The Goodly Nature of a Farm-Bred Girl

            I wasn’t bred for this kind of life, but by god, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I didn’t grow up on a ranch or desert; my childhood home was the city with its crowded, shit-stained streets and apartments too small for its hosts. I moved out here for my wife. This place was her inheritance. When her parents left this world, they left her all of it—all the wheat fields, the dairy cows, the fowl in every corner of the two-story farmhouse, the mules in the stable, and a dozen dogs to keep the livestock safe. She refused to leave it, even for me, and I refused to leave her. We managed to keep that ship upright for years, just us two and our land. Her land. She used to make bread by hand, from wheat to loaves, and sell them in the town ten miles out at the Farmer’s Market. I used to think we were the only real farmers at that market, seeing as everyone else lived within a mile of the metro. And we, the real farmers, did real farming, and though I was a city slicker by all standards, I never loved anything more than tending the land with my wife.
           That was before she died.
           Nowadays, there’s not much left of the ranch. I sold most of the cows and mules, but kept one of each, so I could still get into town if and when the tractor trailer died. The dogs died off as dogs do, and now there’s just a handful of the beasts to sleep on the foot of my bed. The fowl were eaten by us or by foxes. Some of the land had to be given back to the town so their government could find a better use for it. They built a highway out back: a loud, rustling thruway that cars never really slow on. The government let me keep that farmhouse, though. Whether it’s ‘cause it’s too old to be of value or because it’s legally our daughter’s property, I’ll never know.
           Our daughter. Among everything my wife left me, she’s my most precious gift. Angelina—a little angel, an oasis in our desert. My wife died when she was just six years old, still in pigtails. She’s 11 now, with honey-brown hair she keeps tied in a tidy braid down her back. She’s got a smile warm as the sun and a voice as sweet as syrup. She doesn’t ever ask for more than what we’ve got and finds joy in the dried-up wheat fields with the dogs. She’s perfect in every way, even without a mother’s hand to guide her.
           For her, I’ve had to buy a proper shotgun. Never owned a gun before. Never really shot much either. But all sorts of things drag themselves from the highway to die here in the old fields. I’ve had to put more of them out of their misery than I care to count. And the snakes! Oh, the damn rattlesnakes plague the place. Angelina’s scared stiff of them. Every time she finds one on the property, she comes running back to the house, her face pale and her lips trembling. And every time, I get my gun, find the thing, and blow it to pieces. Let the dogs eat what’s left. She never stays to watch me get rid of them, and that’s fine by me—it’s not a little girl’s place to see such a scene.
           A few months ago, our plumbing started to go. It was bound to, and I was just glad it’d made it this long without any professional upkeep. Our upstairs bathroom I tended to often, just keeping the pipes plunged and the sink clean. I knew how to fix anything in that bathroom, from the water pressure in the showerhead to replacing the grout in the tub. The downstairs bathroom, however, I treated like a stranger. It had been my wife’s space. Angelina favored it—it was closer to her room, granted, than mine—but I kept my distance. It wasn’t somewhere I found comfortable, plain and simple. Then, the downstairs commode started to overflow any time it was flushed, making a slow, sad gurgle as it tried to finish even the simplest job. For Angelina, I’d get out some gloves and tackle what used to be my wife’s bathroom.
          It was cleaner than I remembered. I guess Angelina had done a good job keeping the dust at bay. She’d left some of my wife’s stuff laying around, surprisingly—a few towels with her crooked embroidery stitched in, an old pink compact mirror, a jar of dried flower petals she never did anything with. I even found a cosmetic bag I recognized. Though the bag was old, the products inside seemed new. One of the pink glittery tubes was even still in its wrappings. I knew the stuff had to be expired—even if it had stayed packaged all these years—so I tossed them in the trash out back. I doubted Angelina’d notice; she was too young for that makeup shit.
