Page 2 of Freak
That paint seemed to be the only attack on the house. The three exterior doors were secure, all the windows intact. Her plants on the porch looked fine, and she could see her houseplants hanging and resting just where they should be in the kitchen windows. Her cats, Ariadne and Lilith, perched prettily among them, surveying the scene with regal curiosity. Nobody had broken in and ransacked the house, apparently.
And nothing seemed to be missing out here. Destroyed, yes. Murdered, yes. But not stolen.
This had been done for no other reason than to hurt her.
Who would do such a terrible thing? Who would kill harmless, helpless animals for nothing more than malicious sport? She knew people found her strange, but was shehated? What had she done to anyone to make them hate her like this?
Still in the trailer, the goats bleated their irritation at being closed up. Bogie and Mitch trotted around the yard, their ears high and their noses down, their hackles raised, seeking the culprits, tracking down any further hint of danger. All Abigail could do was stand in the midst of it all and gape behind her hands.
Why?Why?
For no other reason than to hurt her.
Her eyes fell again on Buster’s poor body. Her little buddy. She’d hand-raised him when Sonny, her previous rooster, had decided that the flock wasn’t big enough for another male, not even a baby, and begun to attack both Buster and Ethel, his mother. Usually she bartered her cockerel hatchlings with neighbors for other things she needed, but she’d kept Buster because Sonny had been fourteen years old, which was basically a centenarian for chickens. But he’d still been ornery enough to want to kill his replacement. So Abigail had scooped up the cockerel and left Ethel his five sisters.
Sonny had died of old age and orneriness while Buster was still hopping around inside the house like a feathery, two-footed puppy. And Abigail had never loved a chicken the way she loved her Buster.
She staggered to his poor broken body and dropped to the ground to scoop him into her arms. As his neck drooped dully over her wrist, the horror fully hit her. She buried her face in his feathers and sobbed.
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~oOo~
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The goats wouldn’tlet her wallow more than a few minutes, but by the time their bleating grew insistent and Abigail finally lay Buster back on the grass, Bogie and Mitch had completed their inspection of the property and taken up their role as family. They lay each on a side of her, their heads in her lap. When she stood, so did they.
The goat barn was destroyed, and the fence of the attached yard as well. She’d have to put the goats in the day pasture. That meant a long night for the dogs, and for herself; the woods held foxes, coyotes, feral hogs, even the occasional black bear. Animals weren’t safe at night in an open pasture, especially not youngsters.
She stared at the horizon, where the sun had begun to droop toward dusk. The sky was clear, nearly cloudless. Closing her eyes, she took a long, deep inhale through her nose, absorbing all the scents of the afternoon. No hint of rain, at least. But blood and torn earth and fear. So much fear in the air.
There was no way she could put all this to rights alone. But who could she ask for help? Without knowing who’d done this or why, was there anyone she could trust? The notion of unknowingly asking for help from those who’d caused this harm made a clump of hot coals ignite in her belly.
One of the goats kicked the side of the trailer. That would be Satyr, twenty-three years old and king of the herd.
Well. There was nothing to it but to do it. Was she going to stand here like a garden gnome for the rest of her life? Of course not.
Dark would fall soon. There wasn’t much more she could do tonight except get the goats offloaded and prepare for a long vigil. She’d have plenty of time to figure out who she could trust and what help she needed.
Wiping the last of her tears away, she bent to collect Buster’s body, but paused before she got her hands down. No. She didn’t know who might help her, but she wanted it known, what had been done here. Buster was no longer on this plane, nor were the girls they’d killed. She could leave their physical remains where they were without further harm.
She stood tall again. “Okay, boys. Let’s get the goats. We got a long night ahead of us.”
Walking to the trailer, she saw the insult scrawled like graffiti on the side of her family home, on the violet paint she’d so happily chosen a few years back.FAT FREAK.
Well, yes. Her shape had always been round and soft, certainly not like a model or starlet. She’d been called fat often enough in her life not to be surprised that many considered her so. And yes, she’d been called ‘freak,’ too, often enough. It was the word closest to hand for most, to describe how they felt when they saw someone who didn’t live the way they thought people ought. Abigail thought people ought live the way they wanted, so long as they didn’t smear their wants all over other people’s needs.
So yes. She supposed she was a fat freak. And that made those ugly orange letters not an insult at all. Just an observation. The most offensive thing about that scrawl was its ugliness—on her wall and in their hearts.
Ugliness, she could do something about.
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~oOo~
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The night was longbut uneventful. By sunrise Abigail was weary, but she’d thought things through. Terrible as it all was, none of the property damage meant all that much. She could replant her gardens. She could repair or remake her generations-deep collection of yard decorations. The chickens were the truly heartbreaking part of it. Everything else was just stuff.
