My youngest sister absolutely loves the new playground on the corner of Main and Keltip Street. She loves it as much any other ten-year old girl would. Unfortunately, when I was about ten (give or take a few years), there wasn't much of a playground, or anything much to do at all. Growing up in a fairly poor family, in a fairly poor neighborhood, with fairly poor families surrounding us, I learned to take what I got and make the best of it. Us feeble, imaginative children were left to entertain ourselves, and usually that meant role-playing games that always ended in a bit of boastful and unlikely stunting that resulted in frequent lacerations, sprains, and compound fractures. Needless to say, parents were not pleased.
So, after a bit of simple planning and saving up, a couple of fathers got together and threw out whatever they could. 'Whatever they could', was a nice tire swing on top of Terrance Hill, a hill that was flat at the top, with little greenery. At the time it looked barren, but after a few months, wild grasses and flowery-like brush began to sprout. The tire swing itself was surely flimsy enough, but it was a tire swing no less, and us being children deprived on entertainment, we loved it to pieces. We played time machines, king of the hill, spinning contests, and so many more idle games. It was certainly a lifesaver, for both broken bones and parent's worrisome minds.
Now, as there is in every school and every town (and every other story in the entire existence of the world), there was one little girl who I can only describe as troubled. She was nice, sweet, and beautiful, but also, she was so very troubled. Her name was Norah. Norah was in my grade, so I spoke to her often, and I eventually got to know her as who she was, which was, in all simplicity and innocence, and little girl. (She certainly was not my best friend, but I was one of her few friends, and I knew her well as anyone else I associated with.) To tell you that Norah's life sucked would be an understatement, for she was the new girl with few friends, which put a target on her back for the bullies. I befriended her since I knew what it was like to be constantly berated for things that I couldn't control. She was in my art class, since we both chose art to be our extracurricular. Side by side, we sat at the corner table by our lonesome, and grew closer through our love of the arts.
She would show me the angry scars that ran up and down her feeble arms, but when I asked her of them and their origin, she just told me they appeared when things got to be overbearing and stressful. She said they fueled her will, kept her alive, in a way. I asked of what she meant, and she waved it off and told me not to worry. That I would understand when I was older. And I do. It frightens me that someone her age would understand so well.
Now that I think of it, I find it difficult to believe that no one knew what was going on with Norah. Looking back, her parents were cold and unloving, putting their drug addictions and personal lives before their daughter. She was very obviously depressed, and definitely self-harmed with her little stained scissors that she brought in her pocket wherever she went. I always thought they were for art, but no, no they weren't. I don't know how she kept up even the slightest bit of normalcy, but she behaved like an adult and kept her smile on, her chin up, and her lips zipped. No one was ever punished for her suffering. Everything was normal, everyone was happy, and daily life was perfect, the way it always was. Until the incident, I guess.
The tire swing, on the hill, sat exactly so that I could see it wonderfully from my bedroom window down the street. On days when I was to stay inside of the house, I entertained myself by staring at that hill, with its delicate scenery, thinking how bulky and awkward the tire swing seemed as it collided with the unkempt plants.
When all the other kids were in their house, sleeping, I would hear a forlorn voice. Peering out of my window, Norah would be there on that tire swing, singing softly, head titled upwards to the sky. She was constantly turning, freely spinning away her troubles. She would see me, and somehow know I was watching her. She would call out to me, asking me to play. Constantly beckoning me to come forward, down my fire escape and towards the sound of her mesmerizing voice. I'd hear her voice stop singing and see the pleading in her beady little eyes, and I had to. I had to go out. After all, she wanted to play.
We would talk or sing or star-gaze, but most of the time we were completely silent. We sat with our backs facing each other and we listened to the sound of each other's faint breathing just to be sure that the other was still alive. We would whisper to the midnight wind, and it would whisper back to us with the wispy sorrows of the world. There seemed to be a sort of deafening silence, and an eerie calm that filled the twilight air.
Our voices would carry on the wind, and I could see the lights of the other children's bedrooms flicker on. They would be watching us, and Norah would beckon to them. Parents watching with weary eyes behind them, the hands on the other children's shoulders would draw the blinds and lead them back to their beds, and the lights, one by one, stopped turning on in the night. The other children never came, so we were alone in the chill of the night. All the while we spun. Spinning, spinning, spinning. I wonder now how we kept spinning when neither of our feet were tall enough to reach the ground.
Then one day, as my eyes were locked on the stars, we stopped spinning abruptly. My tiny fingers had to grip tightly to the cold metal of the swing chains to prevent falling off from the sharp stop. Norah jumped from the swing,her feet thudding into the hard-packed dirt, and took a deep, calm sigh. She hugged me tightly, a choking noise omitting from the back of her throat, as if she were about to retch, and she told me to go home. It wasn't a question, but it wasn't an order, either. She was begging me to go home, and she told me not to worry, that everything was going to be okay. I thought this strange, because Norah was always calm and filled with apathy, but now it looked as if she was in hysterics, overcome by tears that would not stop spilling from her soul.
I looked back once, only once, and I wish I hadn't. I want to remember Norah as my childhood friend, with her polite smile and quiet calmness. I wanted to look back on my swing-set nights, remembering nothing but the comfortable breeze running through my pixie-cut hair. I wish I could remember Norah as she was on every other night other than that one, and every other day that we saw each other at school. My only regret in my short lifespan is looking back, because in that moment that I saw her, Norah was no longer the Norah I knew.
