Nightshade
David Antrobus Posted on Friday, March 25, 2016 at 7:01PM 
Her momma had died in childbirth. Her daddy loved her and tried to do the best he could for her, which wasn't much in the way of material things but was plenty good enough in her heart. Her name was Bella and she told folks it was short for Belladonna because she liked how it sounded.
She learned to sew from a patient old townswoman named Millicent, and made her own dresses out of sackcloth. Down by the creek that usually ran dry in the summer months, Bella caught crawdaddies and hummed to herself for days.
Poor as the dry plains of dirt outside her little town, Bella was a happy child, and like the desert itself, didn't even know she was lonely. Sometimes there were only five or six other students in the single-room schoolhouse she attended when she was able, when her daddy didn't need her for chores. Sometimes she played jump rope with two of them, twin girls named Mary and May, but not too often. There was usually something else she had to do at home.
As the years passed, Bella's face beneath the constant layer of sweat-caked dust grew fair, with a fine jawline and eyes that, pale and without guile, held the innocent promise of love. Her body remained a wisp. Had she met a man of principle and gentle bearing their days would have likely approached fairytale bliss.
But she didn't have much time for any of that, until the boy, the son of another farmhand, told her one day he'd learned about a new trick and would like to do cumulonimbus on her and she'd thought he meant that game where you guess the shapes of clouds. He grabbed her arm and took her in the barn and when he squatted in front of her and lifted the hem of her dress she kicked out at him and shoved him so hard he stumbled backward and a large nail for holding a hackamore had pushed into the soft downy part just beneath the back of his skull and the light, even in the dusk of the barn, had visibly dimmed from his eyes.
No one but her daddy listened to her story and they took her to a foster home someplace with raintrees and mountains where her windows had bars and carpenter ants marched stoically to war over her trembling body each night. She tried praying to God almighty but she soon had the sense he either wasn't listening in the first place or had turned his almighty back on her for good.
They were mean to her. Put spiders in her shoes and spit in her food. She tried to hold on to that kernel of liquid gold she'd always felt in her center, but each passing day made it dim like the eyes of the boy she'd killed, only slower.
Then one day she was grown and they let her out.
Her daddy was older'n he should have been—bent and sad-looking as a lightning-struck mesquite—when Bella approached from the west, her scrawny frame in a threadbare dress, barefoot and silhouetted before a furnace sky.
She saw him shed the last teardrop the sandblasted land had left him with. She wouldn't leave him now, not until he left her through whatever dark portal awaited him, on whichever path. There would be no man for her until then and, thinking this, knowing that night had tried to draw its shade over her all her life, even in this fierce bright place, she felt that ember at her heart begin to rekindle, and found herself content with that.
Reader Comments (10)
You've done it again, Mr. Antrobus. You've painted a story with subtle, gentle brush strokes. Beautifully done.
Thank you, Jo. And yes, you're spot on. If my usual pieces are heavy oil paints or occasionally pastels, this one's a watercolour!
I really liked this, Daw. I had to go for a long cold glass of coke after reading it, but I really enjoyed it. It is good that you find different angles to observe the doomed, wretched creatures you write about. :-)
Yes, sad but beautiful. I love this one.
Ha, it's a thirsty story, Gordon! And I thought this doomed creature was more fortunate in that she found a way to make peace with it. :)
As always, Yvonne, thanks for reading and thanks especially for commenting. It makes a difference.
Excellent, David. So crystal clear and full of emotion.
Kyrian, you just made me think. All stories come from some combination of head and heart, but this one seems to be mostly heart (as you say, "full of emotion") and I wonder if they're easier to write, in the sense of how quickly they flow onto the page. This one took just minutes to write, whereas a story that I have to think more about usually takes longer. Hmmm...
Just minutes? That is great! Yes I think you can tell when something is straight from the heart. Feels genuine. You paint such a vivid picture.
Thank you! And yes, it took minutes to write, but then of course I tinkered with it, as I always do (*cough* OCD). That part was longer, but that initial draft that can sometimes be painfully slow was written all in one go.