Frieda

         All Luther ever talked about was how beautiful his older sister was. How her beautiful golden curls fell across her narrow, pale face, how her sparkling blue eyes always had an air of confidence and inquisitiveness, how she carried herself in a fashion that reeked of intelligence and superiority but not in an egotistical way, and how she seemed to be the human embodiment of the Goddesses that Greece worshiped so heavily. As perfect as this ‘Frieda’ sounded, no one, even me, his best friend, had ever seen her. None of the teachers at our high school had ever heard of her and the scrawny German immigrant’s parents were far to poor to be able to afford private school.

         After years of having listened to Luther ramble about his role model, Benjamin, a close friend of mine and I asked him, “Dude, can we finally meet her? You said she isn’t in Germany anymore; she’s back in the States. She must be staying with you dude, who else does she know here? Can you please take us to meet her? You talk about her so much.” We argued for a little while but Luther finally decided he’d introduce us; we were his only friends after all, we were two of the very few that understood his heavy accent.

         We drove to his slightly run down house in my black Chevy Cobalt and pulled in his driveway around 4 o’clock on that bright Saturday evening. Luther jumped from the car, yelling to us to sit tight, and ran into the house. He returned in seconds, backing slowly out of the door, with a small, limp decaying body dressed in girl’s clothing.

         “Frieda, meet Benjamin and Carter.” Luther said happily showing us the cadaver.

“Whoa, I didn’t see that coming.” Benjamin mumbled.