Safe
Her name is Irina. She’s a short, tubby kid, the kind you knew slobbered over everything. Her white shirt with a large red A+ is stretched to the seams, and her blue pants are obviously unbuttoned. When I see her, four of her fingers were in her mouth. Four of them. Normal kids suck on one finger at a time, but this chicken pot pie needed four. I sigh to myself and wonder why it had to be her. To catch her attention, I wiggle around just enough to reach the edge of the shelf. Then, after spotting me, she grabs me and runs.
I leave the store with Irina, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t anxious. The body I’m in, it’s made to be used and abused, and boy did I expect abuse. That sounds horrible, I know, but I can’t really feel anything anyway. It’s like I’m covered by a veil that blocks out most sensations. Pretty good for my situation.
As she climbs into to the car and put me in her lap, I notice all the apple juice stains, the potato chip crumbs, and what looked suspiciously like a chewed-up pacifier. She’d probably grow tired of me after a while, as toddlers do, and leave me in a toy trunk or something. Honestly, that seems not half bad. I want to leave this brat.
Irina takes me home and throws me on her bed. She pets my head, tells me she loves me, then runs off when her father calls. I nap, hoping to find solace from the little monster in my dreams.
When I awake, I feel the pitter patter of what I can only assume is saliva on my face. At first, I’m royally pissed. Day one and already my stuffing is about to grow mildew. But the drops keep coming, one at a time. She’s crying. She’s sitting on the bed in her dopey A+ shirt and tighty whities, crying all over my clean face.
My heart loosens a bit. Dealing with crying children has never been my forte, so I decide to cheer her up the only way I can think of. I flap my wings a little, nod my head, and tell her what she needs to hear.
“I love you.”
Of course Irina is terrified at first. But children, they’re always so accepting. After working up some childishly ignorant courage, she starts poking me, trying to see if what she heard was real. So, to stop that god awful prodding, I tell her again.
“I love you.”
The burger bite is elated. She comes at me again, drooling, slobbering, the whole shebang. I’m pissed, but between a crying kid and a slobbering one, I’d take the slobberer any day. I begrudgingly let her nuzzle my face, poke my eyes, and squeeze me one foot into the grave.
At night, Irina puts me on her nightstand next to her scuffed-up bedpost. She tells me to be on the lookout for any intruders, then covers herself completely with her blanket. I find that a little weird, but nothing too crazy. Just the trademark insanity and naiveté of childhood, I thought. I try to pass out, but because of the nap sleep evaded me. I’m left with nothing to do but to stare at the pig, breathing slowly and heavily inside her blanket.
And then I see father fearest. Standing in the doorway. Standing so still, staring so intently at the girl. I’m on high alert. Father stands there for a good hour or so, then turns around and shuffles away. I look at Irina, and notice she isn’t heaving up and down anymore. Instead, she’s trembling. Irina knew daddy was there.
Again, my heart softens. Poor little tike. In my life, I was the same as Irina. I was born from a young mother unwilling and subject to unspeakable hurt for 12 years before I finally croaked. This time, I vowed, it would be different. This time, I would keep Irina safe.
Father returns with a bottle in hand. He downs what’s left then advances toward the bed. When he crosses the moonlight, I see his face has wizened and his hair has greyed. He’s old now, frail, and I feel more confident. Irina is whimpering at the sound of father’s footsteps, and I remember exactly why I chose Irina in the store.
Then father speaks to Irina, murmuring the same sick words he used to whisper in my ears all those years ago.
“That’s a good girl. Daddy loves you.”
My world goes white. I feel myself rushing towards him, entering his body, destroying his innards the same way he destroyed mine. I’m clawing at father, disemboweling him, and I send him screaming, thrashing, crashing into the floor. He struggles to stand, but of course I don’t let him. I slash at his throat and, for good measure, remove the devil’s scepter. A few moments, a few slashes, a few bites later, father twitches for the last time and then lays still.
I get up slowly and look at my hands. The nails are still worn down from when I used to claw at the bedposts in pain, but this time they’re tinted red. I then turn around and face Irina. She’s curled up in the corner of the room, looking around but seeing nothing. I sigh and reenter the stuffed macaw. Using the dregs of my powers, I roll off the nightstand and land at her feet. She picks me up, and I say what to her what I never heard but needed most during my life.
“You are safe now.”
And then I’m free. No more regret chaining me to the world. No more vengeance giving me power. I shine brilliantly and float upwards, leaving the stuffed macaw once more. But before I go, something compels me take one last look at Irina.
She sees me now, and she’s in shock. I smile to let her know it’s ok, and float back down. The beef burrito obviously needed some courage to keep going, so I give her some of my memories, filled with just enough hope and strength to prevent her from giving up on life. Then, with one last look, I'm on my way.
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My name is Irina Fu. My adoptive father died 52 years ago. At this point, I can no longer tell whether this memory is real or something fabricated by my subconscious to protect me. What I do know, though, is that despite the passage of years, I remember these words, these scenes from the eyes of my favorite stuffed macaw, like it was yesterday. And what I do know is that I remember seeing someone who looked like me but older, floating upwards shortly before the neighbors came over to investigate the ruckus.