My Grandmother was a deeply devoted woman. She always spoke of a loving God, who would guide you through life with his eternal grace. He would turn us away from damnation. Pray, she would tell me, pray to your God and we will answer you. I now know some prayers should be left unanswered.
The first time I prayed, I was about six years old. Kayla McAllister from down the road had been bullying me again. I couldn’t bear it, the disparity between her mellifluous, sing-song seven-year-old voice and the grating insults she hurled at me with it, speaking as though a rough sailor had possessed her.
“Jenna looks like a man. A fucking ugly one at that! How can you live with that caterpillar bastard where your eyebrows are supposed to be!?”
The other girls burst out in a cacophony of laughter and I burst out in a waterfall of tears, running back to my red-brick home, dodging past the shoes and magazines scattered along the hallway, practically sliding to my knees at the foot of my bed. I slammed my hands together and threw my head back to call to a deific saviour.
”O great God… Our Father who art…” I stumbled. How was I supposed to greet God? I shook my head and steadied my breath. “Hello God… my name is Jenna. I am six years old… but you probably already know that because you created me. I… I need Kayla to stop hanging out with me. She’s a bully and she’s mean and I don‘t like her. Thank you.” I unclasped my hands briefly, content in my interaction, before quickly clasping them together again with a gasp. “Amen.“
That night I came into the kitchen to get a cup of water. My throat was raw after crying about the humiliation I endured a few hours beforehand. My parents were stood, pale-faced, by the fridge, whispering hurriedly. My Dad was shaking his head with fear, while my other Papa held a hand over his, whispering something I couldn’t hear.
I knocked on the wooden frame of the open archway into the kitchen. The sound reverberated above the marble tiles, engulfing the kitchen. Papa pulled his head back from Dad’s ear. His lips were pulled thin and his eyes seemed unfocused.
I held my little Cinderella plastic cup to him. “Can I have water?”
He force a smile, but even my six year old self could pick out the twitching in the corners of his lips. Without a word he took the cup to fill it.
Dad pushed away from the counter. “Um Jenna… were you with Kayla recently?”
Papa shot him a disapproving glance but held his tongue.
“Yeah, I was today.“ I replied chirpily. I don’t think I registered the shaking of his hands at the time. It wasn’t something a child would have noticed so easily.
My parents exchanged some sort of silent communication within seconds.
“When did she go home?” Papa asked, his voice much calmer than Dad’s.
“I don’t know,” I sighed. “I went home before anyone else. Thanks for the water!” I skipped off, and would not be aware of why my parents had been so serious that night until many years later.
The second time I prayed, I was eleven. We had moved in with my grandparents, a few counties over, about a week after that strange encounter with my parents. It was only supposed to be temporary (I didn’t understand why we went in the first place), but Dad liked the area so much that we decided to start renting there.
I liked my new school, especially my English teacher, Mrs. Downing. Her classes were always so interesting. On that one day, in early November, she set us a task for our next lesson.
“Has anyone here read a newspaper?” A sparse few hands rose, though most of us were just pretending, so our peers would think we’re ‘mature’ and ‘sophisticated’.
“Does anyone watch the news?” Less hands this time. My hands remained firmly on my lap. I had no interest in current affairs. None of my family did. The news was only on our TV while we surfed channels.
”I want you guys to go to a corner shop and get yourselves a newspaper, or watch the news tonight, and choose the story you find the most interesting and write up a report on it, either from the perspective of a person involved in the story or an expert breaking the story down.“
An exasperated sigh travelled through the classroom, but I was excited. I always aimed to impress Mrs. Downing.
After the school bell let out, I made my way to a little kiosk in town centre where they sold newspapers. I wasn’t many interested in the politics that littered front pages, so I just chose one at random, hoping there would be more interesting tales inside.
As I walked home, I flicked through the pages, my eyes searching for anything I could report on. Then I saw a picture within the texts that stopped me in my tracks. A young girl, with crooked teeth, short auburn hair and heterochromatic eyes. My eyes darted greedily to the headline beside it.
“Five year anniversary of a recently announced cold case: parents plead for answers.“
The subtext.
“It has officially been half a decade since seven-year-old Kayla McAllister seemingly vanished into thin-“
I dropped the newspaper to the ground and felt hot urine make its way down my leg.