           The toilet was another beast entirely, and not something I was willing to just throw away. It was like something had piled up in the pipes, though I’d be damned if I knew what it was. I was elbow-deep in the bowl when I heard Angelina sprint into the house, her old dog Daisy barking up a storm behind her. “Daddy!” she cried from the living room.
           “In here, darling,” I called back. She raced into the bathroom, pushing past the small frenzy of dogs trying to beat her in. I turned my face to her. She was breathless from running and her big blue eyes were watering. “Snake?” I asked calmly. She nodded. I sighed and pulled my arm out from the commode.
           “What were you doing, Daddy?” asked Angelina.
           “Trying to unclog the pipes,” I grunted. She looked away quickly, her face reddening. Such talk was not for her. I pulled off the glove and laid it flat on the sink, out of the reach of Daisy or any of the other dogs. “Don’t let ‘em chew the glove,” I said, and Angelina nodded again, backing away to let me through the bathroom door. I made my way to the living room, grabbed the shotgun off the wall, and went out looking for the snake.
          I didn’t have to look far—the damn thing was nearly on our doorstep. It was maybe a few yards from the house. I sighed and cocked the gun. It shook its tail at me, threatening me, like each of them did before I shot their tails off. I aimed straight. The rattler flew back a handful of feet. I walked forward, making sure it was dead and gone before I called it clear for Angelina.
           The snake was twitching violently. A lot of them do in their death throes. I prepared another shot to do it in when something…changed. The whole body of the thing was shaking, so fast it was just a blur against the ground. When the shaking stopped, it was bigger, too big to be a snake, and curled inward and over. It was paler now, a creamy peach color, almost like flesh. Its scales had all blended together. The shape throbbed and shivered, swelling with each movement. I choked back my nausea. I’d seen a lot of shit out here, but never something so foul before.
           A human hand reached out from the mass and scraped the ground.
           The shape pulled itself forward, uncoiling slowly, each movement accompanied by a sickening crack. It sounded like bones breaking and re-breaking, but the thing did not scream in pain. It just clicked itself into place. I watched it start to rise and shut my eyes. I knew there were things we just weren’t meant to see. I hoped Angelina had shut the door behind me. I clenched my jaw and braced myself for whatever it was. Silence fell over the ranch. I couldn’t even make out a cricket or a peeper; the only sound was my hushed breathing.
           Eventually, the thing shuffled forward, in even two-step. I could hear its rough, struggling breaths. An animal smell of milk and blood hit my nose and I choked down a gag. “What’s the matter, boy?” came a woman’s voice, grating and sharp, maybe a few inches from me now. I tried not to flinch back.
           “Get off my land,” I said, keeping the tremble from my voice. “Leave us alone.”
           She laughed. It sounded like a dog’s broken baying. “You should’ve asked nicely before you shot that gun.” She moved closer and my lips tasted of iron. Blood. Fresh blood. I didn’t move a muscle. I didn’t dare open my eyes. I could feel her watching me. “What’s the matter, boy? Can’t you spare a pretty girl a glance?”
           “You’re not a pretty girl.”
           “How would you know?” Her voice was softer, right by my ear. “You won’t look at me.”
           “Don’t need to. No girl comes from snakeskin.”
           “That so?” she purred. “And you’d be the expert on girls?”
           “More than you,” I grunted. I heard another shuffle and I knew she was almost upon me. I felt the tinge of her body heat next to my right hand. I was still clutching the shotgun in the other.
           “I doubt that,” she said. Her breath hit my face, hot and sour. “I bet you don’t know a damn thing.” I didn’t dignify her with a response. I allowed my one eye to open quickly. She was right in front of me, naked as Eve, with the slit pupils of a snake. I turned my head away, eyes shut again, but I felt her grab my face. “No, no,” she said, her voice a rumble. “Take a better look.”
           “I don’t want to.”
           “You shot me,” she said. “You owe me a better look.”
           “You’re on my land. You deserved to get shot.”
