Forcing the Hands of Time

My principal's hand is warm as he gently wraps it around my wrist. I feel dirty as if slime is oozing from his pores and coating my skin. The air around him still wavers like heat rising from a dead animal in the summer sun. Perhaps it is just the comparison in my mind, but I feel I can smell the putrescence, the death waiting to come forth.

He speaks again, "Bella, what's wrong, are you feeling okay?"

His voice is edgy, unsure. He knows that I can see right through him. He knows that I can see beyond his false face and his tattered assurances. He grips my arm tighter and his approach becomes more aggressive, "We'll just have to get you some help. We'll never let those other children hurt you again. The best way to defend against them is to take preemptive action. We'll teach you all about that."

I don't even question who "we" is. I don't want anything to do with them. My father in his wisdom had warned me against them without actually telling me who they were, and he would not warn me if there was nothing to fear. I feel defiance rising in me as I try to pull my wrist free from the principal's clutches.

"Let go of me. I want my father."

My voice cracks slightly. I have never talked back to anyone in authority, but his authority does not seem to be one I should respect anymore. I don't trust him. I can't trust him, and I can not stay here. Something has gone horribly wrong in my world and it keeps spreading. My mind races as I try to remember something--anything that can get me out of this situation.

"Well, sadly, you're going to run away because you're so afraid that you'll never be accepted," he says with a horrible grin, "But I'll try to break the news to your father gently."

Something clicks in my mind and I speak, almost inaudibly but seem to draw strength for the words from every particle of my body, "Father come in answer to this rhyme, Save me quick while there's still time."

"What did you say," the principal says, his face slowly changing to a livid red as veins leap out of his forehead like rivers upon an ancient map.

"Nothing," I mumble.

"Tell me," he twists my arm cruelly, as if to wrench the words from me.

The intercom on his desk squawks, "Principal Mander. There's..."

Before she can finish, the door opens and my father enters the room. My father has never appeared so gargantuan to me before. Despite being taller and broader about the shoulders than most men, his gentleness and kindness somehow has always made him seem smaller, less threatening. However, at this moment, even I am afraid of him.

My father's face is distorted by rage. He opens his mouth as if to speak and then his eyes light upon my wrist caught in the vice of the principal's grip. His hand quickly covers the fingers that seem suddenly to be melting into my flesh and pries them away. Within seconds, I am in his arms, being held close to his chest as he finally speaks, "You are abusing the position you hold, but you shall never have my daughter. She can never become as twisted as you want."

Then we are leaving the office. The secretary stands in the doorway looking bewildered, while the principal looks angry, bewildered and helpless with his hand still half-closed as if my wrist is still caught between his fingers. I watch it all disappearing over my father's broad shoulders as tears pour once more from my eyes, "Daddy, you came. You heard me. You came."

"Yes, darling, I came. I begin to fear that you understand more than you should. Mommy is waiting. We must hurry home to mommy, so be quiet now."

His voice is soft and soothing in my ear. His touch is so gentle I can not believe that even for those brief seconds when he was prying my wrist free that I was afraid of him. In spite of the strength and anger I had never seen in him before, I still can not imagine that he could ever hurt anyone. We do not speak as he places me in the back seat and takes his place behind the wheel. Silence lingers over us as we race through the streets which have become so familiar to me, yet now seem unreal. No words fall from our lips until at last mine are opened as I can see our house, "Who are those people, daddy? Why is mommy crying?"

Five or six men and women in suits are filing in and out of the house with boxes, carrying them to a beat-up old white van parked in front of the house. One of the women is holding my mother gently like an old friend as my mother weeps on her shoulder. I turn to look at my father and his eyes are awash with tears. I have seen so much of my father that I have not seen before in the last twenty-four hours. My whole world is changing and the people I love seem different than I remembered yet I love them more for it. He tries to speak through his tears, "Honey, we've run out of time."

"Time for what?" I say, confused.

"I don't think I can explain it, but he can," he says pointing to one of the men in suits who slowly approaches the car.