Blossom's Canyon

Blossom's Canyon
1.
Most people have a mental image of pedophiles. Folks view child molesters much the same way they view the evil villains seen in comic books or cartoons. They are always cautious when caught in a crowd. "Who has a shaved head? Does anyone have a giant red P on their chest? Is anyone wearing tights?"
I suppose this image of perversion is a comfortable one, but you can no more put a face on evil than you can put a face on God. The truth is, a great majority of those who get their kicks in dark, damp closets look and sound as normal as rain. Sometimes it is an uncle, usually the one everyone loves. He is the funny uncle, always willing to do what he must to keep your face freshly smiling. Sometimes it is the babysitter. She is cool, hip, and happening. She gets good grades and has lots and lots of boy friends. There is no need to worry she will not fuck your husband, but you better keep one eye open when she is near the children. Maybe it is mother or father. Then, sometimes it is the person in the mirror. That face which has grown older along with yours; the face that pops up in all those photographs of family gatherings; the face that is closest to you, yet you seldom see.
Knowing what I know at this point in my life I have developed a theory. Not all child molesters like what they do. They realize the absurd evil they possess and would love nothing more than to eradicate it, but for some strange reason they cannot. Whether they are controlled by voices echoing between their ears, or vivid memories rapidly flickering off and on like a strobe light behind their eyes, something possesses them and fuels their insanity.
In my situation I believe many factors came to surface. I was engaged to a woman I had fallen out of love or lust with. I had just started a new job, and was fully aware of my incompetence. Then came Blossom.
The first time I saw Blossom she was swimming naked in a purple pond nestled in the center of an evergreen canyon on the south side of Pump House Branch. I was fifty yards or so away.
"Can you believe she is twelve years old?" my best friend Brandon asked.
"Who, her?" I asked in return, whispering although Brandon, Blossom, and I were the only people in the middle of east Kentucky's deepest hollow.
"Yep," he answered with a chuckle, "she could pass for eighteen. Hell, she looks too old for sixteen."
"Does she go to school?" I asked attempting to catch him in a lie. Pump House Branch has only one elementary school and I was the 'Runnin' Possums' brand new history teacher.
"She goes to your school."
"Brandon, trust me. She does not go to Pump House Branch Elementary. If she was there I would notice."
"She'll be there Monday," was his retort. He lit a cigarette which as far as Brandon is concerned is the same as declaring 'case closed.'
"Her and her daddy just moved to town last week," he continued, "They bought the ol' Simpson place right across the street from my house."
"Does she have a mother?"
"Nope. No sisters either, damn it. Just her an' paw. But I gotta tell ya she don't look nothin' like her ol' man."
The sky was lavender, like a plum, and as odd as it may seem it had not been before. Brandon and I began fishing that morning just prior to the crack of dawn. The skies were crystal clear and blue as electric from sun up on; until that very moment. The sky appeared to reflect her hair. Even from a distance, Blossom had the reddest hair I have ever come to know. It was so dark it bordered the edge of purple. Deep curls spilled across her naked shoulders and shined in the sun like fiery rain. The image of her body was slightly blurred by the distance. Still I could see all I needed to see. Physically she had all the maturity of my beloved fiancé who, although young and beautiful herself, was more than ten years Blossom's elder. Blossom held such a deep allure. It was almost comforting. She looked so natural; for a moment I failed to notice she was naked.
"What's her name?" I asked.
"Blossom."
2.
As prophesied by Brandon, Principal Blevins escorted a new student into my class Monday morning. As bright lights do, she shined even brighter when up close. She had evergreen eyes and a body so tight I could barely withstand the righteous image of her for more than a few seconds. I knew she was too young but I can no more control the reflexes of the mind then I can the reflexes of the body.
The students instantly formed a coalition against her. She was accepted by no one; not even the geeks. The boys were too frigid with intimidation to speak to her. She was not merely cute. She was a fantasy girl. Girls who live in fantasies are a lot like monsters who live in nightmares. If you happen to see either of them in real life you are too scared to function.
The girls, of course, were jealous. Whenever she would greet them in the halls they would giggle and rotate their eyes sarcastically toward the rest of their clique. Blossom did not seem to mind.
I had an advantage the pimple speckled boys in my class did not have. I had slightly more age and slightly more wisdom. I made it my goal immediately to become Blossom's favorite teacher. She surprised me yet again by partaking in the game. She knew she had me in her pants and used it to her advantage. She would linger around her desk, as the other students funneled out the door, waiting to be alone with me. Sucking and slobbering at the tip of a lollipop she would lay her homework on my desk and smile wickedly. Her clothes were always revealing, but Principal Blevins never said a word. Thank God for male principals. Blossom definitely had an ace in the hole and knew exactly when to bet.
3.
I believe she did it on purpose. After all, to her it was a game. She was too smart to simply drop a note to the floor with such little care, especially a note discussing a subject as intense as rape.
