Disturbed

Warning: this story contains violence

Claudine was, to most people who met her, disturbed. 

They called her other things of course; dumb, stupid, pathetic, disgusting, scary. But most of all, disturbed. 

She was small, in both height and width, with a face that sported a thin mouth, teeth with gaps, narrow eyes, and bushy eyebrows. "Unfortunate proportioning," Grandma Marie often commented to her father. "Not one feature blends in with the other. Although, maybe if she smiled for once, it would lighten up those dark corners a little bit…" 

But Claudine liked her dark corners, even if they did make her look disturbed. 

***

One thing about Claudine was that she never seemed to do anything. She never spoke, never made eye contact, never touched anyone. In school, she would stare blankly at the same spot on the wall, and when presented with a test or worksheet, stare blankly at that as well. "She's disturbed," her teachers would say. "There's no other explanation for it." 

"I want her to live as normally as possible," her father said to Grandma Marie after the first complaint from Claudine's teacher. "She needs to go to school." 

"And tell me, what's the use if she simply won't learn?" Grandma Marie argued. "She does nothing. She knows nothing. You might as well keep her at home. Oh, for heaven's sake, she can't even speak!" 

"And that's what makes her unique," her father hissed, abruptly ending the conversation. And so, every night onwards, he would take Claudine's homework and fill it in for her, slanting the pencil ever so slightly to mimic the shaky handwriting of a child. 

"She still won't do the tests," the teacher said to her father only a week later. "Or the worksheets I hand out in class." 

"She feels better doing them at home--it scares her in the classroom." her father replied, and so gained permission for Claudine to do her written schoolwork at her house. 

***

And yet, even as Claudine was accused of being disturbed, or unable to learn, she knew things. She knew things by watching. She watched her father talk to Grandma Marie. She watched her teachers growing continuously angry at her for not paying attention in class. She watched them all, watched the children in the playground, watched the people walk the streets at night from her bedroom window. 

"I know things," she whispered, tucked underneath the covers before she slept. "Right, Mama?" 

"That's right, my darling," Claudine's Mama would say back. 

"I know about you," Claudine said softly. "I know what happened to you after what Papa did." 

"That's right, my darling," Claudine's Mama said. That was all she ever did say to Claudine, lingering at the foot of her bed, a mere shadow of her past self. That's right, my darling. 

"I know that you miss me." 

"That's right, my darling." 

"I know that you feel pain." 

"That's right, my darling."

"I can feel your pain," Claudine said quietly. "It's big." 

"That's right, my darling. 

***

There were a few advantages of Claudine being disturbed. One of them was that the other schoolchildren were afraid of her--therefore, unwilling to harass her as they did to others. 

"Look at her," they would whisper among themselves as she walked past them. "She's cursed." 

"She's a witch," a student said.

"A demon," said another. 

"No, she's a ghost," someone argued. 

Claudine may have not spoken to anyone except her Mama, but she could still hear. She heard them say those things, and in her mind she said to herself, No. I am not a witch or a demon or a ghost. That is my Mama. 

***

Contrary to popular belief, Claudine could do many things, disturbed as she was.  She could see, and listen, and "feel things in her chest." She could also remember things. 

"I can see it in her eyes," her father said once after dinner. "She remembers it. She thinks about it a lot." 

Grandma Marie paused her crocheting and peered down at Claudine, who was sitting on the floor and gazing into the fire--watching and listening. 

"I see nothing in those eyes but the reflection of the fireplace," she decided, leaning back into her chair. 

"No, she remembers that day," her father said. He kneeled down beside his daughter, bringing his mouth close to her ear. "You remember, don't you?" 

Claudine did remember. She remembered everything; the sounds, the feelings, the smells, the blood.

***

It was when Claudine was little, merely a baby, before she became disturbed. Her Mama was there then, all the time, and she was happy. She said more than "That's right, my darling," and she was everywhere in the house, too--not just at the foot of Claudine's bed. 

Claudine remembered being happy. So was her father, but there was no Grandma Marie. Grandma Marie came after her Mama went away.

It happened in spring, just when the flowers outside Claudine's house began to bloom. Her Mama would take her outside, and pick the flowers, and put them in Claudine's lap. She would play with them, tear up the petals, throw them away. Then she would watch them float to the ground, like little ballerinas dancing in the air. 

One day, when they were coming back inside, something happened. There were loud noises. Claudine was held tightly against her Mama's chest while she ran up the stairs. Claudine was crying. She didn't like loud noises. 

They were in Claudine's nursery. And there were shapes, dark shapes of strangers. Claudine's Mama was being pushed. Then Claudine was thrown to the floor. 

Claudine remembered more screams. She remembered a foot striking out, pushing her under the crib. She also remembered pain, vibrating through her skull, and it became so much that she could not even cry. 

She could only watch the shapes of feet scuffling, more shouts, more screams, glass breaking. Then a very loud bang!  And another. Two more followed. 

Claudine was taken from the floor, in her father's arms. There was something warm and wet on his hands, and it stained the back of her dress. 

"Claudine?" her father whispered, holding her tight. "Say something. Cry for me, please." 

But Claudine did not cry. Her eyes travelled around the room, seeing two people on the floor, unmoving. And then she saw her Mama among the bodies, lying on her stomach, something wet coming from her head. 

"I am so sorry," her father said. Then he fell to the floor and wept. 

***

After that, people called Claudine disturbed. 

"To witness a parent dying, even at such a young age, is harder than anyone can imagine," one child psychologist said. "I can't help your daughter. I'm sorry." 

