Summers Silence

It was a bright summer day and the still air was hot and heavy.  Sweat trickled down my forehead journeying to the tip of my nose.  My head was throbbing and a reeling sensation rushed over me like a tidal wave.  I felt strangely uneasy ( feeling I was far to familiar with these days.)  As I reached for a napkin sitting on the drab looking picnic table, I spotted them.  Lying lifelessly in a glass mason jar, scorched and shriveled by the sun, were the wildflowers Sandy and I had picked earlier that day; violets, daisies, dandelions and buttercups.1

Sandy has just turned age six and I age nine.  She had lived with us since she was eight months old.  My Aunt May seemed to take delight in reminding me that she wasn't my real sister, just a foster sister.  I was the youngest of six children until she came along.  My two eldest brothers and sister had a different father, but we all grew up together - so to me we were all family and Sandy was my little sister.  She always looked up to me and depended on me to answer so many questions.  For the most part this was okay, but sometimes I resented the responsibility of a younger sister.2

Aunt Doris, Uncle Charles and the "brood" (21 to be exact) were soon to arrive for a family picnic.  This was a yearly ritual that exhausted my mother from beginning to end.  She had to cook enough to feed a small army as well as worry about how things would turn out once the alcohol became free flowing.  Following the pattern set for females in my family, I was sitting along the creeks edge skimming stones off the water, thinking about what I could do to make everyone happy and the day a peaceful one.3

I must have lost track of time.  I could tell by the tone of my mother's voice she had called my name more than once.  "Susanne, where is Sandy?  You were supposed to be watching her."  The weather had abruptly changed.  The sun had disappeared and the clouds grew thick and heavy.  It was stifling hot but the wind had picked up carrying with it the napkins, paper plates and dead flowers.  As mom carried what was left on the picnic table inside, I set out to find my sister.4

She was nowhere in sight.  I made my way down the bank to the creek looking toward the underpass where we had played earlier.  No Sandy.  Climbing up the embankment I headed to the cornfield that led to the woods.  "I bet she's gone to our favorite spot."  We had semi erected a playhouse, so to speak, under an old oak tree set deep in the woods.  It was a secret place we could go to when we needed to get away from some of life's harsh realities.  It was a safe and happy haven where playing make believe was our principal pastime.5

As I cleared the open field and made my way to the forest, it was raining so hard I could barely see.  Soon a clap of thunder startled me sending goose bumps up and down my spine.  I remembered my grandmother once saying, "Thunder is the sound of his voice and lightning the flash of his hand.  As the rain stung my skin I knew God was powerful and angry today.  "Sandy where are you!"  I was mad at her.  Why did I have to watch her anyway!  As I approached my destination I thought I heard the sound of voices, followed by a blood curdling scream.  "Sandy is that you!  God please let her be all right."  Again I called her name loudly trying to be heard over the storm's rush. Instinct told me something was terribly wrong and for a moment, I couldn't move a muscle.6

Standing motionless I looked up and saw my sister running headlong toward me.  Her long blond hair was matted to her head and with arms upraised her mouth was moving but no words were coming out.  Her delicate china doll features were masked with a look of terror.  She ran past me as I reached for her.  Slipping on the wet grass I struggled to get up.  Looking back I could see she has almost made it to the house.  "Wait for me please!"  But she didn't because she couldn't, and I needed to know why.  With all the courage I could muster, I walked slowly and deliberately toward the strange voices that both frightened and compelled me.  7

Drawing closer to the short path that led to our secret place of solace, I could now hear a singular droning sound.  The storm was passing and all that was left was a quiet gentle rain with the sun peeking through.  My feet kept moving forward until I started to stumble.  Glancing downward, I saw what had interrupted the rhythm of my walk.  Lying on the ground, a pool of blood surrounding them, were the remnants of several animals, as dead as my wildflowers.  The decapitated head of a rabbit met my eye and a feeling of dejavu overwhelmed me.  There had been other times my curiosity had gotten me into trouble.  It was then with perfect clarity I knew, if I didn't leave, I would need help too.  In that instant a dark figure appeared over me from behind the tree, grabbing me by the shoulders, lifting me off the ground.  Grotesque laughter and guttural utterances that ascended and descended the musical scale, came from the throat of this man who paced in a circular motion.  His hands were around my neck now and the colors of a rainbow I saw in the sky were quickly fading to black and white.  "You should have gone away.  Now I must teach you a lesson you will never forget."  This was not the voice of my father, yet on his right forearm was a faded bluish-green tattoo  that I recognized - a heart with a snake in the middle where the arrow should be, and the word MOM etched in the upper chamber.  This was the last thing I remember seeing.  The last thing I remember feeling was a blessed numbness that enveloped my body.8

I had been inducted into a world of madness by a man whose emotions and actions were controlled by raging voices in his own mind from another sphere of reality.  And my still, small voice, was silenced.9