

Retreating back into the woods, she lays down, using the backpack as a pillow. Kim never sleeps in the same town as she performs her destiny. This, she discovered, was a big part of not getting caught. In the destined town, she always worked in a candy store, a drug store, video shop or whenever possible, a video arcade. It was these places that kids frequented.

It was a passive situation. It afforded the opportunity to get to know the kids without becoming friends. She could root out the special ones, the ones hiding behind a mask of false smiles. After seeing her at these establishments for a couple of weeks, the kids would become comfortable, small conversations would be held, then shortly after, longer conversations; some joking - lots of smiles. And through this the masks would melt away just enough so that she could see the pain in their eyes. This way she became friendly with little John or Jane Doe and she would never come up in any conversations.

She looked at her watch - six. Climbing to her feet, she brushed off the woods from her clothes. She hadn't seen anyone for the last hour - it was safe.

Grabbing the backpack, she makes her way across the lawn, her eyes constantly taking in the surrounding area. Besides the priest blessing the casket, this was the moment she hated the most. It was here that she always remembered. The flood of memories became unbearable. Angry voices echoed in her mind; her father's face looming in the dark. All of it pointing to what brought her to her purpose.

Her mother never wanted to hear about what was going on between Dad and her "He's a good man, a hard worker. He gives you everything you need. You should count your blessings that you have such a father. Why would you make up these stories? He would never do that!"

But he always did do that. The older she got the more frequent the visits came. Her mother was a nurse, working third shift, and those hours were perfect for Dad and his nightly prowls.

He wasn't her real father; no he was Mom's second marriage. She married him a couple of years after Kim's Dad died in a car accident. Kim was eight at the time and almost immediately he started his perversions with her. To make matters worse he brought with him into the marriage a son, 'Junior', three years older than Kim, who, as time went by, proved to be just as sick as the old man.

Both had her perform unmentionable acts and both threatened that if she uttered one word to anyone, they would kill her and then they would kill the person she told, too. There was no doubt in her mind that was exactly what they would do.

So as time went by, she collapsed within herself. She first became silent, often crying herself to sleep after each visit, then the silence evolved into a numb person who blocked the visits out by removing herself from life, losing all emotion. Finally from that, anger boiled to the top and that became the focus of her thoughts. She hated her mother for choosing not to believe, she hated all the kids at school for leading such normal lives and most of all she hated them for doing those things to her. The hatred burned in her like a black eternal flame and in the end it made the inevitable act of killing so much easier.

That night after her mom went back to work after a week off, 'Dad' was at her door before the motor from the car had faded away. His breath was heavy, low; he smelled of sweat and stale beer. The sign of a true pervert, she believed. She kept her eyes closed, partly as part of the 'business as usual' thing, but mainly out of habit. She clutched the blankets tightly around her neck, her body tense. She felt him move across the room, to the side of her bed; his breath becoming heavier. There was a pause, a moment of complete silence and she was tempted to open an eye, then she heard him fumble with his belt. It was time.

The pants fell to the floor, the belt landing on the rug with a soft thud.

She heard him step out of his jeans.

He grabbed the end of the blankets and ripped them off the bed, jumping on top of her in one swift motion.

What happened next was always replayed with delicious detail. He started to frantically lift her nightgown, totally unaware of her arm movements. It never entered his mind that she would retaliate, he figured she was completely submissive. He was so wrong.

Droplets of sweat ran off his body onto hers, further covering her in a sheen of revulsion. He grunted and panted like a dog in heat, struggling with the nightgown that was stuck underneath her as she pressed her weight down, slowing his progress.

She reached with her right hand under her pillow, curling her fingers around the handle of the knife she had earlier placed there. She pulled it out, the moonlight through the window catching the blade as it arced out, slicing the night as it came down, cutting the penis completely off at the base in one swift motion.

The screaming pierced her ears.

She smiled.

He fell off the bed, his moans coming from all directions.

Scrambling off the bed, she made her way to the light switch by the door. When the lights burst on, her gaze fell on more blood that she had ever seen in her life. It was a red river that led her eye from the bed, across the wood flooring, to a crimson puddle pooled around Dad as he lie balled up in front of her closet.

It was as she slowly walked over to him that she realized she still had his penis in one hand and the knife in the other. Her smile grew.

Job well done!

He begged her for help.

Proclaimed his love for her.

Spouted something about family.

Fury rose again in her like a drunk's bile. No rational thoughts could penetrate the storm raging in her head. Dropping the severed member onto his chest and grabbing a handful of hair, she yanked his head back.

"Fuck . . . you!"

This time it was like someone else's hand was at work.

She sliced his neck from ear to ear with a cut so deep the blade struck bone and momentarily stuck. There was a gurgling sound as blood gushed over her hand and wrist. She felt it splash onto her feet and run between her toes. Sticky. It felt good.

