Chapter 4-Undiagnosed Case

~*Chapter 4-Undiagnosed Case*~



The afternoon sun was going from being warm to being sweltering as summer progressed on. In August of 1851, the heat of Atlanta was practically multiplying as summer progressed. Summer temperatures in Georgia did not typically end until well into October.

Abigail was walking the fields with Charles, her husband. Their five-year old son was inside the house looking after his three-year old sister. There were plenty of servants around to make sure that the both of them stayed safe. All the same, Abigail could not help looking back toward the house every few seconds, straining her ears for the sounds of children in distress.

“Abigail, dear, you are acting strangely this evening. Is anything the matter?” Charles asked, taking one of his wife’s hands in his own.

Abigail did not even appear to notice his effort to get her attention. She watched the house for a few seconds, then turned back around and said, “I’m sorry; did you say something?”

Charles sighed. “That’s exactly what I mean, Abigail. You keep looking back at the house as if it might catch fire at any moment. What is bothering you?”

Abigail was silent for a moment. She knew exactly what was bothering her; the only problem was that she had kept it a secret from Charles for a whole year. She wasn’t about to bring it up now. She looked down to her arms and saw the scars. They stood out pink against her pale skin. But, in comparison to the scar on her chest, those little arm scars might as well have been as sheer as water. She always tried to keep her chest scar covered up. It was long, deep, and red. It looked as if the injury could have occurred a day or two ago. It was hard to believe that a whole year had passed since she had gotten most of her scars, including the sickening scar on her sternum.

“Nothing,” she said.

“If you do not want to tell me, that’s your own prerogative,” Charles said, “but I want you to know that you haven’t got to keep things from me. I can take anything you may be holding back. I’m strong enough.” He grinned, hoping to coax the secrets out of Abigail. But she would not budge.

“You could never handle this. You think you could, but your mind would never even be able to comprehend what is bothering me.”

“Try me.”

Abigail sighed in frustration. He might as well have been begging her to divulge one of the darkest secrets of her life. This was the one that she would have taken to the grave if she had had the option. A series of images played back in her head.  A dead rabbit . . . a little girl in a bloodstained dress . . . her innocent smile . . . the speed with which she closed the gap between them and took Abigail’s hand . . . the sound of shouting . . . the pulling of hair . . . the smacks and blows aimed at the girl’s head . . . the girl lunging . . . a sudden flash of teeth . . . a shriek of pain . . . blood flowing freely like water . . .

It was all too horrible to recall. Abigail watched these images flicker through her mind as if she was a spectator, seeing this incredible display of hatred and violence for the hundredth time. These images haunted her, day and night. Abigail could not get a break. Every moment that her mind was not occupied with something, this scene out of a horror movie permeated her mind. She saw each image as if she had already lived it, and she did not wish to live any of it again. It was painful enough to remember the incident . . . but to tell Charles about it, that would be worse. It would be torture at its finest.

“What did you say?” Abigail asked.

“I said ‘try me’.”

Abigail took a breath. “Okay,” she said.

What? ‘Okay’? What was she thinking? I must be losing my mind again, she thought. Did I not just re-live the event in my head, and did I not just go over each of the many reasons why I should not – could not – tell Charles about this? But she must have been reverting back to the insane state created by adrenaline, because she opened her mouth and spoke.

“Charles, have you ever wondered how I got these scars?”

He looked surprised. He must not have been expecting a reference to those demonic tattoos in answer to his question. Surely, the scars were not causing her to continually look back at the house every ten or fifteen seconds.  They couldn’t.

“Yes, I have wondered. But you told me how you got them,” he said.

“And you believed that charade that I put on about the fox attack? I’d have thought that you would be more discerning than that, dear.”

What was she saying, Charles thought. Had she really just called him thick in the head? And what was all this about a charade? The fox attack must have been how Abigail had gotten those monstrous scars. What else could have done that to her?

Charles did not reply, but he did not need to; Abigail continued on.

“I have never been attacked by a fox. I got these scars from an entirely different confrontation. There was a . . . conflict between myself and someone else.”

“And you are trying to tell me that it was they who gave you those scars?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly, Charles was outraged. A million and one thoughts raced through his head all at once. Who had done this to his lovely Abigail? Had they picked a fight with her, or she with them? What sort of weapon had been used to make cuts that deep? Why would Abigail be involved in a fight anyway? Had she been spending time with someone that he did not know about? Someone abusive? And, if so, why had she not come to him? Why had she refused to tell him the truth for so long?