Apparently she found a good 'boy' friend in Bernard. Bernard was a skinny, plain looking boy. He was an average student. I had taken notice early to the relationship he and Blossom were developing. I was not intimidated by Bernard. If Hell froze over and Blossom actually decided to date him it would not matter. He would have no idea what to do. Their relationship was not romantic. Bernard was willing to settle for being just her best friend and no one else accepted Blossom so his chances of gaining her favor were good.
They had been passing the note all through my class. This pissed me off but I held my tongue for my pet. Blossom uncharacteristically rushed out the door when she heard the bell that day. In her rush the note fell from her notebook and lay trampled on the floor. Bernard's writing was in customary blue. Blossom's color of choice was pink.
"what's wrong?"
"don't wanna say right now, doll..."
"did you get it?"
"you mean the test?"
"yo..."
"i got it. it's negative..."
"you gonna tell somebody?"
"can't..."
"why?"
"just can't, sweetness...."
"what if he does it again..."
"i can't run away from home, Barney..."
"they'll take him to jail..."
"just drop it... i don't want to talk about it right now.. sorry so bitchy... love ya, precious... call ya later."
The note left me powerless. My knees quivered and the quiver slithered from knees to stomach to spine. I had to sit at Blossom's desk to prevent myself from fainting. I could smell her perfume drifting down my nostrils and dancing at the tip of my tongue. The seat was still warm. The heat of her body tickled my twine. I could taste her sweat and hear her moans. Something deep within my soul came to bloom and was harvested. Suddenly my purpose was clear. The thought of her innocence, so sticky and sweet, stolen and squandered by her very own father was more than unsettling. It was unholy. As her teacher I had an obligation to report her case to Social Services, but I was a man before I was a teacher. My duties as a man consisted of more than merely filling a report. My chance had come to be her hero.
I sat alone, with the buzz of morning break echoing from the hall and the playground. I knew then and there my theory was true. Everything about Blossom was deep and dark, including her secrets. In some mysterious, carnal fashion her secret made her even more alluring.
The bell rang snapping me back into the conscience world. I jerked at the sudden sound of the bell and before my reflexes had a chance to react I felt a warm trickle on my thigh. For the first time in my life sans diapers I had pissed in my pants.
4.
"I call this forty four magnum," Brandon boasted as he spread ten thin slips of paper across the kitchen table like a gambler showcasing his card tricks, "I call it forty four magnum because if you play with it, it will blow your head clean off."
"Is that acid?" I asked rather scornfully.
"You bet your balls," he replied.
"I'm not going to take acid. No way!"
"Come on," Brandon whined childishly, "you're getting married Sunday. You'll have the rest of your life to be a square. Tonight you need to live, my man. Get wild, this may be the last chance you'll have."
He had a point. I had not exactly been itching to walk down the isle. The more I pondered the issue the more I realized just how much my beloved would freak if she thought I had tripped acid. More than anything her disapproval of drug abuse is what convinced me to take Brandon up on his offer.
"Take two hits," he instructed like a pro, "just slip 'em under your tongue and let ‘em dissolve."
DISSOLVE... DiSoLvE... disolve... evlosid... Evlo Sid... EVIL SID...
Over and over the word dissolve revealed itself in many forms. The acid tablets dissolved. The walls dissolved. My skin dissolved. It is possible to feel the earth moving. Just because you feel it in your head does not make it any less real. I had never been HIGH until those two hits of acid. Had I been home I believe I could have relaxed and tripped smoothly. I was not at home. I was at Brandon's. Everything was odd and not in its right place. There was too much light in the room. Even though it was the dark of dusk, still the room was flushed with a gluttonous blanket of fluorescence. I could not breath. The thick, smoky glow clogged my lungs like nicotine tar.
My mind changed gears and suddenly my brain was filled with cigarette smoke. The hearty smell of a freshly lit Marlboro was alive, literally. It spoke my name. I sat in Brandon's kitchen puffing vigorously on imaginary cigarettes.
"Oh, yeah," Brandon howled, "you're trippin!"
"I'm okay."
"You're trippin'!"
"I need a cigarette," keep in mind I had never smoked a cigarette in my life.
"Go over to Benny's an' get ye a pack."
Benny's was the mini-mart down the street from Brandon's. With its flashing neon sign, and well lit gasoline island, Benny's did its part to add extra glistening to the already over lit room.
"I think I will," I said, wondering if I could.
"Do you think you can do it without freakin' out?"
"I'm cool," I said trying to determine whether or not I was already standing.
"Do you want me to go with you?"
"Naw, I'll be right back."
My mind eased a tad once I felt the cool, fresh air. Although I was still tripping balls, I felt I had enough composure to buy a pack of smokes. The lights were bright inside the store, but I was able to preoccupy my mind with a lust for nicotine.
There were two other people inside. The clerk was a teenage boy who more than likely dropped out of high school. If not he definitely should have. Golden oldies spilled from the loud speaker, "I can see clearly now the rain is gone..." The clerk had a dumb, lazy look about him. A coal miner stood at the counter counting out bills to pay for his petroleum.
