I'm Very Sorry That It's True

***Note: This story is based on true events. I'm not sure if it's even a story, exactly; I just wanted to tell you something and this is the way it ended up. I'm sorry that it's disturbing. I'm sorry that it's not incredibly well written. I'm very sorry that it's true.


The kids down the street are possessed. This I know.

Deena, who lives across from us, caught them beating her dog Ritz with sticks, shrieking all the while. They continued to scream in deafening bursts that rose and fell like hail as Deena brought Ritzy home by the collar. She could almost feel the pellets of noise hit her back.

Deena called the children's mother as soon as she got Ritz settled on her pillow with a hunk of comforting hambone. She explained, in the nicest way possible, that the children had been hitting her dog and screaming like banshees. Deena tried not to convey the full force of her shocked disgust. She tried not to imply that the children could use a few whacks themselves.

In short, Deena asked the mother to forGod'ssakedoherjoband give her children a talking to.

The mother agreed.

The very next day, however, the kids were at it again. Ritz ran from child to child, looking for a way out of the flashing, stinging, shrieking circle. She decided, between a rap at her hip and a thwack aimed at her snout, that she was off sticks for life.

But there, breathless and mint green in her work scrubs, was Deena. Ritz dashed behind her as the children let their weapons fall to their sides. Miraculously, their screaming also stopped, and was replaced with slack-jawed looks of surprise. The younger girl's lip wobbled a little. For a split second Deena felt bad for ruining their fun. Ritz's nudge at her knee brought her back.

But the children were walking away, forming a slumped line across the lawn. Their steps were almost in sync.

Later, with Ritz's head resting in her lap, Deena tried to remember how many children there were. She never thought to count until afterwards. And anyway, they were like a little mob, a crazed band. They were everywhere at once. One couldn't stop to count the rioters; there was too much running for one's life to be done, too many hambones to be fetched in the dusty quiet aftermath.

I see the children every day on my way home from work. Yesterday, it was just one. A girl. She stood at the edge of her driveway, feet nudging against the street where I drove. I braked, thinking she was going to cross, but she didn't. She stared at me, and through my sunglasses and the windshield and all the particles in all the air that hung between us, I could see how very blue her eyes were. I sped up again, breaking her gaze with my 0 to 30 mph.