“Have you got the person’s name?” he asked roughly.

“Yes,” Abigail said, “but I do not feel rightly inclined to say.”

“Abigail, if someone hurt you, I want to know who he or she is. Maybe we could take this to court, or we could settle this somehow. I just don’t want you getting wounded again. It is hard for me to see you in pain, or to see the remnants of pain branded into your skin,” Charles said, trying his hardest to keep his patience and explain himself before making demands like a madman.

“I . . .” Abigail stuttered. She suddenly felt uncertain. Why had she even brought this up? Why, after a year of secrecy, was she unexpectedly disclosing this type of information? Of course, Charles had a right to know; it was his daughter, after all. But, Abigail couldn’t help thinking that this was a bad idea. If she told him this, he would think she was losing it. Or worse, he could believe her, and hate Constance for the rest of the poor girl’s life. No, Abigail told herself. He will never believe this story. But, all the same, she couldn’t shake the nagging fear that Charles just might not find her story too far-fetched to begin with.

“Would you really like to hear the name?” she asked tentatively.

Charles nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

After a deep breath, Abigail spoke. “Her name is Constance. Constance Rosehaven. Our daughter.”

There was a long silence. Abigail stood, tensed, waiting for the blow that would follow. It might not be a physical strike, but Charles would undoubtedly strike out mentally and emotionally. He would say something like, “Abigail, I think you should get inside, out of the sun.” For all she knew, he might even go so far as to tell her that she must have been imagining things, because there was no way that Constance, sweet little Constance, would ever hurt someone as badly as Abigail had been hurt. The silence stretched on. Abigail got more and more nervous as the seconds ticked away. The time ticked like a metronome in the back of her mind. Tick . . .  tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .

“Charles,” Abigail blurted, “you’ve got to believe me when I say that our girl has some rather intimidating problems. You have seen it; do not dare deny it. Sometimes, she behaves as though she is possessed by demons. I was frightened, Charles. I was frightened of my own daughter. She was no more than two when this happened. A two-year old girl with a shining, innocent smile. And she acted in such a way that she drove me to the edge of my wits. I have never been the same since. Please believe me.”

Another stretch of silence. Heaven only knew what Charles was thinking. Finally, he spoke. His voice was nothing more than a whisper.

“Abigail, I honestly don’t know what to think. You are telling me that Constance, our baby, did that to you. Now, I am not arguing that you’re lying. I have seen the girl do some rather extraordinary things time and time again. I have been frightened also. But, I just cannot picture her hurting anyone. She would not harm a fly, Abigail.”

“That is exactly what I thought as well,” said Abigail darkly, “before this happened.”

“What led you to change your mind?”

After a pause, during which Abigail gathered her thoughts and the remainder of her wits, she began to tell the story of the attack.

“A year ago, Blackiston came to fetch me. He told me that there was something out on the edge of the fields that I needed to see. He said something about a dead rabbit. I followed him out to where the fields and the woods meet. Sure enough, there was something there. It took me a while to guess that the massacred wreck before me was a rabbit, though. Charles, the sight alone was enough to make your blood run cold. It was terrible, so morbid and sinister.”

“A dead rabbit, Abigail?” Charles said, skepticism laced in his tone.

“Oh, it was dead. That much was certain. It had been torn to pieces, the fur ripped off, the bones crushed, and one of the ears even lay some way away. The worst part of it was that the creature had been drained of all blood. Every last drop. There was nothing on the grass, nothing on what remained of the fur, there was nothing even left on the organs spilling from its gut. The blood was all gone.” Abigail took a moment to visibly shudder at the horrific memory. “Then, Constance came out of the woods. How she got back there, I have no clue. But the fact remains that she told me that she had done this to the rabbit. She said she could drink animals as if they were water. Charles, she looked like she had risen from hell itself. Her dress was covered in blood – I assumed that it was the rabbit’s – and her hair was hanging, tangled, in her face like a curtain. Her eyes glowed as if an obscene light was shining from inside her skull. Her smile was perfectly childlike and naïve. I remember screaming, but not feeling afraid. I think that I lost my mind for a moment that day. She ran over to me faster that even my eyes could follow, and she took my hand. I snapped and began yelling accusations in her face.”

