I’m that guy- always late for work. I have failed my driver’s test three times now. I just can’t do the slow and deliberate. I make hard turns, brake at the last moment, and very often, run through stop signs. I don’t think I’m ADHD, but I will admit its difficult for me to concentrate. My mind is not built for focus. In addition to not being able to drive, I don’t get to sleep until late in the morning. I’m not worried about anything… no I don’t sit around worrying, laying about wondering how the next day is going to go. I honestly don’t care. It’s just that Sleep bores me. I try all kinds of Sleep aid but it doesn’t do anything but give me restless legs, that terrible feeling like your legs is drawing up into your body. I’ll lay awake with the television blaring, pulling my legs far up over my head. The stretching gives me some relief.
I work at a department store, one that most people would recognize, but one I don’t care to mention, out of pure unabashed embarrassment. I like one of the cashiers and stocking shelves. Sometimes I like to run around the store asking customers where to find specific products with my smock on. It confuses them. I’ll say, “Hey ma’am, do you know what aisle the pickled horse feet are on?” They’ll be confused as hell.
Fast and fast and fast. I used to love that phrase. I would often repeat it to myself.
Sometimes, I do catch a little Sleep in the breakroom.
One day I was insanely late. I don’t really care. It’s kind of funny to come in two or three hours late. I use the same line every time. “Hey, my mom had another panic attack and I had to stay by her side. My dad was at work. She begged me to stay. She thought she was having a heart attack.”
My manager, Betty is such a loon, a pushover, a great person, whom I often feel bad about abusing her and what not, but then again who cares. My mom does have panic attacks, that much is true.
So, I was late on this day- I mean later than usual. I picked up the pace. Normally I stay on the sidewalk, taking the long way through the football field parking lot. I mean holy hell, how big of a parking lot do you need? This time I chose the path through a little patch of forest. I had never gone that way. About a hundred yards into the thick of things I came across a clearing. In this glade, was a small family cemetery. I’d say there were about ten markers, some more elaborate than others. I thought, I want to take one of these home.
Fast and fast and fast.
I work second shift. I help close and clock out at 2300, so its nice and dark out. I grabbed a flashlight from the tool department so I could have a little light to work by.
When I got to the little family plot, I surveyed the choices I had to choose from, knowing that I needed to be smart and not pick the heaviest. I saw a small, tiny, little headstone. I pointed the flashlight. It read:
Molly Seward
Young Cherub of Heaven
1890-1900
Ten years old, I thought. I felt bad but it would be the easiest to remove. I kicked the top of the tombstone with my heel, pushing the sod in front upward. It was easier than I thought. Another kick and it toppled backward.
Somewhere in front of me I heard a low growl. I looked up but saw nothing there. Maybe this is a bad idea, I thought, but oh well, I don’t care.
I picked up the tombstone and carried it home. My dad thinks I do stupid stuff so I had to make sure he didn’t see me hauling around a child’s tombstone. I went in the backyard and put it in the shed under a tarp.
That night I double-dosed on some Sleeping pills. My legs were screaming to be ripped off. The television was on, but it was some moron droning on about ancient aliens.
The television shut off, and then the lights, and then I heard a growl. I got down on my knees and prayed:
Dear Molly, forgive me for stealing your headstone.
Forgive me God. I’ll put it back tomorrow. I promise.
The lights came back on, then the television. I guessed everything was alright. I still couldn’t Sleep. I was surprised at myself. That should have scared the shit out of me, but it didn’t. I was more excited than ever. What if?
It was 0300. Still no Sleep. I got dressed. Went to the shed and retrieved the tombstone. As I walked back to the woods, I felt a strange sensation that I was being followed. I looked behind me and there a good distance away was a little girl dressed in a purple frilly dress. She had long dark hair, but other than that, I could not see any other of her features. Next to her was a German Shepard, with mottled fur and bald patches.
I turned and walked backwards, keeping my eye on the pair. They matched me step for step. When I stopped, they stopped. When I walked, they walked.
