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ADULT CONTENT
This article contains adult content that may not be suitable for all readers.
Child Abuse: Features severe mistreatment of children.
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They were fighting, again. Screams and yells rung through the hall as Imogen clutched her knees to her chest. The screaming always preceded her father's heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, stomping over to her door, and flinging it open. This night would be no different, and she knew it. When the argument reached a peak and stopped entirely, the house fell entirely quiet.
A horrific feeling of emptiness permeated each corner of the room, as if something had been lost. The house remained dormant, silent, as if it were turning a blind eye to the horrors within. The complete and utter silence became more distressing than when the fighting was at its peak.
10 seconds passed. Nothing.
14 seconds passed, the silence rest heavily in the air.
19 seconds passed, a glimmer of hope flared up in Imogen's chest. Maybe he had cleared his head? Or better yet maybe he left?
24 seconds passed. The house lay dormant.
26 seconds passed, and footsteps slammed onto the stairs in the hallway.
The hope vanished.
33 seconds passed, then the footsteps stopped at her door.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
"Open the door."
Her father's voice boomed through the door. Brash, overwhelming, terrifying. She knew what to expect if her hand touched that doorknob. Yet she also knew what to expect if it was left untouched. An impossible decision.
"Imogen, open the goddamn door."
She willed herself to open the door, yet found her feet stuck in place.
"3."
A tear ran down her cheek.
"2."
A whimper escaped her lips.
"1."
She pulled the door open.
Imogen sat in front of the TV, watching the characters dance across the screen against the colorful backdrop. She giggled along with the characters as she gleefully continued to eat her butter sandwich. Weekends with her Grandpa Polk were the best, he let her do what she wanted and always supported her interests. Even if for the day, her interests were limited to two slices of bread, and a hefty serving of butter between them.
Her father tried to keep her away from Grandpa Polk, spouting insults and curses and claiming he had been lost to "those freaks". Yet despite his warnings and attempts to stop her, her father always begrudgingly loaded her into the car and dropped her off on Fridays.
The car rides over to her grandfather's house would often follow the same pattern. He would rant about some horrific item Grandpa Polk exposed him to. Like a pen, that wrote in the blood of the person who used it. Imogen always thought they were just to scare her, but the amount of detail he always went into allowed a drop of belief to creep into her mind.
"Whatcha watchin kiddo?" a gruff voice rang out from behind her, ripping her back from her thoughts. She turned to see the somewhat sturdy frame of her grandfather.
"Just SpongeBob … "
"Oh these silly little guys?" her grandfather asked before handing her a SpongeBob themed playset. Her heart soared, and she dropped her sandwich on the plate to receive the gift.
"Is this for me?!" she squealed. She was unaccustomed to receiving gifts, especially when they were tailored to her interests.
"I saw this at the mart after goin' fishin'! I remembered seeing you following them along on the screen." Her grandpa took a seat beside her, moving to clap his hand on her shoulder before he hesitated, and decided against it. Imogen launched herself into his arms, and he laughed heartily. Grandpa Polk's laughs had always been a point of warmth for her.
"I love you grandpa!"
"Hey … what happened here?" Her grandfather had noticed the marks on her back, and in a single moment her happiness had submerged, lost in the vast ocean of other emotions she felt.
"Did you hurt yourself?"
Panic slowly grew in her stomach.
"These look like… belt marks?"
She felt her throat tighten.
"Who did this to you, hun?"
The room became completely silent. The only sound Imogen could hear was the pounding of her heart in her chest.
Imogen made excuses, lied, and tried throwing everything she could between her grandfather and the truth, yet he didn't flinch. She desperately attempted to bury the truth, yet he wouldn't sway. She hid it deeper than she had ever put any secret, yet he did not falter.
"Imogen, I need you to tell me who did this to you."
How? How had he remained so calm? So composed? She expected him to go get the belt, but he remained right where he was, with nothing but kindness and warmth in his eyes.
In that moment, all that was hidden was laid bare, and with each word the genuine smile he held never shifted. Her grandfather never looked away in disgust or flinched as if he could feel her pain, he simply nodded and smiled.
She cried into his shoulder, she screamed so loud that she thought maybe her father would hear her back home, and she wept until she could no more, and her grandfather never stopped holding her close.
The ride back to home was long and arduous. Despite the jokes her grandfather made and the attempts to regale her with his fishing stories, the ride home felt like a death sentence. The secret was out, and there would be hell to pay when she returned home for the week.
Her grandfather's green eyes always invited Imogen into his arms, yet as she gazed into the portrait of her grandfather that feeling was oddly vacant. Imogen slowly looked over to the large box at the end of the room, concealed behind the waves of people wearing black.
She knew what lie in the box, but she didn't dare approach it, as if keeping her distance from it would change the outcome. Maybe it was all a bad dream. Yet, as if a puppeteer was pulling her arms and legs in unison, she found herself moving towards the box.