Abigail stopped. She knew what had come next. She felt incredible amounts of remorse for beating her daughter the way that she had. Even though it seemed to cause Constance no pain whatsoever, it still hurt Abigail to remember the incredible hatred that seemed to roll off her like steam.

“Go on,” Charles said gently. Abigail continued, her voice edging higher and higher, sounds of tears lodged in her throat.

“I pulled her hair and dragged her. I hit her and pushed her and slapped her. I cursed at her. I called her a demon. And all the while, Constance just took it. She literally sat there and allowed me to abuse her so. It was like she was a rag doll in my hands. She did not protest in any way. In fact, she did not even show any signs that my actions were hurting her. Because she would not react to my coercion, I got more and more angry. I hit her harder, and I pushed her down, cursing her to rot in hell. It was only fitting that she attacked me.”

“She attacked you?” Charles asked.

“Yes,” Abigail said. “She lunged at me, tearing my dress and slicing into my arms with her fingernails. She ripped my chest open with her teeth. There was an incredible difference between the pain inflicted by her fingers and the pain inflicted by her teeth. Her fingers I could take; it was her bite that made me cry out in agony. She literally gauged out a chunk of my skin. Her teeth were sharper than the blade of a knife, and her jaw held onto me so tightly that I could not even shake her off. It was torture, having my own two-year old daughter pinning me to the ground . . .”

Abigail paused, eyes suddenly lit a bit. “She was pinning me to the ground.”

“You’ve made that clear, darling,” Charles said. “Constance pinned you to the ground and nearly killed you.”

“No, no! She was holding me down! I was fighting. Charles, don’t you see? She was strong enough to force me down onto the ground and not let me up, even when I was struggling my hardest!”

Realisation began to dawn on Charles’ face. “You couldn’t even push her off of you a bit? Not even a centimeter?”

“No! I could not budge her grasp on me!”

The two parents stood still for a bit, their bodies idle while their minds hummed into overdrive. Both were thinking the same thing:  How in the world was a two-year old girl strong enough to pin a fully-grown woman to the ground? More than that, how was she able to hold on at all through all of the woman’s struggling? How was any of this possible in the first place? Teeth sharp enough to tear a woman’s chest to ribbons? The ability to move faster than the eye could follow? A dead rabbit with absolutely no blood left in the body? A little girl claiming to have drank the animal like it was some grotesque beverage? The same girl having no reaction at all to the woman’s violence? None of it was probable in the least. But, they both knew their daughter, and she had a habit of doing the very things that most people would have claimed impossible. Charles thought back to a day about a year ago. A broken pane of glass . . . a sobbing child . . . a crushed butterfly. . . . It was all impossible. But Constance had done it.

“Have you done anything about the situation, Abigail?” Charles asked, jerking himself from the memory.

“No,” Abigail replied. “Would you suggest something?”

After a momentary silence, Charles said, “Lock her up.”

“What?” Abigail exclaimed in outrage. “Lock up our own daughter? How could you be so cruel?”

“Just hear me out for a second, dear.” After Abigail silenced, he continued in a lowered voice. “Constance has up, until now, been merely an anomaly. Nobody had been able to understand her in the least. Now, she has proven herself dangerous. She is a threat to the entire city if we let her out. If we keep her contained, she can only be a threat to us. If we lock her up, we might even have a chance of being spared from the dangers posed by this child. Abigail, she could have killed you. She nearly did. At any moment, she could decide to come after you again. Or it could be me this time. Or even Silas. Keeping her isolated is the only way to ensure safety – as much as we’ve got left, that is.”

There was a large gap in the conversation as Abigail considered this. Lock Constance away like an old keepsake. It seemed truly barbaric. But, Charles had a point. If she wanted to keep the peace around her – and possibly save lives – then she did not have much of an option.

“All right,” Abigail whispered, looking directly at the hem of her skirt.

“What?” asked Charles, who had been staring off into the orchards so as not to pressure his wife.

“I said ‘all right’. If that is the best option, which it seems to be at the moment, then it must be done.” Her voice was still no more than a whisper, and her eyes were just as blank as before. She could not believe herself.

~*~

Charles realized that it would not be easy to lock Constance away; they would have a hard time getting her consent. They needed her physical consent, not her emotional consent. He was fairly certain that he would never be able to force Constance to do anything or go anywhere if she was opposed. Thus, he needed her to go along with the plan physically.

