Outskirts Press, INC.

Eliza Davies is plagued by a horrible suspicion that Joey Kinkaide is being abused in her home. She has no proof; nevertheless Eliza is compelled to help the young girl. Plunging herself into a mission to rescue Joey, Eliza is stunned to find herself in need of saving, as devastating nightmares from the past emerge from her subconscious. Confronted with the now exposed truth of her own childhood experiences, Eliza must decide if she can ever forgive those who abused her. Struggling to cope with new and devastating revelations, Eliza’s world spins out of control and for the first time in her life, she begins to lose hope. However, though her own life is tilted and uncertain, she cannot give up on Joey. She must find a way to help the young girl, for in some way it seems that in rescuing Joey, she may be able to save herself. Through her own personal struggle and the one she carries on for Joey, she discovers that no matter how dark the circumstance, there is hope in forgiveness, and redemption for the innocent.

A few days later, Eliza was tidying up the front hall where Billy usually kicked off his shoes and threw down his backpack when he got home from school. She realized that since his backpack was still lying there, he obviously had not gotten around to doing his homework yet. She picked up the backpack, intending to take it to the kitchen nook where he usually did his homework, and then she was going to summon him to get cracking on it. She would often help him with it while she prepared dinner. When she picked up the backpack, it tipped over and spilled out its contents. She felt irritated that Billy hadn’t zipped it, leaving her with this mess to pick up. Then upon inspection of the zipper, she realized it was actually broken, of which he had not informed her either. Sighing with frustration, she bent to pick up the spilled contents and realized that these were not Billy’s belongings. Billy’s folders were decorated with super heroes and his markers and colored pencils were in a hard case, not a zippered one like this one. The backpack looked just like his, but when she inspected the ID tag, she found Joey’s name and address. She realized that since the two backpacks looked so similar, Joey must have picked up Billy’s on her way out instead of her own. Eliza hunkered down to gather the items which were splayed across the entry. One spiral-bound notebook was lying open and as she picked it up, she saw that it contained doodles and drawings. Curious, she flipped through the pages, feeling the color drain from her face and her legs grow weak. She sat down hard on the floor right there in the entryway, her hands shaking, as she looked at the gruesome images. Just when she had decided to put all negative musings about this child away, she was confronted with something she could not ignore. Page after page was filled with drawings from a child’s hand, but not a child’s mind. These drawings were dark and horrible. She looked for a name in the book to verify it was really Joey’s. She couldn’t believe that the polite and shy little girl had created these images. But the evidence was there inside the front cover: Joey’s name. It was her book. The front pages held notes taken on science, but after just a few page turns, she was assaulted with images that reeked of hatred and anger. Joey was a very good little artist unfortunately; little was left to the imagination. One picture clearly showed a house resembling that of the Kinkaides’ blown up in an explosion with the roof flying off and flames shooting out everywhere. A woman and man lay on the lawn beside it, obviously dead, limbs severed, lying askew of the bodies, and pools of red colored in marker on the ground around them. What in the world? Another drawing showed a man and a woman lying on a bed with knives sticking up from their chests. Two X’s were drawn on each face where the eyes should have been, clearly indicating death. Blood of red ink was running down from the chest wounds and pooling on the floor. No stick figures for this little artist; full bodies, unclothed and accurately rendered. Why were they naked? Eliza felt unwelcome and sour saliva gathering in her mouth, her stomach growing queasy. Her hands were trembling as she turned the page. Her mind reeled as she again beheld a drawing of an unclothed man and woman. They seemed to be floating in darkness, black ink filling the page. Both were beheaded and had cuts and injuries indicated by red ink slashes all over their bodies. Blood splattered in all directions. A long knife or sword floated nearby. The details of the human anatomy and the graphic nature of the violence was shocking. Eliza swallowed hard against the terrible nausea that threatened and forced herself to look at more. In the next one, a clean white page with a man standing alone. One single red dot on his chest over the heart, a squiggly red line running down from it, and a gun next to him. Turning the pages, the drawings went on and on. Always a man or couple, usually unclothed and wounded or dead in a violent way. Some depicted what looked like sexual contact between the couple. Graphic and violent, hatred emanated from the pages. Her mind rebelled and tried to deny what she was seeing. She flung the notebook down and it banged and bounced on the hardwood floor. As she looked at it, her head began to feel odd, as if the hall were spinning around her. Suddenly, the nauseating sickness Eliza had been fighting back would be quelled no longer. She felt her stomach clench and she bolted to the guest bath down the hall, throwing up into the toilet. She heaved until there was nothing left and she was exhausted. Then she rinsed her mouth with water, splashing some on her face, wishing she could use it to wash the images from her mind as well. She curled up on the floor beside the toilet in case the nausea hit again and positioned her face on the cool marble floor. She allowed the chill of the marble to seep into her as it drew the hot sickness out. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, trying in vain to erase the images that lingered there. She had not even looked at the rest. She couldn’t. What now? She could not ignore this. She had to ... do ... something. Something. But what? She turned her head over, placing the opposite cheek on the cool tiles and tried to think. Were these images implanted in Joey’s mind through some slasher horror movie or video game she had seen? Eliza knew there were some very graphic video games containing scenes so bad, they were rated to let parents know they were not suitable for young children. She didn’t allow any of those in her home. And they certainly did not watch violent slasher movies. But she knew nothing of the Kinkaides. Did they have this kind of filth in their home, and carelessly left it where Joey could access it? There was vivid violence and even nudity in her drawings. Where and how had she seen such things? Did George Kinkaide perhaps have horror movies or even pornography depicting scenes like this in his home? If he did, was it not hidden well enough so that Joey had gotten hold of it and watched X-rated movies of this type? No child should have such knowledge as was contained in those pictures – pictures drawn obviously by the hand of a child. In truth, it was too bad that she was such a good little artist. There was far too much detail contained in the images. It was more than Eliza could grasp. She needed to talk to someone. Brant. She would talk to him when he got home tonight and show him the book. She would ask him what they should do. Reluctantly, she went back into the hall and gathered up all of Joey’s belongings and placed them into the backpack. She wished she didn’t even have to touch them. She was tempted to go get her latex cleaning gloves, but knew that was silly. It wasn’t as though the filth in this book could contaminate her just by touching it, but that was how she felt. And there was something deeper; something inside herself trying to shove its way to the surface – unidentifiable feelings she didn’t even want to explore. Brant, please hurry home. I need you! ~ Brant didn’t come home that evening. He called to say he had to fly out for an emergency meeting in London. He didn’t know how long he would be gone. He would not even come home first because if he went straight to the airport, he could catch a flight right away. The company had an apartment in London that Brant used when he was there, and he always kept some clothes and necessities in that place. Eliza was utterly crushed. She said all of the right things to him – I understand, I love you, I’ll miss you, Have a nice flight – but inside she was screaming. She really wanted to talk with him about the “Joey book.” She wanted to cry and let him hold her. And she wanted him to finally understand something very, very wrong was going on in that house down the street. She wanted him to help her decide what they should do. Now she would be alone with these thoughts; she didn’t like this at all. But she wasn’t being given a choice. After hanging up the phone, she stayed put, her body board-stiff, forehead pressed against the wall. Suddenly her mind went numb and she had trouble forming a cognitive thought. She stood there in a void, out of touch with reality for several moments. Then something inside her mentally shifted. Gears changed. Her thought pattern redirected itself. She absolutely could not deal with this alone. Not now. She could not and she would not. She would simply tell Billy to exchange backpacks with Joey at school tomorrow and Eliza would pretend she had never seen those horrible drawings. Yes, that was the way to handle this. Just make it go away. She could make herself forget. A part of her knew she was going into denial, but she didn’t care. She simply could not cope with this right now. She had her own life to survive. Joey wasn’t her problem. And evidence to the contrary, there was probably a reasonable explanation for everything. Of course there was. She tried in vain to think of something, but nothing came. However it did not matter. This was not her problem. It wasn’t a problem at all. Some silly drawings, an angry little girl. What’s new? Kids were always angry at some imagined injustice, weren’t they? So that was it then. She was done with it. Fighting against the tidal wave of thought and emotion she had experienced up to this point, she would find a way to accept it all as ordinary. She could do it. All she had to do was not let her thoughts go there. Don’t think about it. Stay very busy. That should be easy; she was busy. Alright then, her new mantra would be: Don’t think about it. Stay busy. Don’t think about it. Stay busy. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it – period. She could do this. She had to. It was simply self-preservation. She told herself, Get busy. Don’t think. She realized she was still standing in the same spot where she had taken the phone call. It had only been a few minutes, yet felt like days. It was as though time had been inexplicably suspended, and she had been immobilized by some invisible force – frozen in place for an immeasurable interval. By an act of pure will, she physically pushed herself away from the wall, stretched her arms, rolled her neck and made herself walk to the freezer to decide what she and Billy would have for dinner that evening. Move, she told herself. Stay busy. Don’t think. Just do. She kept up the mantra until she was finally able to drive the unwanted thoughts and images from her mind. Don’t think, stay busy. Don’t think, stay busy. She turned on the counter top boom box and cranked up the volume on her CD of Il Divo, allowing them to serenade peace to her soul. Don’t think, stay busy. Don’t think, stay busy. Don’t think! No problem.