But I can't, because as I looked back I saw nothing but pure, hysterical panic and angst. Her long, un-brushed hair blew in the wind, swirling around her, and falling in front of her face, draping around her like an enveloping mask. She ripped at the scars on her arms, wailing in a silently loud way, sobs racking her body. I did not see blood dripping, but I began to see streaks of it appearing gradually on her white clothes and on her face, smearing her body as she twitched and flung her arms in what I can only describe as uncontrollable madness. Tears streamed from her eyes, and she took a few steps forward, as if she was to come back to me, and I resisted the urge to help her. Although she was always slightly suspicious, this was the first time I had ever been fully and honestly afraid of her. 669Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNoxu8BiAFd
Her angelike appearance in her pure white clothes was now gone, replacing it with a new form that was demonic and painful to behold, as she fell forward dramatically to her knees on the grass. Not lifting her head, I followed her line of sight in her puffy eyes up to the sky. Her arms lifted slowly until her bloody forearms were facing towards her face, covering it from view, blocking herself out from the rest of the world that she so very much despised. Norah's tiny mouth opened, and let out a garbled sob. Or maybe it was a laugh. Or maybe it was a scream. I couldn't tell.
I arrived home, in a stumbling daze. I was much less upset as I was confused. Even still, I was upset enough to allow myself to sob quietly for hours until morning came. I had my obliviousness, I had my innocence, I had my happiness, all until that day. And in that moment, my young, sweet innocence was stolen from me. I turned off my lights, closed my blinds, and laid down, but I could not force myself to shut my eyes. Extreme exhaustion mixed with an inability to sleep had me in hysterics within a a few short minutes, and I was sure I did not stop crying until morning came and I jumped in the shower to erase my witch-like appearance.
I looked out my bedroom window, and there was Norah. She was on her swing, her eyes filled with tears and broken promises. Blood covered her, and not in a subtle way, but in a complete way. Like she had bathed in like; Like she had swam through a pool of it. Her clothes were torn, and she was singing in a beautiful, lovely way. She was singing a bittersweet love song, that did not match the gruesome scene I saw. Her eyes of madness caught mine, and she smiled tiredly, laughed sadly, and ceased her sweet-sounding lullaby. She beckoned me down, but I shook my head firmly. She nodded, smile drifting from her face, and looked back up towards the sky. I drew my blinds and shook in fear as I walked downstairs.
I ate my breakfast as my parents talked in hushed, hurried voices. They kept eyeing me and shaking their heads in a stress-inducing way. I asked them what was wrong, and they told me that we had to talk. The whole, "we have to talk" never ended well, and it still doesn't. We sat around the table and I ate like a madwoman, keeping myself focused on my soggy Frosted Flakes so that I wouldn't have an emotional breakdown. The image of Norah still ripe in my mind, I kept shoveling food into my mouth, but nothing would take it away.
They told me first that Norah's parents were dead, that they were found dead in their house from asphyxiation. I asked them what that meant, and they told me that they just stopped breathing. I was confused, but they've always scolded me every time the questions started coming out of my mouth. I've researched their deaths a bit over the years, and it wasn't exactly asphyxiation. No, it was strangulation. Strangulation by tight, intricate ropes that only a specific pair of skilled, tiny hands could have made.
Secondly, they told me about the missing kids. They dropped the names one by one, and at some point tears started flowing from my eyes. They were kids from my school, my grade, and some of them were in my classes. A pattern began to emerge from all the names. They were all the kids who had been rude to Norah and I. All of the kids that Norah had said she's wanted to rip to pieces in the company of my friends, but we all just assumed she was kidding. I still wish she was kidding, but can't compel myself to believe that lie.
They had sent out search parties for some of the children who did not return home, and the others were always found with strange, crimson cuts running up and down their arms. Now, six years later, none of the scars have disappeared. They stay swollen and red, never-dying, or even fading in the slightest. Try as they might, however, none of the search parties could find Norah. But hadn't I seen her just that morning, on the tire swing, smiling as she was every day of her miserable, secretive life? I jumped out my chair, screaming and crying that my parents were liars. Nothing could prepare me for the cold, harsh truth.
Norah was gone.
But I had seen Norah that morning, and so had a lot of kids. We weren't hallucinating. I keep seeing her on the tire swing every night, she seems to get progressively worse and worse. Her hair became gnarly and tousled, her eyes sunk into her skull and got dark circles, and her clothes got ripped and bloody, just like the cuts on her bleeding arms. I still see her, seven years later, sitting on the tire swing, smiling. She spins and spins, only now she's tall enough to touch the ground. She coaxes me, with her pleading eyes and her tempting song, but I'm scared of her.
For seven years, there have started to be more and more stories of bullies disappearing and being found with those ever-bleeding marks on their arms. Even though they're bad people, I blame Norah. I can't help but feel sorry for her, and I'll always love her in a sisterly sort of way. I know it's her cutting up those kids. I know she's alive. And she's hunting, on the lookout every day, trying to make sure no kids have to live the life she did. The only time I ever see her is from the safety of my bedroom window, in the dark of night. It's just like old times, we sit and stare at each other, but there's a barrier between us now.
Thought I'm very tempted, I haven't given in yet. I'm never going to see her again, because she's frightening. Even with her voice getting louder and clearer, more elegant and profound, I don't go to see her anymore. Sometimes she gets scarily angry with me, and she cries, and screams, and begs for me to play with her. Those are the days when I sleep with the lights on, because even though she's all the way over there, I hear her voice as if she were right in front of me, standing in my room. But she always forgives me, because I was her only friend.
Sometimes she'll stop swinging, stop spinning, and stand up to stare back at me. She'll wave to me imploringly, begging me to join her. She beckons for me to come and play. I can't, for I know what she did, and I know what happened. Staring into those dark circles in her eyes, I will never be convinced that she won't hurt me like she did to the other children. She screams for me to play with her. She yells and runs and tears at her clothes and arms like a wild beast. She begs and cries and commands that I come play with her. But now, I know the truth, and now, the idea of such was terrifying.
And I don't want to play.
ns 172.71.254.131da2
