| Ariel |
[07 Nov 2007|06:05pm] |
Ariel Fleming was nine years old when she died. The police came and turned her small, pink bedroom into a crime scene. Everything was sifted through, inspected, dusted for prints. Tiny, red hairs were collected from her sheets and put into baggies marked ‘evidence’. A woman fit the key into her diary and read that, too. Had she been alive at the time, the little girl might’ve been embarrassed at all those people pawing over her secret things, even the underpants in her clothes basket.
Afterwards, her father packed up suitcases and left in miserable shape. The house sat still for a very long time. Dust collected on the television sets and the food grew mold. Ariel didn’t seem to notice that, just that her parents weren’t here and neither was her puppy. Without the power on, it grew terribly silent in the house at night. She was lonesome and unsure what to do, with no concept of what had happened to her after the pillow came down on her face, pressing.
Months passed before anyone saw or touched Ariel again. Then one night after the house settled into its familiar coma-quiet, she felt a hand on her hair.
“Shh, it’s okay. I won’t hurt you. I promise,” the blonde girl said. She smiled and she was pretty, like a fairy, and her skin looked glitter-golden. “I’m Hannah. I came to walk you home. Are you ready?”
Despite having a stranger in the house, Ariel felt relieved that someone had come for her at last. Being forgotten by her Dad was an awful feeling. But she kept her arms wrapped tight around her knees. “This is where we live, but I can’t find my mom. Do you know where she went?”
Hannah nodded and held out her hand.
Ariel asked next, “Will I see her there?”
“Yes,” Hannah lied. Behind her ghost-back she crossed her fingers. In a million eternities, Ariel would never see her mother again, not even after she died in a stark prison cell. She’d be taken to a place where the angels sang in a different key.
Ariel’s eyes lit up and she took Hannah’s hand, full of trust.
It was a dreadful trick. Hannah hated playing tricks. But sometimes the truth was much too ugly for children.
|
|