He could not trick her into going into a room, and then allowing them to leave and lock the door. She was far too smart for that. And she was probably strong enough to get out relatively quickly. That was one of the other many complications to the plan of shutting Constance away from the rest of the world.

He was sure that he would not be able to knock her out and drag her somewhere. If she had shown no signs of pain at Abigail’s hands, he doubted that hitting her over the head would get much reaction. Besides, she was his daughter. He could only go so far, and the thought of striking his little girl at all was sickeningly over the boundaries.

After exhausting many possible options, he came to the conclusion that his best bet would probably be logic. She was extremely bright, and he could use that to his advantage in this case. If he just explained the situation to her, she might just agree with him. He figured that it was worth the risk, so he gave it a try one morning.

“Constance?” Charles asked.

“Yes father?” Constance replied. She did not take her eyes from the book that she was reading. It was a thick volume entitled Robinson Crusoe. Charles had read it once before, and he knew that the language used in the book was highly elevated for even an adult, much less a three-year old girl.

“Um . . . Constance, what would you say if I told you that you had to stay in your room for a while?”

“I would say that there would be no chance of that happening.” She turned a page idly, continuing her book.

“What if I said that the lives of myself, your mother, and your brother were in danger? Would you stay in you room then?”

“No father.” She looked up from her book, saying, “If I stayed in my room, I believe that I could die. And I’m afraid that sacrificing my life for a mother who has called me a demon, a brother who cannot even understand half the words I say, and a father who usually speaks to me in a patronizing tone of voice is not a very appealing option to me.” Her eyes were indifferent as she stared at her father for a moment, then went right back to reading.

Charles was infuriated at her apathetic attitude. Did she really care so little for them? Did she really think that he belittled her? She was only three, for goodness sakes! Though she may have the intellect of a genius, she still had the outward appearance of a little girl who hadn’t quite grown into a child yet.

He had to remind himself that this child was dangerous.

“Constance, I really need you to do this for me.”

She placed a scrap piece of fabric in the book where she had left off and closed it. She looked up at her father, sighing impatiently, obviously wishing that he would go away so she could continue reading. “Father, I would never agree to being locked up in my room, shut away like some filthy thing that you do not wish for people to see when they come to call.” She took in her father’s surprised expression, saying, “What, you thought I did not know? I heard you and mum talking about it yesterday. You were debating whether or not it really was the only option. You think I’m a rogue creature that cannot be trusted enough to be allowed the freedom of the house. I am not about to agree to that.”

With that, Constance grabbed her book from beside her and hopped down from the chair in which she had been sitting. She walked away defiantly, her little shoes tapping as she made her way toward the stairs. There, she sat down on the bottom step and opened her book again.

Charles’ mind was spinning. Constance had heard them talking about her. She knew the whole plan, from start to finish. He and his family were as good as dead.

~*~

“What did she say?” Abigail asked Charles that night.

They were in their room, getting ready for bed. She was sitting at her vanity, brushing out her long, chocolate hair. Charles was wandering around the room, his shirt half unbuttoned, looking for something. He would set off to find something, but then, he would get distracted and forget before he could find it. Then he’d start a search for another something that he’d forget about before he could actually locate the object. This had been going on for nearly twenty minutes.

“Hmm?” Charles said, closing the armoire doors, another objective forgotten.

“What did Constance say when you asked her about staying in her room?”

“Oh . . . she said ‘no’.” He didn’t dare go into how opposed Constance had actually been when he had broached the subject.

Abigail let out the breath that she had been holding and said, “Why, Charles?”

“‘Why’ what, Abigail?”

“Why did she say ‘no’? Why do we need her approval in the first place? Why can’t we just let things keep on the way that they have been? Why must Constance always be so obstinate? Why did we even try to ask her? And about a dozen more questions, all beginning with the word ‘why’.” Abigail set down her hairbrush dejectedly, lowering her head onto her arms. Charles could see then just how hard this whole Constance problem had been on her. She was so conflicted; on one hand, she was a mother who loved her daughter very much and wanted to care for her and dote upon her like every other mother did to her own daughter. On the other, she was a victim of a terrible act of violence inflicted by a child that must be isolated from the rest of the world for the safety of others. It was compassion versus logic, constantly pulling at Abigail like a never-ending tug-of-war for her loyalty.