"Is that all, man?" the clerk asked.
"No, I want everything you've got in the register."
"i can see all obstacle in my way..."
Both clerk and miner chuckled.
"I wouldn't," the clerk advised, "try any of that shit with me an' I'll pull this 9 mm I've got under the counter here an' give your head a full tank of regular leaded."
"there is the rainbow I've been waiting for..."
Everything snapped. Logic and reason were gone. My heart gave my ears a blood quenched pounding. The flesh thirsty beat fueled my buzz. My fangs were moist. I was erect with erotic anger. Through the window I could see Blossom's house. A few windows were glowing orange. A few windows were licorice black. The house smiled like an eerie jack o'lantern. The brittle, bony fingers of dead elms in the yard clawed the bricks laboring to somehow touch the evil inside. Shadows spackled the wall like personified cracks in the plaster. Blossom's shadow was seductively curved, an ebony ghost gliding without footsteps along the wall. The shadow of her father was a slumped, decrepit demon with chest heaving in hungry anticipation.
"look straight ahead, there's nothing but blue skies..."
My hand found the scout knife stashed in my pocket, and with one super sonic flip I brought the blade to life. Like a spring I spiraled over the counter. Later I would discover my bionic leap strained a muscle. At the time I did not feel the pain. My forearm locked in python position around the clerk's throat. I held the tip of my blade just close enough to break his first layer of skin.
"Make one move and I'll gut you," I snarled, the clerk did not chuckle.
"What do you want?" he asked, too petrified to tremble.
"I want the gun you've got under the counter."
"Its just got one bullet in it, so you better make it count."
"One is all I will need."
Slowly he caressed the gun beneath the bar. That is when the trembling began. I could see cold sweat bubbling on his cheek lubricating my blade. I do not know if he ever considered turning the gun on me. I am sure it crossed his mind. He was a good boy, regardless. He handed me the gun satisfying my hunger thus limbering my erect arm.
The friction between my feet and the side walk was sizzling, melting my sneaker's soles. I gripped the gun's handle so tight my fingers were bleeding. Brandon's front door opened regurgitating white light. Brandon stood a silhouette before the bright, ivory back drop.
"Where you goin', man?" he shouted, "hey, you're goin' to the wrong house!"
Blossom's front door was unlocked. I stepped inside as casually as I would enter my own bathroom. Her father sat slumped in a lazy boy watching television. His back was to me. He did not hear my grand entrance. There was a wedding on TV. The wedding march was arsenic to my ears.
"it's gonna be a bright, bright sunshiny day..."
The miserable fuck slouched in the recliner oblivious to anything outside the domain of TV land. He looked far too old to be the father of a pre-teen. His hair was untamed and shot from the scalp like icy stalagmites. His hideous breathing was intense the way I figured it must have been when his slippery fingers slithered beneath her dress.
"if there is anyone among us who sees reason why this man and woman should not be joined in matrimony speak now or forever hold your peace... i can see all obstacles in my way.. what God has joined together let no man put asunder... gonna be a bright, bright sunshiny day..."
My wrist elevated and the gun ejaculated. Cotton and brains plastered the walls. On a blood bathed television screen the scarlet bride awaited her groom's kiss. The ringing of gunshot morphed into a shriek from behind. Blossom entered the room. The sight of her defaced father was too much for her to bare. She hit her knees. Tears streamed. Her mouth molded into a silent scream. Her abdomen trembled. She was trying to vomit out the sound. One word bubbled and boiled until it spewed from her lips hot and coarse like the squeal of a new born baby.
"Daddy..."
"Blossom," I felt the need to comfort her, after all I was her hero, "don't worry. I am not going to shoot you."
"Why did you kill my daddy?"
I took a knee next to her and she began to shuffle away.
"I found the note you and Bernard wrote in my class."
She was silent and shaking.
"I know your father raped you, Blossom. It's okay. Now, he will never touch you again."
"Oh god," she gagged and this time vomited more than words, "oh god! No! No!"
She turned her eyes to the heavens and whaled for the comfort of angels.
"The note," she stuttered, "the note was about Brandon. The man who lives next door."
The room was alive with flashing blue and red lights. I figured the lights must have been a figment of my imagination. I stood there transformed. Bells and whistles rang from deep within. Demons laughed and angels cried. Standing in the midst of a gun smoke haze I died. I became walking, talking, breathing death. My soul expired and only blood and bone were left.
As it turned out, the lights were real. The mini-mart clerk called the police. My wrist fell limp. The gun lay smoldering on the floor.
"i can see clearly now the rain is gone..."
As they cuffed me and read MIRANDA in the customary style, I shifted my gaze to Blossom still huddled in the corner with her salty eyes never blinking. Seeing her there, so vulnerable and confused, I realized something for the very first time. She was only twelve years old.