Looking down at the pale limp figure, she did so with a clear mind. No guilt here. There couldn't be, there was still more work to be done.

The blood on her face, arms and legs dried as she waited in the darkest corner of the living room for Junior to come home. On the floor behind an overstuffed chair, she took out chunks of carpeting as she mindlessly stabbed at the floor.

No more pain . . . any more pain . . . any more pain!

The wait was about an hour.

She heard a car door slam.

Steps, inconsistent, up the sidewalk.

The doorknob jiggled.

Swearing.

The sound of the key as it slides into the key lock.

The door opened . . .

. . . then quickly shut . . .

. . . more swearing . . .

. . . then open again.

Stupid guffaws as he finally steps through the doorway.

Ten steps into the house she was on him; easily doing to him what she did to 'Dad'.

Like father like son!

She giggled.

The only disappointment was that he went quietly, just a grunt of surprise when she grabbed him from behind and yanked his head back. And nothing at all as the blade sank into his neck and tore at his flesh in a jagged cut.

A surge of red, like a burst pipe, sprayed forward, painting everything in front of it. She held him up, and waited as his heart rapidly slowed, enjoying the life rushing from his body. Then, she released him, and he slumped to the floor like rag doll. In one swift motion, she unzipped his jeans, pulled out his penis and sliced it off. Then she dragged his carcass across the room to the far wall directly across from the front door, propped him up to a sitting position, and then stuffed his penis into his mouth. She watched with unbridled satisfaction, outright glee actually, as dark streams from the dismembered member trickled from the corners of his mouth, down his chin in glistening droplets and soaking into his red tee shirt, forming a bib.

The image would be mind shattering to someone entering the house.

Sorry, Mommy!

She giggled softly.

After she showered, she picked up a pre-packed suitcase from the hall closet and left a simple note pinned to Junior's chest that read: You should've listened to me, Mommy - then she was gone.

Reliving those memories was strenuous for her. Her legs felt like rubber as she struggled across the lawn to the burial plot. She was afraid that she would pass out before she got there and later be found by a cop. But she didn't. She managed to stagger the full distance before collapsing on the fringe of the freshly covered ground, her head pounding, her heart skipping and fluttering. Wiping some hair from her face with a shaky hand, she took in a deep breath. The day was almost over.

Through tired eyes, she read the tombstone:

AMY SORRENSON

BELOVED DAUGHTER

13 YEARS

Kimberley remembered her from the arcade. A smiling girl, dark curly hair girl, always seemed to have a bunch of friends around; liked loud clothing and spoke in a loud voice. Kim surmised that she was over compensating for the terror at home.

Even though she appeared to be bright, happy, Kimberley could tell by her eyes that she in fact was in great emotional pain. It was a special gift she had, the ability to tell those who are abused. The eyes are the windows to the soul, someone once said, and that was so true. They revealed everything: happiness, pain, sadness . . . anger. Kim was able to read all of it.

The obituary failed to mention the cause of Amy's death. Kim knew though. Suicide. A couple of months after she had started at the arcade, Amy came around less and less. When she did she was pale, withdrawn. Then in recent weeks she failed to show at all. The kids thought she was seriously ill, but Kim knew something was wrong and as sometimes happens during her mission, she didn't react fast enough to the obvious. But she knew that besides the recurring nightmare of personal horrors, there would be an additional price to pay with this work.

There are mounds of flowers all around the gravesite in a dazzling display of color - Roses, Carnations, Lilies and Orchids. Many have already begun to wilt from the day's heat as they droop and brown on the edge of their petals. Kim reaches out and picks an Orchid, crushing it to her breast, another for her collection.

Tear forms in her left eye, it hangs precariously on the lid before spilling over in one tiny droplet, slowly running down her cheek. Carefully catching it with a fingertip, she reaches out and wipes it across Amy Sorrenson's name; further sadness tugging at her heart.

Sometimes the pain is so unbearable that she just wants to die and she has to convince herself that she must go on for all of them. She is their only vindication because no one else would know or understand what had happened to them.

Distant rumbling catches her attention. Looking back over her shoulder, towards the setting sun, she sees heavy, dark clouds begin to kiss the horizon. A storm was coming. Perfect.

Kneeling to her backpack, she unzips it and rummages through an entanglement of clothes, food and dying orchids. At the bottom, under cream filled cakes, she catches a glimpse of silver. She pulls out a knife. The knife. In the handle the word REDEMPTION is carved. She doesn't remember exactly when she did that, but it gives her great satisfaction every time she reads it. Rubbing her fingers over the jagged letters, she sighs.

Thunder rumbles.

She places the knife back in the bag and zips it up.

It's time to go.

Daddy is waiting.

© Brian D. Mazur
February 1999 HofP