Surviving Bessie

1. Ravenspond 1972

Bessie lies under the sheet warm in the claustrophobic humidity of late July, willing her eyes to close and shut out the nightmare her world has become. In the darkness, her thoughts unbidden drift back to that afternoon somewhere out west when she and Ash had taken a ride with a handsome stranger who looked just like the movie star Zac Frontenac ….

Wrists scream from tethers binding them to chairs, while silent mouths struggle under duct tape. Bessie and Ash can barely turn their heads enough to see each other; their eyes are black with fear. Holding the knife dangling from his right hand, Harry returns to his chair, facing them from inches away.

Wrists scream from tethers binding them to chairs, while silent mouths struggle under duct tape. Bessie and Ash can barely turn their heads enough to see each other; their eyes are black with fear. Holding the knife dangling from his right hand, Harry returns to his chair, facing them from inches away.“Now, ladies,” he begins conversationally. “We can do this the easy way. Or the hard way.” He runs the tip of the knife under Bessie’s chin, then Ash’s. They struggle in vain to avoid the sharp metal. “So, which of you is going to prove your love for me first?” His eyes are glass. He calmly flicks the blade from one nose to the other. In his singsong voice, he whispers, “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. Catch a girlie by her toe. If she hollers …” He stops to giggle. “Well, you can’t holler with that tape on there.” His breath reeks of whiskey and cigarettes.

“Now, ladies,” he begins conversationally. “We can do this the easy way. Or the hard way.” He runs the tip of the knife under Bessie’s chin, then Ash’s. They struggle in vain to avoid the sharp metal. “So, which of you is going to prove your love for me first?” His eyes are glass. He calmly flicks the blade from one nose to the other. In his singsong voice, he whispers, “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. Catch a girlie by her toe. If she hollers …” He stops to giggle. “Well, you can’t holler with that tape on there.” His breath reeks of whiskey and cigarettes.Suddenly, in her struggle to free herself, Bessie’s head jerks forward. The knife gleams as it moves like lightening in his hand to strike her just above her left eye. “Don’t ever do that again.” His voice is freezer cold. “Or you’ll really tick me off.”

Suddenly, in her struggle to free herself, Bessie’s head jerks forward. The knife gleams as it moves like lightening in his hand to strike her just above her left eye. “Don’t ever do that again.” His voice is freezer cold. “Or you’ll really tick me off.”

Bitter cries burst from Bessie’s chest, shattering her whole being. Her eyes pop open. Her hand flies to the still aching wound above her left eyebrow in the shape of a bird. Glancing around, she finally realizes she is safe in her own bed at home. She sobs heavily before, mercifully, a sort of calm descends. Breathing deeply, she feels her limbs collapse.

“Bessie, honey, you alright?” Her mother’s voice outside her bedroom door trembles with anxiety. Heather knocks gently but knows her daughter is desperate to be left alone.

A puppy yelps and scratches at the door. The voice of Bessie’s father whispers, “What are we going to do?”

Inside the bedroom, Bessie’s fingers linger on her forehead. She stares at the ceiling. Eventually, the footfalls disappear down the upstairs hallway. Reaching under her pillow, she pulls out a crumpled photo. Staring at the images, she wills them to step off the paper and into her room.

Ash in platform sandals, a cerise mini skirt and sparkly top, beams at the camera. Her coppery complexion is surrounded in a mess of dark curls as she leans against a farm fence; multiple bracelets encircle her wrists. In the middle, Jason grins shyly with his arm around Bessie on the other side of him. They were at his farm just last spring to see the newborn lambs. Jason’s father Brian took the photograph.

Bessie’s fingers run over the images. Ash, her very best friend since she can remember. And Jason, her buddy from the age of eight until they became more than that. Now, both of them are deceased, thanks to Bessie’s catastrophic idea of hitchhiking to Vancouver … what, a month ago? Two months? A year? A week? She can’t remember. Grief tightens the vice on her heart and squeezes.

what, a month ago? Two months? A year? A week?The puppy outside the door whimpers and scratches a paw, over and over. Slowly, Bessie sighs and swings her legs onto the floor, padding over to let her in.

Miss Marple – for that’s the name given to the rescued pup by her sister Leila – snuggles into her armpit and falls asleep. Despite her mood, Bessie smiles and strokes the silky fur. With the photo still clutched in her fingers, mercifully she slips into a light slumber.

Unbeknownst to her, a shadowy male figure watches from the foot of her bed. A glittery aura surrounds his chunky torso that more than fills a garish Hawaiian shirt. “Oh, my funny little mushroom,” he murmurs. “I wish I could take your pain away.”