"You aren't dead," Claudine said to her Mama after that visit. "You're right here." 

"That's right, my darling," her Mama answered. 

"You will always be here for me, right?"

Her Mama didn’t reply. 

***

Claudine didn't think she was disturbed. No, it wasn't her. Her father was the disturbed one. He was the one who did it. He was the one who broke her Mama,  who made it so that she only came alive at night just to say the exact same words. 

And Claudine hated him for it. 

Sometimes, when he was near her, she would think very hard in her mind--I do not like you--but he would never listen. He could not hear her, not like her Mama did. 

One night Claudine said, "I don't like Papa." 

"That's right, my darling." 

"You don't like him either, do you?" 

"That's right, my darling." 

"He broke you." 

"That's right, my darling." 

Claudine clutched her pillowcase tightly. "It is all his fault," she hissed. 

"That's right, my darling." 

"I want him to go away." 

Claudine waited for her Mama's response. But she was silent. She took her face from her pillow and looked down at the foot of her bed. Her Mama was gone.

"Mama?" she whispered. "Where are you?" 

She heard a sudden rattling breath and turned around. There was her Mama, at her bedside. 

"Mama?" Claudine said again. She held her blanket up to her chin. "You are supposed to stay over there." 

Her Mama reached inside her coat pocket. She brought out something black, something metal and shiny. As her white hand clutched the handle Claudine saw something dark spread across her head, trickling down her face. 

"What is happening, Mama?" Claudine said. She shrank back. "I want you to stay over there." 

Her Mama held out the object. 

Claudine did not move. She just stared at her Mama, as the dark stains reached the neck of her blouse. 

For the first time she wanted her Mama to go away, and perhaps she would if she took the metal thing. So she held out her hand and snatched it. 

Claudine felt as if she had seen this tool before, long ago, before she was disturbed. 

She looked up. Her Mama was still there. She held up a hand and waved, then smiled with her teeth. "Goodbye, my darling," she said. Then she turned on her heel and vanished into the shadows. 

*** 

Claudine's father liked coffee. It was one of the few things he still liked. After what happened with his wife, after Claudine became disturbed, he lost taste in nearly everything he loved--including Claudine. 

"She's stupid," he said under his breath, gripping his mug so tightly his knuckles turned white. "She can't even read." 

He raised the cup to his lips and sipped, closing his eyes. "Why is she still here?" he muttered. "Why do I keep her?" 

"Because she's all you have left of her mother." Grandma Marie walked in from the kitchen. 

"She looks nothing like her." 

"But she's still part of her," Grandma Marie argued. "You love her." 

Claudine's father sighed and set down his mug on the coffee table. "I don't know anymore," he said. "I know this is not how she was meant to grow up. She was meant to be different." 

"She is different." Grandma Marie smiled sadly. "The most different little girl I have ever seen." 

*** 

Claudine got out of bed and took the metal object with her. She remembered what it was now. It was the thing that killed her Mama. The thing that made her disturbed. 

And even though her Mama was not in the room, Claudine said out loud, "I am not disturbed." 

She opened her bedroom door. Then she walked downstairs carefully, quietly, into the sitting room. 

"Why is she still here?" she heard her father say. "Why do I keep her?" 

"Because she's all you have left of her mother," Grandma Marie said as she came from the kitchen. 

"She looks nothing like her." 

"But she's still a part of her," Grandma Marie said. "You love her." 

Her father set his mug on the coffee table. "I don't know anymore. I know this is not how she was meant to grow up. She was meant to be different." 

"She is different," Grandma Marie said softly. "The most different little girl I have ever seen." 

Claudine did not like them saying those things. She came down the rest of the steps, and stood next to the coffee table. 

Her father looked up. His eyes travelled down, to her hand, where she was holding the object. 

Blood drained from his face. "Claudine?" he said. 

"Where did you get that? Claudine, give it to me," Grandma Marie said. She was behind Claudine, but she could hear the fear in her voice. Claudine liked it. 

"No," Claudine said. 

Her father's eyes widened and he rose from the couch. "Give it to me, please," he said. "Tell me where you got it." 

"No," Claudine repeated. "You killed my Mama." 

Her father's face became paler still. He shook his head. "No," he said. "I didn't mean to, Claudia. I loved your Mama." 

"You killed her." 

"No!" he pleaded. "Listen to me, please Claudia." He dropped to his knees and took his daughter by the shoulders. "It was a mess, there were so many people, so much chaos. One of the bad people dropped a gun, and I picked it up, and I didn't know what to do and I spun around and--and hit your Mama. It was an accident." He spoke in a strange voice, as if he could not breathe. Tears trickled down his cheeks. 

"You killed my Mama," Claudine said again. 

"I did," her father said. He let go of her shoulders. "Please give it to me Claudine," he said. 

"No," Claudine said. She raised the object and touched it all over, pulling and pushing and pressing. 

Her father reached out to take it from her. 

Bang. 

***

People still called Claudine disturbed.

After her father dropped to the floor, Grandma Marie fainted. Claudine went to the couch and sat down, staring into nothing, just waiting. 

When Grandma Marie woke up she ran away from Claudine. She cried and screamed. Then she called the police. 

Claudine was taken away. She did not speak, she did not struggle. She barely moved at all. She felt nothing. She heard nothing. Her mind was somewhere far away, far away from the people who wanted to hurt her. Far away from people who called her disturbed. 

She would not come back.