Good Girl

Cara had never seen a monster before. And this monster had chains. As they rattled more, her eyes widened. She heard laughter behind her; Mrs. Sweeney and her husband stepped out onto the front of the hotel with Cara’s parents.

“Summers here are beautiful. Olgreen is really the place of sun.”

“Olgreen” or “Allgreen” as Cara liked to call it in her head, was a small residential, seaside area lined with hotels, small cafes, homes, that, unlike the name, was not green. At all. And the chain continued to rattle, this time accompanied by a low guttural growl, much like a groan. If Cara closed her eyes, she could see a man in that room, the heavy chains around his neck, covered in blood, with one hand stretched towards her in anguish.

“Stop that, Cara!”. Her father would scold her, not because she was wrong, but because he liked to be right. “Go, play outside”

Cara was always outside. Walking, and no adult ever asked why a 13-year-old was walking along wooded areas. Alone. Always alone. Until a car would stop, and the person behind the wheel would open the door.

“Hey, little lady, are you lost?”

“No, thank you.”

“Jump in, I can take you where you want to go”

“I am fine”.

Sometimes, she’d scream and they’d leave.

But now, Cara doesn’t scream. She stares at the chain as its rattling increases. The growl has stopped.

“Dad, I think IT died!”

Cara’s father takes two wide steps towards her and grabs her by her elbow. Cara cowers. He hisses in her ear.

“Stop that now, Cara!”

Mrs. Sweeney looks her dead in the eye, and Cara shivers under the 70-year-old woman’s cold eyes.

“Monsters should be left alone, Cara”.

“Is there a monster in there, Mrs. Sweeney?"

“She is a monster now. But she used to be my Good Girl.”

The old folks departed for the main building, and Cara sits on the steps and looks up at the window again. The chain continues to rattle

It’s raining when Cara catches the misshapen figure of Mrs. Sweeney, down below, carrying the body of the monster to her red Fiat, in their new accommodation within room no. 1221

Her father nods to Kim to usher her away and then continues to smirk his way through a conversation entirely about him and his new post as Manager in The Sweeney.

The chain continues haunting Cara even when she finishes high school, then college, LGBTQ pride, a new HERS house, a new NOT HERS house, moving out, moving in, starting a new job, quitting the new job, getting another job, a better job, getting fired from the new better job.

Now at 31, she babysits dogs, and this dog wants to be human. Or rather his owner, a Miss Slocombe needs her ‘booboo’ to speak, so she bought him a shitload of toys and toys on the side of toys, that will aid his “cognitive behavior”. Cara looks down and mutters something.

Miss Slocombe stops stroking ‘booboo’, a smile is frozen on her pale lips.

“I am sorry, did you say something?”.

It’s just a dog. Dogs are supposed to be dogs. Not human.

Why do people never realize that? Why do they see a dog and want to turn it into their own version of Animal Farm?

“Good girl”. Slocombe resumes stroking the dog.

Cara’s head shoots up. The memory of Sweeney stirs until it becomes alive in front of her eyes: a small rectangular window, chain rattling, her father laughing with Mrs. Sweeney, and her rotting teeth.

“I am sorry, did you say something?”

“She is Good Girl, and I am Harriett, Harry for short”.

Their entwined hands linger a bit, Harry’s eyes linger a bit, but Cara is not interested in falling in love. Falling in love is as ridiculous as a dog learning how to “speak”.

Cara breaks off first.

“Good girl, come here now!”

The tissue box is gone, hurled towards the direction of Good Girl, who now has her teeth bared, so much, that Cara can only think of Gremlin to describe this dog, or Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; biting when she is happy, licking when she is annoyed.

“You look like a Gremlin”. Cara says and hops on her one bare foot, and onto the couch. Her hand reaches for the TV remote and then stops. The chain. Out there. In the night.

She slips on her sandal and walks over to the door. After a pause and a breath, she opens the door and pulls back when a gust of hot air hits her face. Summers in Louisiana are getting hotter and hotter, and for a brief while, Cara considered moving. Abroad. Europe, maybe?

“Is someone there?”

Behind her, Good Girl barks. Cara flinches and cocks her head to the left. From somewhere, the faint clanging, no, rattling is heard.

Now, she is walking across the street. Good Girl continues to bark, but Cara’s eyes and ears are pointing her to the chain. Always the chain. The first branch catches her in the face, and her cheek is left bloodied, but she carries on. She needs to carry on. Her feet will not stop. Her mind is racing. Her father grabbing her. So many times. He liked to grab her and hiss ever so slowly in her ear. Cara shudders, and the rattling continues.

Her hands fly to her throat. In front of her, she hears a low growl, much like a groan. A groan of pain.

“Is it you?”

And then

“Are you there?”

She feels the rain then on her shoulders, even though the heat is stifling, the rain that fell heavily on that day when Cara followed Mrs. Sweeney all the way to her car, and she saw her put the body of the dog in the trunk. Then she remembered screaming as Mrs. Sweeney turned to look directly at her.

“Mrs. Sweeney, I am sorry, don’t!”

“Monsters should be left alone, Cara”.

Cara reaches a clearing now. The grass looks soft and inviting as her achy body hits the ground. The rattling continues.

Good Girl