causing a branch of an elm tree to shift slightly above her head. The subtle movement caught her eye and drew her attention to the spot where a well-camouflaged tree house was inconspicuously nestled within the stalwart boughs of the enormous tree. Several weathered wooden slats nailed to the tree’s trunk slowly came into focus. Quickly and quietly, she scurried up the ladder, and into the relative safety of the child’s sanctuary.
Not knowing what else to do, she remained hidden in the tree house for days, during which time she heard unspeakable things occurring in the world below. Snarling and screaming, growling and gunfire, fleeing and fighting—then…silence. For the most part, Ava spent her time in the tree house in a near catatonic state, so motionless one could have easily mistaken her for a statue were it not for the subtle rise and fall of her chest. She did not dare leave the safety of the tree house with all the bad things happening outside. When necessary, she relieved herself in the plastic sink of the long-forgotten play kitchen in the corner.
It rained one night, and Ava awoke to find the pail sitting on the tree house deck full of runoff. Despite being sandy and tasting like rust and dirt, she drank the water greedily. Such was her thirst that she did not even stop drinking when her gaze settled on the dead fly floating in the brackish water.
Faded drawings and crooked writings of former occupants decorated the inside of the drafty tree house. One evening, as she studied the walls that harkened back to brighter times long since past, Ava wondered what had become of the artist responsible for the myriad stick figures residing in the playhouse with her. Had she grown up and moved on? Or was she still a little girl, seeing the same horrors that I am, or worse? Ava was certain a girl made the drawings, and while she truly hoped she was older and far away from this place, Ava knew that did not necessarily mean she would be safe. When her searching gaze fell upon the name scrawled beneath the last figure, Ava broke down, the tears flowing down her cheeks like a busted water main.
It read Mommy .
Curled in a fetal position on the cold wooden floor, Ava cried, all the while fighting to keep from letting a single sound escape. She cried for her mother and for the child that had drawn the stick figures. She cried for the deliveryman and for all the horrors she had seen and heard in the world since fleeing her house several days ago. She cried for her father whom she had not seen in weeks. Oh, what I would give to see him now! He would take care of me! He would know what to do! Unfortunately, she had no idea where he was or if he was even alive. Lastly, she cried for herself, realizing with unfathomable despair that she would not likely live to see another sunset.
As she lay coiled and sobbing, Ava recalled the last time she and her parents had been together as a family. They had gone out for dinner the night before her father left on his mission trip, and she ate until she thought she would explode. Even so, she still ordered her favorite for dessert—a chocolate milkshake. Sandwiched between her parents and holding each of their hands, they walked slowly to their car, in no hurry for their time together to end. As they neared their car, a destitute man asking for money with which to buy food approached them. Ava recalled that her mother’s initial reaction was to help the man, but her father seemed far more interested in getting his family into their vehicle and back home safely. John Wild was not a cruel man and was certainly not against charity; he merely sensed something was off in the vagrant’s eyes.
No sooner than the family was secure in the vehicle, the disheveled beggar transformed into a wild animal as if a switch had flipped inside his brain. He began screaming obscenities and making lewd threats as he charged the car and banged on the windows.
Taken aback, Rebecca stared at John with a
Not knowing what else to do, she remained hidden in the tree house for days, during which time she heard unspeakable things occurring in the world below. Snarling and screaming, growling and gunfire, fleeing and fighting—then…silence. For the most part, Ava spent her time in the tree house in a near catatonic state, so motionless one could have easily mistaken her for a statue were it not for the subtle rise and fall of her chest. She did not dare leave the safety of the tree house with all the bad things happening outside. When necessary, she relieved herself in the plastic sink of the long-forgotten play kitchen in the corner.
It rained one night, and Ava awoke to find the pail sitting on the tree house deck full of runoff. Despite being sandy and tasting like rust and dirt, she drank the water greedily. Such was her thirst that she did not even stop drinking when her gaze settled on the dead fly floating in the brackish water.
Faded drawings and crooked writings of former occupants decorated the inside of the drafty tree house. One evening, as she studied the walls that harkened back to brighter times long since past, Ava wondered what had become of the artist responsible for the myriad stick figures residing in the playhouse with her. Had she grown up and moved on? Or was she still a little girl, seeing the same horrors that I am, or worse? Ava was certain a girl made the drawings, and while she truly hoped she was older and far away from this place, Ava knew that did not necessarily mean she would be safe. When her searching gaze fell upon the name scrawled beneath the last figure, Ava broke down, the tears flowing down her cheeks like a busted water main.
It read Mommy .
Curled in a fetal position on the cold wooden floor, Ava cried, all the while fighting to keep from letting a single sound escape. She cried for her mother and for the child that had drawn the stick figures. She cried for the deliveryman and for all the horrors she had seen and heard in the world since fleeing her house several days ago. She cried for her father whom she had not seen in weeks. Oh, what I would give to see him now! He would take care of me! He would know what to do! Unfortunately, she had no idea where he was or if he was even alive. Lastly, she cried for herself, realizing with unfathomable despair that she would not likely live to see another sunset.
As she lay coiled and sobbing, Ava recalled the last time she and her parents had been together as a family. They had gone out for dinner the night before her father left on his mission trip, and she ate until she thought she would explode. Even so, she still ordered her favorite for dessert—a chocolate milkshake. Sandwiched between her parents and holding each of their hands, they walked slowly to their car, in no hurry for their time together to end. As they neared their car, a destitute man asking for money with which to buy food approached them. Ava recalled that her mother’s initial reaction was to help the man, but her father seemed far more interested in getting his family into their vehicle and back home safely. John Wild was not a cruel man and was certainly not against charity; he merely sensed something was off in the vagrant’s eyes.
No sooner than the family was secure in the vehicle, the disheveled beggar transformed into a wild animal as if a switch had flipped inside his brain. He began screaming obscenities and making lewd threats as he charged the car and banged on the windows.
Taken aback, Rebecca stared at John with a
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