First she saw his white mustache, then his hands on his chest, then his shirt. Her grandfather almost seemed to be sleeping peacefully, and Imogen nearly expected his chest to begin rising and falling.
Nearly as fast as she approached the box, a firm hand clasped onto her wrist and dragged her away from it. Imogen didn't even need to look to see who it was, she recognized the gruff and calloused hands that held her tightly. What she did not know was why he suddenly stopped, and why his grip loosened significantly.
Imogen glanced over to see her father engaged in a discussion with another man in a black suit. The man was unremarkable, generic, and wouldn't stand out amidst a crowd. Yet, her father seemed completely engrossed in their conversation. Imogen caught bits and pieces of their words, yet only picked up on one when her father froze. The man leaned towards her father and said "Are We Cool Yet?", and her father stiffened noticeably, like someone had pulled his strings taut.
Why had her father stopped moving? Was he in shock? Why did he start trembling? The man regarded her father for a moment longer before turning to Imogen, and extending his hand.
Imogen first looked to her father, who would normally have reacted with hostility to any intrusion between the two of them. Her father remained facing forward, as if he were afraid to face the man again. Imogen let her gaze fall back to the man, who she realized now held a box in his palm. Why was her father terrified of this man? He didn't seem imposing, his eyes almost glimmered. She reached out and gingerly took the box from the man. The man spoke one final time before leaving.
"Your grandfather loves you."
As Imogen analyzed the box in her hands and let the man's words flow over her, she failed to notice when the man disappeared back into the crowd of black clothes.
Her father finally managed to turn back to face her. His eyes still wide and frightened, like a deer in headlights. He glanced down at the box in her hands, yet when he went to snatch it from her hands, he paused before letting his hand fall to his side.
"We're leaving."
Imogen watched in awe as her father continued to glance around in a panic, she had only seen him like this when her grandfather was around. She allowed her father to pull her out of the building, and back to their car.
Much like the man, the box was entirely unremarkable. It was small, made from wood, and had a latch on the front. Imogen didn't care though, it was like a gift! Another gift that was for her and her alone, her father couldn't even take it from her. She flung onto her bed and quickly opened the box, puzzled to find a fishing lure and a small note attached to the roof of the box. Imogen let her eyes race over it.
"I lie upon the grass"
"Broken in pieces"
"I seep into the earth"
"And I hope with all my heart"
"A piece finds its way to you."
She frowned at the note as she read. A poem? For her? She had never had the chance to read a poem but she had heard about them. She turned to the lure, and looked it over. It was weathered and old, yet still shone with a glimmering mixture of green and red that melded into a bright yellow at the seams. She reached for it and picked it up, taking extra caution to avoid the rusted hooks on the lure. It felt glossy and cold, like touching a piece of glass. Footsteps nearby caused Imogen to jump and quickly hide the lure back inside the box. She was sure her father would take it away this time. Her suspicions were brought crashing down when it wasn't her father who approached, but…
Grandpa Polk?
Her breath caught in her throat.
How… How could he be here but.. she just saw him in the coffin?
He took one step forward, and Imogen backed away. He stopped and raised his hands in a calming motion, and flashed his signature silly smile. Could it really be Grandpa?
It had been nearly 3 years since Imogen came into possession of the lure, and it had granted her many talks with her late grandfather. It was great! She would feel sad or hurt by her father and she would run and hold the lure carefully, and her grandfather would be right there for her! He would talk to her and play games with her, and would make her feel safe and cared for again. It was like he never left! She could see her grandfather whenever she wanted and for however long she wanted.
Her father could do very little to stop her, as Grandpa Polk always made his exit before her father entered the room. He seemed petrified of that box, and always seemed to confirm its location in the room before entering. She even began to place it right next to her bedroom door to terrify him.
Since she began seeing her grandfather again, her father had become less aggressive. He had been less rude and slower to become infuriated. He hadn't had another outburst of anger in 4 months. She spent nearly every day talking to her grandpa, and she had never felt better!
And yet, there was something off.
She couldn't quite place it, but there was a strangeness in how Grandpa Polk talked and carried himself. It felt… off. Weird, almost artificial. Like it was her grandfather, certainly, but there were caveats to his appearances. He was never able to talk to anyone other than Imogen, and couldn't seem to remember anyone other than Imogen's grandmother, who Imogen herself couldn't seem to remember.
She reached to place the lure back into the box, then paused, before grabbing a pair of tweezers out of her mother's facial kit and using them to put the lure back inside the box.
"How's my favorite granddaughter?" Polk loudly exclaimed as he walked in from her closet. He always appeared at random, yet seemed to find a new space to enter from every time. He even rolled out from under her bed one time.
"I'm… okay Grandpa. I've had a lot of time to think."
"About what kiddo? I'm all ears! Metaphorically and genuinely, you know my ears are enormous."
Imogen laughed at the joke. He certainly joked like her grandfather.
"Well… about you, Grandpa. About you."