Charles went to her and placed a hand on her back. She lifted her head, looking at him with eyes that begged for mercy. This was too much for her to handle. She wanted out. Charles knelt down beside her and pushed her hair out of her face. When she had laid her head on her arms, her nightgown had gotten shifted down and to the right a bit. Now, her scar showed, bright red and angry. Charles touched it with a single finger, looking Abigail in the eyes.

“I think we are doing the right thing, darling,” he said slowly. “She hurt you. We cannot risk it happening again.”

Abigail nodded, clearly on the verge of tears. Charles had not seen her cry in a very long time. Abigail had a soft heart, but she did not cry very easily. She just dealt with things and moved on. She did not allow herself to get wrapped up in a problem; she would solve it without complaining. That was one of the many things that Charles loved about his wife. But, she was about to cry right then. He could tell she was holding the tears in with as much force as she could gather. This was not a simple problem that could be solved in the blink of an eye. This was not something that she could remedy, and then get on with life. This was a crisis that would affect Abigail for the rest of her life. It would linger forever in her heart, and outwardly, in the form of a long, deep scar.

“How are we going to get her into her room, Charles?”

Abigail had reverted back to the efficient, problem-solving manner that she usually possessed. Charles almost wanted to smile. Almost. He thought for a moment, then said, “Isn’t she in her room right now?”

“Yes, I . . .” Realisation dawned on Abigail’s face. Charles nodded and stood up quickly, helping Abigail up along the way. Who needed a child’s consent if she had already done exactly what they wanted her to do?

They hurried out of their room and walked silently down the hall. They knew their way quite well. They reached Constance’s door after about a minute. Charles pressed his ear to the door. There was no sound. He pushed it open just a bit, and saw that Constance was sitting cross-legged on her bed, staring out her window. It looked like she was watching the stars.

“Hello, father. Hello, mother,” she said, not looking their way for even half a second. She was in her nightdress, but her bed looked untouched. It was like she hadn’t even attempted to crawl under the covers and go to sleep. It was strange. Her hair was loose, like it was every night when she slept. It was long now, almost touching the bed as she sat there. She seemed to glow a bit around the edges in the moonlight.

Charles and Abigail were silent for a minute. They both stared at their daughter like they had never seen her before. True, she did look very different. She also had an ominous, foreboding air about her as she sat, her back turned to her door, looking out the window. Through the silence, though, Charles and Abigail got the eerie feeling that Constance could hear everything:  their breathing, their pulses, maybe even their thoughts. It was ghostly.

“Hello dear,” Abigail said, finally, speaking in an undertone.

“Hush, mother. There’s no need to yell. I can hear you just fine when you whisper,” Constance said. She was merely breathing the words from her lips.

“No need to yell, darling?”

“Shhh.” Constance continued to look out the window, seemingly mesmerised by the nighttime scene. “Quiet, mum. Do you wish to wake the whole house?”

Abigail’s brow furrowed. “Constance, I am whispering.”

Constance said nothing, not wanting to add to the noise in the room. If she gave them her input, it would only lead to an argument, which would only cause more racket. All Constance wanted at that moment was quiet. But there was an annoying sound in her ears. It sounded like the breeze that blew over the fields during the day, except it was rhythmic and there were two distinct patterns. She closed her eyes and was able to immediately place the sound:  breath. She was hearing her mother and father breathing behind her. And the two noises that sounded a bit like drumbeats must have been their hearts. Her own breath and pulse were silent. Absolutely silent. The only indication that she was alive at all was her chest rising and falling.

Constance refocused her attention, blocking her parents from her mind. She instead chose to listen to the sounds of the fireflies’ wings fluttering outside her window, the leaves on the trees rubbing against each other as a light breeze tickled them, the songs of all the birds within a mile radius, the chirping of crickets rubbing their legs together, the footfalls of small creatures in the woods, the . . .

The door clicked as it shut. Constance heard a key turn in the lock, the tumblers dropping into place, one by one. She did not need to look behind her to know that her parents were gone. They had left the room while she was not paying them any attention, and they had locked her in.

Constance’s immediate reaction was to jump up of the bed and go yank the door off its hinges. She had told her parents not to do this, but they had anyway, and they needed to be punished.

She took a deep breath and thought for a moment. Then she grinned ever so slightly. It was unmistakably malicious, regardless of the fact that her face still appeared to be three years old. She would let them think that they’d gotten their way for now; she’d have her moment later. With that, she turned back to the window and looked out again.