“I’m sorry Molly. I’m putting it back now.”
I turned and ran, pushing through the initial stiffness of my legs. I heard the panting of the dog closing in on me. I put forth more effort, the adrenaline surging through my body, the bile stinging my throat, but to no avail. The dog caught up with me and grabbed me by my ankle, sinking its teeth into my skin and that super sensitive tendon. It dragged me to an open grave and slung me in. I fell to the bottom, landing roughly on my hip.
All the while I held onto the tombstone. I stared up from the bottom of the grave. Darkness above, darkness below. I could see nothing. I felt dirt being thrown on top of me.
“Molly, I’m sorry.”
I stood up and hurled the tombstone over the top of the grave. I heard it land with a thud and the flinging of the dirt stopped. There was a partial mound at the foot of the grave, enough to stand on and attempt to pull myself out. I didn’t have enough strength or leverage to accomplish the task. The dog was more than willing to help. It bit into my wrist, violently pulling me out and slinging me across the dew-soaked grass. On the other side was the little girl, only the dark outline of her diminutive body was visible. She hopped into the grave; the dog following her from the other side. They disappeared into the earth.
My wrist was killing me. I thought with all the force on my ankle, it was surely broken, but it felt decent considering what I had been through. But it still hurt. I limped over and peered into the grave. I could see nothing but I could hear whispering, a little girl singing to her dog.
“Little Miss Molly killed by her dog; Little Miss Molly didn’t live too long.”
I heard her giggle and then all was quiet.
I went home. I was in no mood for work. I called Betty and told her my mom was in a really bad way. She was in a full-on panic attack with bouts of anxiety and thoughts of suicide. Betty apologized for all that I was going through. She told me not to worry about tomorrow either.
That night Sleep, as always, was eluding me. I tried to turn on the television, but it wouldn’t turn on. The light flickered and shut off. My bedroom door opened. There was no one there.
“Molly?”
The door slammed shut. I fumbled for the lamp switch next to my bed on the nightstand. I heard a growl. I turned the little knob. The light flashed on. There standing at the side of my bed was the little girl in the purple dress, but this time I could see all of her features. Both her eyes were bloodshot, but the right eye was worse than the left. It was filled with blood, clouding out her pupil. Across her face were bite marks and infected sores. Her neck was ripped open, exposing her trachea.
The dog jumped up over the footboard and landed on top of my legs. He walked up my body and quickly lunged toward my head. I didn’t have time to put my arm up to block his massive teeth, which pierced my right eye and the bottom of my left cheek. My head was trapped inside his hellish grip. He began to shake his head in feverish fit of anger. I could feel my eye fill up with blood, and running down the side of my jaw.
I grabbed him with both hands and dug my thumbs in his throat. He didn’t release his grip, but shook even harder. I felt my eyeball pushing against the side of my skull, his fang digging deeper, the blood flowing faster. I reached back and grabbed the lamp and began jabbing it into his side. The bulb busted with the initial hit and the shade crumpled with each additional thrust. Finally, it let loose, but I suspect it was more because of a demand from Molly than anything to do with pity. I couldn’t see out of my right eye. The pain was awful. I turned my battered face toward the side of the bed. It was too dark and my vision was shaded with blood and confusion. I didn’t see Molly, but I heard her singing. The door slammed shut and I passed out.
My mom found me the next morning. She had a terrible panic attack, but she held it together long enough to get me to the emergency room. I lost my eye. There was just too much damage. I wear a patch now. I don’t mind it much. They looked for the dog that was responsible, canvassing the neighborhood for a stray, but I know they won’t find it. Some people think I’m just crazy. I don’t care what people think. I do care about that grave though. I put the headstone back in place along with a vase of purple plastic flowers.
I used to say to myself, “fast and fast and fast.” Now, and I can’t resist, or get it out of my head, but I keep repeating to myself that song I heard in the grave that night:
“Little Miss Molly killed by her dog; Little Miss Molly didn’t live too long.”