I shakily grabbed my phone from my pocket, my eyes fixed on her picture on the ground. My breath hitched as I fumbled through the numbers on the phone.
“Dad can you come get me?”
Dad and Papa sat across from me on a leather couch and my knees knocked together nervously in a fresh pair of jeans.
“We didn’t want to tel you Jenna… you were still so young and we didn’t want to scare you. We were waiting until you were old enough to understand why we first came here.”
”What… happened?” I whispered.
Papa sighed. “If we knew what happened, it wouldn’t be a cold case. Look, I know you have questions, and we will answer with what we know, we’ll try our best to-“
I launched up to my feet without a rational thought in my head, storming towards my room. I couldn’t handle the frustration, the shock, the grief. I fell to my knees by my bed and looked up through tearful eyes.
“O Heavenly Father, if you can hear me, please reunite Kayla with her family. I pray for her to be found and returned. Amen.“
Two days went by since then, and my parents avoided the topic when they spoke to me. Instead, they offered support though endless cups of tea and a promise we would go to Disneyland. They kept me off school until I felt happy enough to go back.
Life was relaxing for those two school-less days. I didn’t have any exams or homewor- SHIT!
In my grief I had forgotten to write my report for Mrs. Downing’s class. She was the one teacher I didn’t want to let down. But my newspaper had been left, pages weeping in the wind, on the main road, to be collected by a public cleaner.
I could still watch the news to find a story.
I jumped onto the couch and reached for the remote, hoping to see an entertaining story to report on. One to make Mrs. Downing laugh. I browsed through news channels. Bombing, sports, political scandal, increasing rate of suicide. Then I saw it and choked back a scream. Kayla’s photo, held on a green screen above a news anchor.
“…shocking discovery in what had been dubbed a cold case. Kayla McAllister, a seven year old girl went missing just over five years ago. Today, her body was found, beaten and bloodied. Investigators are trying to conclude the ultimate cause of death. There seem to be no traces of DNA, and there are no signs that she had put up a fight. But the strangest part… she was found on the exact spot she had been last seen playing among other children. Her body appeared out in the open. All house cameras within the area failed to capture whoever had left her body in the area…”
The image on the green screen cut to a scene from the greenery where I had spent my childhood playing on, now surrounded by police tape and a blurred white tarp in the background. That is the last thing I remembered seeing before I fainted.
The third time I prayed, I was sixteen. It was my biological mother’s wish to meet me on my sixteenth birthday. She had only been a surrogate, hired by Dad and Papa, but she felt a bond with me as I had made home within her womb. I couldn’t find reason to object. I’d heard the stories of the strenuous classes, intensely nutritious diet and nurturing practices she had gone through while pregnant to ensure I was born as healthy as she could guarantee. I respected her and was grateful to the woman I was to meet that day.
The doorbell rang at around two, and there she stood in the porch. She was whisked into the living room and so we were introduced to each other… again. Miriam and Jenna. Mother and offspring… well kind of. She looked like me a little. We had the same smile, Dad noted.
After initial pleasantries and a few questions about how I’ve been, Miriam looked at me and teared up.
“Jenna, I’m not your mom but I did hold you for nine months. Before your parents took you home when you were ready, I breastfed you, and held you and made sure you were sleeping. I just want you to know that even though we have never formerly introduced, we still have a special bond. I called your parents earlier and we agreed that if you ever have questions about lady-issues, if you ever need a woman’s opinion, if you have any concerns at all, you can call me. I owe you that as a biological parent. I acknowledge that this is unprofessional but your parents and I all agreed to set professionalism aside.“
I felt my breath hitch a little. I loved my dads. They had always provided me with the love and support I needed, and they read up on female puberty to prepare me for my teen years. I was never denied anything that kids with straight parents had. I didn’t develop any differently, though I had been more open-minded than some of my peers.
But I had always wanted to know what it was like to have a mom. To get our nails done together, borrow each other’s clothes and to roll our eyes together at mansplainers.
I nodded to her, a silent agreement to her idea. My eyes then moved down to her swollen belly.
“You’re having another.“ I noted.
She smiled. “My own one this time.” she placed her hands carefully over her belly. “A boy.”
Through the chittering congratulations, I felt a strange pang of envy. It was irrational but I just couldn’t shake the green cloud of jealousy.
