Trophies for No One

Her children are less a responsibility and more of a reminder of victory, however Pyrrhic. She's bored by them and doesn't even really want them around, but her divorce was ugly and, well, she wanted to "win." Full custody escaped her, but the 50/50 arrangement is enough to make her smile. Her ex-husband already has complete custody of three other children by two other women, and she'd be damned if he got her three. It is an empty victory, but a victory nonetheless.

***

"Mom, can we play Battleship?" Jasmine asks. She's the eldest child, 11 years old, and a complete tomboy. She's going to be attractive, of this there's no doubt in anybody's mind, but she doesn't let her mother comb her hair or dress her up. It's a secret source of annoyance for the mother.

"I'm watching television. Play in your room and be quiet." One might think there'd be a pang of guilt in such a response, but the doctor is just about to save the life of a wounded paraplegic who looks like the doctor's dead fiancée and, come on now, who wants to miss that?

Jasmine walks away, her frown barely hidden. She pauses during her retreat when she hears her mother stir suddenly, but apparently that is simply the result of a cliffhanger ending eliciting a subdued disappointment at reading "To Be Continued..." on the screen. Jasmine can barely make out the beginning of a Viagra commercial as she closes her bedroom door.

***

Harlon is 10 and plans on being a ninja when he grows up. Or a pirate. Despite his youth, even he finds it silly that adults seem to canonize such ridiculous historic figures as being the epitome of bad-ass. It wasn't too long ago that he was afraid to think of the word "ass," but ever since his parents split, it somehow worked its way into an acceptable vernacular... though some of the faculty at his school don't seem to think so. He called himself the Ass Ninja on the playground one day, and subsequently endured a conversation with the Principal over an inappropriate topic that Harlon knew nothing about. Ah, well... the bliss of childhood.

So now he's just "The Ninja." Use of "The" when addressing him is mandatory.

His mother has fallen asleep at her computer, and he can't resist the target. After all, ninjas have to practice stealth constantly, lest the skill erode from disuse. In any other moment, the slight trail of drool on the left side of his mother's mouth would have made him laugh. This time, though, he's on a mission. Memories of hide and seek and scary stories rush through his young mind. He imagines his mother laughing - something he's not seen in a while - and submitting him to tickle torture.

The gash on his forehead from the now-broken laptop was not what he'd been expecting.

***

The youngest child is Sage, and she's 8. She's also the smart one. Sounds odd, sure, but anyone who has spent time with all of the children come to this conclusion. Not as pretty as Jasmine, though much more girly, her ability to read people is likely what caused ancient man to start believing in ESP. As soon as she was old enough to form an cognitive thought, she knew her mother to be an angry woman. She recognized every smile for a facade and despised the puppy-dog voice when her mother was pretending to be comforting and caring. As a result, Sage didn't let her mother comb her hair or dress her up, either. Those activities were reserved for her aunt.

Sage just stayed out of her mother's way. She did exceedingly well in school, reading at a grade level three above her own, and excelling in the arts. It was during a drawing exercise that her teacher noticed Sage's illustration of her family contained a female monster, tinted in blue. Upon questioning, Sage replied, "That's mom. She hates us."

***

The father is, naturally, oblivious to any of this. Dealing with five children - one had finally left the roost - is more than he can realistically handle. But, he, too, savors the empty victory from the custody arrangement. Still, though one cannot argue that he genuinely loves and enjoys his children, he fails to provide them with a sanitary place to live and healthy meals to eat. Nature and nurture do not peacefully co-exist in the lives of these children.

***

Her mother is less a responsibility and more a reminder of victory, however Pyrrhic. Sage is the smart one, and her education and subsequent career proves this beyond any reasonable doubt. Like a cliché, Jasmine became a stripper, struggling to support two children of her own. As his stereotype, Harlon became a thief and makes his home in a state penitentiary. Sage, though, earned a doctorate in history - her favorite subject - and became a published author. She never married; never had children, choosing instead to concentrate on her work and reside within her own mind... the only safe place she's ever known. Her imagination prolific and adept; surpassed only by her memory.

Such a combination could only lead to tragedy, and it has.

By the time her father died, he needed a cane to walk. At the end of it all, he became an apologetic and sentimental man, evidenced by the names of his eight children - he had remarried - etched in his walking stick. Always his favorite, he gave the cane to Sage, knowing that she would not want or need anything else in his relatively frivolous estate.

The day after the funeral, with dad no longer around to bear witness and be disappointed in her, she beat her mother to death with it.

A final trophy, stored in an evidence bag, forever lost to the world.

Just Desserts

She's caught. Red-handed and with no way out. No excuse, she knows, will be good enough to dispute her undeniable guilt. But what, she wonders, gave her away?

The action was clean, wasn't it? There were no immediate witnesses, and the theft was quick and silent. The merchandise was left out in the open with no guard, no lock, and no key.

Then it comes to her. As her accuser towers above, scold and indictment readying themselves on lips, she sees it all. A sudden awareness empowers her and she scans the surrounding area. There was too much evidence left behind.

There are small pieces of bread - minute, even - scattered upon the kitchen counter. The result, no doubt, of a clumsy grab and a hasty retreat into the living room. There is cinnamon powder shaken into the air, settling in barely visible blotches on the floor and in the carpet, and still wafting through all-too-visible mists in the reflections of invasive sunbeams.

She was told to wait until after dinner, but she just couldn't. No, she couldn't... those muffins just looked too delicious to insult by waiting to eat them.

Her mother stands before her, eyes glaring, spatula in hand (clearly about to become an improvised paddle). "What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?"

Guilt overwhelms her. Less for the crime and more for the fear of any ensuing spanking. But then, a moment of clarity. Of significance. Perhaps her young mind is on to something.

"I got you a muffin," she says innocently, handing the muffin in her left hand - the one she had yet to take a bite from - out to her mother.

Laughter erupts, and wink and smile assure her that she'll not be punished today. It is a monumental victory for a 5-year-old, and she revels in it.

Still, she got caught. This fact disturbs her developing imagination. She is not yet, it seems, quite clever enough.

She'll have to rectify that.