*   *   *

Thunder rumbled over head, shaking her little home with an intensity unusual for October  in Chicago.  From where she lay curled in her bed, uttering groans and small yelping cries, the lashing of trees and pattering of rain amplified her nightmares.  She was cold and hungry, the scars which rippled like lightening down her body were ablaze with a painful throbbing from the frigid damp.

She is fitful and restless, her sleep coming in snatches as her past declares war on her weary mind.  Her legs scrambling for purchase as she tries to run from those boys that hurt her, that keep her chained or caged as they take turns jabbing her, taunting her, screaming at her.  She once again feels the pain of the powder they forced up her nose, the blinding rage it caused her,  a terror of growling fury so foreign to her nature.  She is blindly snapping at them in her sleep, trying to take the sharp sticks from their hands as they stab at her.  She is heartbroken and furious, confused, bewildered, and bloodthirsty.  In her dreams, she can never outrun them, can never catch a hand, deliver a punishing rebuke, and is forever the frenzied receptacle of their heartless cruelty.

Her dreams slide on in the darkness as the storm drifts through, her powerful body, heaving in time with the rain as she takes her weary breaths.  She has escaped her childhood for now, and is curled up by Bertie's warm fire.  She is at peace, her appetite sated, her fears at a distance.  She has come to know another side of human nature.  She knows patience, she knows touch without pain, she has discovered looks of concern and of fondness.  She knows the scent of good intention, of meals regularly provided, the feel of another warm body to trust and curl up to.  For the first time in her young life she knows kindness and love, and the rising feeling within her of fierce loyalty and undying protection for these unexpected gifts. 

Bertie had appeared like a whirlwind one day, in her housecoat and slippers, with a leash in one hand, and a pork chop in the other, and had taken her away from the bad men.  Had shown not an ounce of fear of them, or Shiloh, and had taken her home, just like that.  Still a puppy at 5 months, half starved and badly marred, she looked like an old dog getting ready to crawl off and die.

                                                            *   *   *

"Bring the child and her mother into me" he squealed, as he once again stroked his chin, daubing at the corners of his mouth where the Pavlovian dribble began to seep from the corners of his mouth.

"Yes sir, right away sir."  replied the chauffer, this current task one of many unpalatable acts required of him to remain "employed".

He stared down into the questioning eyes of a tassel headed girl of no more than eleven years of age, putting his hand on her back, and prodding her along into the study of his master.  He jerked his head at the mother, a woman of questionable repute, whom he had found lingering amongst the lonely truckers at the Pine Cone Restaurant off Interstate 87, motioning her to follow.

"My, my, my!  Aren't you a little beauty!"  Quindley remarked, as he uncrossed his legs touching down his tall black boots with a click.  Hands on boney knees, he hunched over in his chair for a closer inspection.

"What shall I call you princess?  How about Sammie?" 

The cold grey eyes with the bloodshot lines settled on hers, silencing her in horror before she could even begin to utter the name "Kristin" in response.  She had seen this look before in a few of her mother's boyfriends, and knew from experience it would be best to remain quiet, to blend into the background.  She could sense the evil emanating off this thing, passing itself as human, by the scents sheeting off of it in her direction.  But then it didn't take her particular talent to discern this in her questioner, all one had to have was a set of eyes and a modicum of sense.
 

"Come to me my darling girl, we are going to play a little game.  You like games, do you not?"

She did not.  She couldn't seem to shake his gaze, break eye contact, and felt herself unwillingly closing the distance to this hideous, grinning, thing.  Waves of fear and nausea assailed her as the rotting scent of him overcame her to the point of dizziness.  Eyes locked on his, she was powerless, feeling herself on a downward spiral into a void of lunacy and decay.  She could see and smell those boney, shriveled hands descending on either side of her face.  As the Maestro held her head between his hands, he inched his face ever closer to hers, taking in her essence.  The chauffer heard him start to sing to her, and tried to look away. 

Too late. 

She stood stalk still and silent, but he didn't escape the screaming present behind those large brown eyes.

                                                            *   *   *

The rain had stopped, and Shiloh arose, shaking the length of her body to ward off the stiffness.  She poked her nose out of her den and tested the air.  Her stomach rumbled as she stretched her body and headed out.  She trotted out along the banks of the Chicago River, marking objects with her scent as she went, a warning to any other strays that this was her home now.  Back the fuck off.  She needed to feed, and so began the habitual rounds of her neighborhood.