Later that night I knelt at the foot of my bed. “O Heavenly Father, I shall not allow jealousy to consume me, although I pray that of all of the births Miriam has gone through, and will go through, that I am her favourite. Amen“
The morning after next, I walked in on Dad speaking of grievances and condolences on the house phone. Papa followed within my wake, his brows furrowed in confusion. Dad beckoned us over and covered the phone. In a hushed voice, he whispered to us “Miriam has had a miscarriage.”
It was at this point that the blindness should have dissipated, that I should have realised my doings. But it would take one more occurrence to open my eyes to the truth.
The last time I prayed was three hours ago. I am now thirty two. I married Leon six years ago. We met in college, at the young age of nineteen. We started dating at twenty three. We moved into a cozy home in the suburbs that he grew up in. Two dogs, Coco and Sharpie. No kids. We had been trying for months, though. I make a decent salary as a forensic psychologist. I also share information about psychology on a very successful YouTube channel, and have a secondary source of income from there.
Leon is a taxi driver. Was a taxi driver. A week ago he was struck by a drunk driver. No one else was in the car with him. He would have been relieved to know he was the only one who died. He had a closed casket funeral; his body was too mangled to be presented to his loved ones.
I haven’t left bed more than six times since the funeral. Wet snot had gathered on my pillow, mixed with salty tears. There is no nice description of it, much less the spit that had flown from my mouth as I open-mouth cried, howling at a universe that wasn’t listening.
Last night I whimpered the first words I could manage in days. “O God, bring him back please, God I can’t do this!” my lip trembled, and I closed my eyes. Then I paused for a second. I opened my eyed again and whispered “Amen.“
My eyes fluttered shut for a few hours of uneasy sleep.
When I awoke again, Leon’s hand laid gently on my shoulder. It was cold, a strange contrast to his usually warm palms. Then again, I probably had been robbing the blankets again. I pulled his arm over my chest and scooted backwards into his hold. He didn’t unconsciously stroke my hair like he normally did. He must be in a very deep sleep.
We lay in silence for a few minutes, although I couldn’t ignore an annoying sound coming from somewhere in the room.
Tick, tick, tick
No, no, it was more of a
Plip, plop, plip, plop
No, that‘s wrong too. It was a kind of
Drip, drip, drip
I let out a sigh and opened my eyes to investigate. I was immediately met with the perpetrator. A liquid ran down Leon’s arm, running down to his finger and plopping onto the bed sheet in fat drops. A dark liquid.
“Leon,” I whispered. “I think you’re bleeding.”
And then I remembered.
I practically launched myself out of the bed, landing with a heavy thud on the ground. I shakily got to my feet and felt bile rising in my throat. The scene in front of me will forever haunt me.
On our bed was Leon’s body.
Face caved in, creating a well for blood to pool into; Limbs bent at impossible angles, resembling the fuzzy pipe cleaners I would play with as a child; Extremities missing or hanging off, deep gashes covering his body, allowing blood to travel around his skin. His brains were his pillow and peppered glass was his blanket.
I opened my mouth to scream but all that came out was vomit. I don’t know how long I stood there.
When I was able to move again, I immediately fell to my knees, a babbling mess. “O-O Heavenly Father, p-please, please c-can, w-will you… O Heavenly F-Father I pray that you…” I stumbled over my words. What could I pray for? What am I begging for? Safety? For his body to be gone? “I’m praying for…”
”For what?” A raspy voice came from somewhere in the room. It sounded like the voice of a man who drank dust instead of water. As though he was inhaling his words.
I screamed in shock and launched to my feet, dizzyingly surveying the room. It was only me and Leon. Had I imagined it?
”What do you pray for?” The voice came again. It sounded like Gollum, if Gollum had throat cancer. I whipped my head in the direction of the voice. An empty wall with only an air vent at about eye level.
The air vent.
I slowly approached it, my eyes adjusting to the dark.
Two yellow eyes opened slowly, one at a time, like a frog’s. They glowed with a garish luminosity.
I fell back with a short scream.
The beast choked and hissed. Was it laughing? Was it mocking me?
”Who-who- what are you!?” I shouted at the thing.
It’s snarling breath crept through the room.
“Jenna, you don’t recognise me? After all of our conversations? After all the favours I have done for you?”
I shook my head, unable to breath.
”I am God.“