"Little ol' me? Did I do something? Did your grandmother find out?"
Imogen didn't laugh at this joke. It felt off, like he was reading a script from a man he was told to impersonate. Like someone was wearing the skin of her grandfather. It began to upset her, but she took a breath and remained calm. Polk seemed to pick up on this.
"Sorry hun, didn't mean to upset y-"
"I miss you." Imogen interrupted.
Polk stood in silence for a moment, his eyes racing. Imogen felt her anger rushing back. Did he not have some witty comeback this time? Did he not have a way to threaten her true memories of her grandfather this time?
"Uh, well, you have me kiddo."
Her anger flowed over.
"You're not him. You aren't my grandfather. You're an imitation."
Polk took a step back, his eyes wide and his jaw hung loose as if hoping to catch one of her words to throw back at her.
Everything flooded over at that moment. Her tightly held feelings about the lure, everything she began to think of this imposter rushed out in one torrential scream. By the end of it, Imogen's face had flushed red and her eyes were wet with tears.
"I just want Grandpa Polk back. The one who stood up to my father physically, the one who backhanded him when he confessed to using the belt on me, but he's gone. For good."
Imogen began to sob into her pillow out of both sorrow and fear. Would he turn on her the same way her father did? Was he going to attack her now that the secret was out? She dared not to lift her head from her pillow, terrified her thoughts would come to reality. Maybe he had left? He seemed very understanding from before, maybe he read the room and got out of there. Imogen slowly lifted her head from her pillow to see that he had taken a seat in her pink plastic chair from her childhood. His gaze met hers.
Her heart thumped.
Was he mad?
Did he hate her now?
Her heart thumped once more.
Maybe he was going to call for her father.
"I'm sorry." he spoke.
He didn't end his sentence with "hun" or any other term of endearment, it was just a flat statement. He began to look at his hands.
"I can't bring myself back, I know. I wish I could change that because you deserve it more than anything in the world."
He let the words linger in the air for a moment, as if waiting for them to marinate.
"I have all of my memories, I remember the time spent with you and each time I gave your father a whooping for what he did to you, but I understand. It's abnormal, it's strange to be here when… I know my body is in the cold ground somewhere."
Imogen wiped the tears from her eyes.
"I don't remember my funeral, I don't really even remember what happened to me. I just know I could do my best to brighten your day through this, since I can't be here physically anymore."
Imogen opened her mouth, but Polk held up a hand.
"I get that's not what you really want anymore, and I think you're completely right to feel that way. I get it, you probably feel like I'm preventing your grandfather from resting."
Polk paused for a moment, then met her gaze.
"But, I think I have an idea that would help us both out."
This talk was the last time she had spoken to the lure, and many years had passed. She held the box while standing in the living room of her old home. Her father's untimely death led to her inheriting the house, which she did begrudgingly due to the mass amounts of painful memories littered throughout it. She didn't hesitate to put the home on the market, and found a buyer relatively quickly.
She glanced back down at the small wooden box, weathered after years of use. After she came into possession of the box, feeling unsafe in her home became rare. No matter what happened, her grandfather would be there to help her through the aftermath.
Her… grandfather.
Grandpa Polk.
She felt the words turn sour as they traveled through her mind, like calling an imitation reality.
The being in the lure was not her grandfather. It would not ever be her grandfather, and it could not replace her grandfather.
Nothing could.
Her grandfather was gone, and the lure had become a temporary fix.
Yet… it was undeniable that the lure helped. It made coping with the loss easier, it filled the rift that was left behind, even if it was only temporarily. It's not like it was maliciously trying to behave like her grandfather.
She glanced back at the image of the family who accepted her offer to buy the home. They had three children, and they looked as if they had seen better times.
She pondered the last things he said to her before leaving on that night.
"Let me go."
She didn't want to leave the lure for someone else. Let the image of her grandfather greet another with the same love he had greeted her with, it felt wrong to send him to someone else, someone who had no relation to her.
Yet… why was she so intent on keeping the lure for herself?
She tussled back and forth with her inner thoughts before taking a deep breath, and sliding the box into the drawer in front of her.
She paused for a moment, her breath trembling and her hands shaking.
Then, she smiled.
Her grandfather was gone for good, but she felt he would be proud of her. His legacy could live on through the lure, and it would be used to help another instead of just her.
She took a deep breath and glanced back down at her phone, looking at the photo of the family who planned to purchase the house. Imogen saw this family as not just a second chance for the lure, but also a second chance for the home. It had been the setting of multiple horrific and hellish nights and days for her, but… it could be something else for them. They had the chance to change everything that happened in this home, to bring some good into it that it never had the chance to hold.
Imogen turned to leave, beginning up the stairs and out the front door, feeling her shoulders rise up and her back straighten as if the years of torment slid right off of her. She smiled genuinely for the first time in many years as she paused before the door, then took a deep breath and crossed the threshold, stepping out of the shadow of her past and into the light of her future.