Fragments of Jenna's Story, Part 1
I promised my wife that I'd write a novel. She has been pushing me for years, and I'd like to make her happy. So I've decided to expand and complete the story of a little girl named Jenna. The story is about child abuse, personified in part by the Closet Monster. It's a fairly horrible story and, while I'm fairly sure that it will end well, it is a dark journey. So, just be aware of that. Also, do be aware that there is the use of harsh language in these tales.
Anyways, I wanted to get in touch with Jenna again, because I haven't spoken with her in some time. So I took a lunch break and I wrote the following piece. From time to time, I figure that I'll do this. I don't know if any of this text will end up in the final work, but that's not really the point. Rather, I want to get to know Jenna better, and this will help me do that.
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It was supposed to be a special day. She had hurried home from school to bake a special meal for him. It wasn’t much. They didn’t have much. But it was his birthday, and that should mean something, right? Scrambled eggs and toast, with orange marmalade, just like he liked them. And a small chocolate cake with candles. He liked chocolate cake.
But he was late again. By the time he had staggered in the door, the eggs were cold and the toast was rock-hard. He tossed his keys on the coffee table in the living room and threw himself onto the couch. “Jenna!” he bellowed. “Jenna! Where the fuck are you?”
Jenna approached timidly. “Happy birthday, Dad,” she said. “I baked you a cake.” She held it out gingerly.
No response. He stared at her blankly. He was drunk again. Her spirits sank, but she pressed on. “I cooked you some dinner, but it’s cold now. Um, maybe I could make you something else?”
He looked at the cake. “Is that chocolate cake?”
“Yes!” She smiled. “I baked it for you.”
He struck the plate from her hands. “I hate chocolate cake! Can’t you do anything right?” He backhanded her, knocking her to the floor. “Ungrateful bitch! I slave all day for you, and you can’t remember my favorite cake?” She tried to crawl away, but he caught her by the hair. She shrieked and kicked out blindly. He cursed and released her. Scrambling to her feet, she hurled herself for the door. Then she was outside, running, running. Blood ran down her face, mingling with her tears.
It was supposed to be a special day.
When she finally returned home, he was passed out on the couch. A single footprint crushed the cake into the floor. Carefully she slipped through the living room, trying not to wake him.
In the bathroom, she tried to clean up as best she could. Her eye was blackening, though, and there would be no way to hide that from the teachers at school. She would need a good excuse, but nothing came to mind. “Maybe I could run away,” she thought. But how would she eat? And what would happen to her father, if she left? Her mother was already dead; how would he handle another loss? Jenna knew that she needed to take care of him. Somehow. She stared at herself in the mirror. He was right, she told herself. You should have remembered his favorite cake. “Next year,” she promised her reflection. “Next year, I’ll get it right.”
She covered her father with an afghan. “I’m sorry that I’m a terrible daughter,” she whispered. “I’m sorry that I make you angry.” He stirred but did not awaken.
Bunny held her closely that night. Bunny always understood. And as Jenna fell asleep, Bunny whispered, “Good night, Jenna.”
And in the closet, a dark voice growled, “Good night, Jenna.”
Anyways, I wanted to get in touch with Jenna again, because I haven't spoken with her in some time. So I took a lunch break and I wrote the following piece. From time to time, I figure that I'll do this. I don't know if any of this text will end up in the final work, but that's not really the point. Rather, I want to get to know Jenna better, and this will help me do that.
===================
It was supposed to be a special day. She had hurried home from school to bake a special meal for him. It wasn’t much. They didn’t have much. But it was his birthday, and that should mean something, right? Scrambled eggs and toast, with orange marmalade, just like he liked them. And a small chocolate cake with candles. He liked chocolate cake.
But he was late again. By the time he had staggered in the door, the eggs were cold and the toast was rock-hard. He tossed his keys on the coffee table in the living room and threw himself onto the couch. “Jenna!” he bellowed. “Jenna! Where the fuck are you?”
Jenna approached timidly. “Happy birthday, Dad,” she said. “I baked you a cake.” She held it out gingerly.
No response. He stared at her blankly. He was drunk again. Her spirits sank, but she pressed on. “I cooked you some dinner, but it’s cold now. Um, maybe I could make you something else?”
He looked at the cake. “Is that chocolate cake?”
“Yes!” She smiled. “I baked it for you.”
He struck the plate from her hands. “I hate chocolate cake! Can’t you do anything right?” He backhanded her, knocking her to the floor. “Ungrateful bitch! I slave all day for you, and you can’t remember my favorite cake?” She tried to crawl away, but he caught her by the hair. She shrieked and kicked out blindly. He cursed and released her. Scrambling to her feet, she hurled herself for the door. Then she was outside, running, running. Blood ran down her face, mingling with her tears.
It was supposed to be a special day.
When she finally returned home, he was passed out on the couch. A single footprint crushed the cake into the floor. Carefully she slipped through the living room, trying not to wake him.
In the bathroom, she tried to clean up as best she could. Her eye was blackening, though, and there would be no way to hide that from the teachers at school. She would need a good excuse, but nothing came to mind. “Maybe I could run away,” she thought. But how would she eat? And what would happen to her father, if she left? Her mother was already dead; how would he handle another loss? Jenna knew that she needed to take care of him. Somehow. She stared at herself in the mirror. He was right, she told herself. You should have remembered his favorite cake. “Next year,” she promised her reflection. “Next year, I’ll get it right.”
She covered her father with an afghan. “I’m sorry that I’m a terrible daughter,” she whispered. “I’m sorry that I make you angry.” He stirred but did not awaken.
Bunny held her closely that night. Bunny always understood. And as Jenna fell asleep, Bunny whispered, “Good night, Jenna.”
And in the closet, a dark voice growled, “Good night, Jenna.”
posted by Seth Ben-Ezra at 5:18 PM
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