Momma don’t do that! the little girl thought in her head, brushing her dolly’s hair.
Her mother glanced up at her, a look of hatred on her face. The same way she always looked at the little girl, the same way her momma had always looked at her. It was like this momma could hear the child’s thoughts.
The little girl glanced down at the doll, averting her eyes from her mother’s sharp stare, hoping the blows wouldn’t come this time if she sank her tiny body closer to the wall, disappearing into the shadow of the couch she was never allowed to sit on.
The mother kept glaring.
‘I-I’ll take out the trash, momma,’ she whispered, clearly yet quietly, head down, eyes averted, before she darted away. She grabbed the empty bag from the kitchen, threw a new one into the pail, and took off running down to the swamp, bare feet pounding the path she had carved for herself.
Panting she reached her favorite tree. She looked up at the Bog Monster. That was what she called him. Bog Monster. He was an old tree that covered the entire clearing in the swamp. His great arms swung and heaved at moontide, and the vines covering him were like ropes chaining him to the ground. He’d be there with her in the best and worst times of her life.
She siddled up to the tree, and sat on her favorite branch. She nestled against the Bog Monster’s thick, lichenous overgrowth and watched as he erased her footprints in the mud for her, keeping her safe. So momma can’t find me here she thought. The tree lurched with the wind, whistling in accordance with her thoughts.