Nuts - Camilla Basham

I was young, kneeling atop ground that drank a slow faucet leak; the hem of my white linen dress soaking up the mud; my throat sore, no longer any sound, just vibration and rawness, when Henry's warm blood splattered my face, like an unexpected bitch slap, as the axe came down on his neck.

Henry's headless body jerked and ran in circles, a geyser of blood shooting out with each remaining pulse left in his flailing body. I wanted to grab him, I wanted to heat up my glue gun, the one I would use to reattach my doll's head when my brother would decapitate it, I wanted to try and put Henry back together again, but just as I entertained the idea that it might be possible, he fell at my knees with one last twitch in a pool of blood that the ground and my hem begin to suck up like a sponge.
My grandfather dropped his axe, murmured something in French and grabbed Henry by his legs, dragging him away, leaving a trail of blood soaked feathers. Henry's head stayed behind staring at me in disbelief. It's safe to say that by the look in his eyes, he was more shocked by the chain of events than I.

"Well, at least things couldn't get any worse for you poor Henry, at least it's over," I sobbed to his little head. But. just then I felt the ground vibrate under my knees, a slow rhythm pummeling the mud, picking up speed somewhere behind me, heavy breathing, a certain pungent but familiar odor. And it suddenly dawned on me that things were about to get worse. "NO." I yelled almost in slow motion as my hands pounded the blood soaked ground,but Charlie ran past me, a blur of black fur and huge paws. He locked Henry's head in his teeth in one slobbery show of triumph, shook it violently and ran off to either eat it or bury it in some secret spot in the garden. "I will never let you lick my face again, do you hear me?" I pounded the mud. He took no notice.

I figured that continuing to kneel motionless would only leave me open to more of life's horrors, Sunday mass was proof of this. So, I stood and made my way through the back door, feeling the mud squish between my bare toes along the way. I opened the screen door and stepped into the kitchen.

"Ruthie, my God, you're a mess: your dress, look at you. For crying out loud, get that off and throw it in the wash before it stains for good and go put on another dress. And wash your face and hands, it looks like you've been in a fight. "

I stood with my hands on my hips, trembling, staring at her. This woman who orders loved ones to be murdered just to dress her Thanksgiving dinner table. My face covered with mud and blood except for the clear path the tears have formed down my cheeks.

I stood my ground, " If you think for one minute that I will sit at a table with murderers, and eat my best friend, you're nuts." My voice quivered with frightful conviction.

"And I can't believe that you've shoved an onion up his butt." I say pointing at his carcass on the stove, "What kind of person are you?", I asked her expecting an answer. Wanting her to look at my blood soaked dress, the tears on my face and really understand what I was asking her.

WIth clenched fists, locked jaw. and a knot if my stomach, I waited for a reply from this woman who called her self my mother.

She took a moment , stood back from the oven, readjusted her canvass apron, held her spatula up to shoulder height like some magic wand and said, "So, just tell me, Ruthie, will you want mashed potatoes or rice with dinner?"