           A wilder, deep-throated laugh echoed around me. “Oh, pet,” she said. “We both know this ain’t your land.” I felt my stomach drop—how could she know I was just the keeper until my daughter was of age? Her nails dug deeper into my cheeks. “You’re a trespasser just as much as I am.”
           “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “You scared my daughter.”
           “Your daughter,” drawled the woman’s voice. It was deeper than any voice I’d heard before, of any man or woman I knew of. It was darker, too, like a voice rising up from the Pit. “Pretty little thing, isn’t she?”
           My chest and jaw tightened. “She’s just a girl,” I snapped. “A little girl. You leave her be.”
           She dropped my face. I felt her hands slide up my arms, finding their place clenched around my shoulders. “I’m just a girl, too,” she whispered, the fever of her naked body pressing against me. I shuddered in disgust.
           “You’re a monster,” I whispered back,
           “Maybe,” she drawled. “But even monsters like me start as little girls.” There was a pause, then something wet sliding across my cheek—a tongue, maybe. I flinched this time and her hand grabbed my chin. “Your daughter could turn out like me.”
           “No,” I spat. My little girl was no monster. Never would be. She was still as sweet and innocent as a babe. She was still a babe, still my darling angel.
           “Look at me,” she said, her voice angry and thin. “Why won’t you look at me?”
           “Don’t want to,” I whispered.
           She grabbed my face with both hands. “LOOK AT ME!” she shouted, and I stumbled backwards, barely keeping myself upright. “LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID TO ME.” Her voice was a roar now, steel against stone, surrounding me. From somewhere inside the house, the dogs began to bark and howl.
           “I won’t,” I growled, but her voice was no longer around me—it was in my head. LOOK AT ME. It pounded against my skull. LOOK AT ME. I didn’t know what would happen if I opened my eyes. LOOK AT ME. I wasn’t about to find out.
           YOU SHOT ME.
           LOOK AT ME.
           LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID.
           LOOK AT ME.
           LOOK AT ME.
           LOOK AT ME.
           I lost all sense of where I was. I crouched down, my free hand over my eyes. My left hand still grabbed the gun. I could smell her everywhere. I could hear her everywhere. LOOK AT ME. With what little strength I could muster, I lifted the barrel of the gun on my knees and pulled the trigger. A wild, feral screech tore apart the evening and the voice in my head faded into nothing, ambient static in my mind. I sat for a minute. The screaming did not stop; it just changed pitch. As I caught my breath, I realized: it was Angelina’s scream.
          “Daddy!” she cried out, and I immediately opened my eyes. My daughter stood a few feet away from me, clutching her arm, tears in her eyes. Blood leaked out from between her fingers.
          “Oh, god,” I said, scrambling to my feet. The gun fell from my hand. She was whimpering, her face already pale and sweaty. “I’m so sorry, babygirl. Oh god.”
          “You shot me,” she said, shaking. “Daddy, you shot me.”
          “I didn’t mean to,” I said, grabbing her and pulling her into my chest. She trembled against me. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you came out here.” I looked around for the woman-thing. There was no sign of her, and no sign of any snakes either. “Alright, OK, let’s get you fixed, OK?” I kissed the top of Angelina’s head and led her inside. The dogs had stopped barking and I could hear the Arizonian ambience again.
          I sat Angelina down in the washroom downstairs. I moved her hand away from the wound. One of my bullets was lodged in her upper shoulder. I sighed and went to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of vodka from the top cabinet. When I returned, Angelina was trying to remove the bullet herself, hissing in pain. “No, no, babygirl,” I said, pushing her hand away. “I’ll use tweezers.”
          “Okay, Daddy,” she whispered.
          “This might sting,” I warned her, before dousing the wound with a quick dose of vodka. She was so brave, my girl, she didn’t even flinch. She just looked at me with her big eyes, her pupils thinner than I’d ever seen. She must’ve been in so much pain. I quickly fished the bullet from her arm and she sat still, almost lifeless, as I got it out. “Now,” I said calmly, looking around the bathroom. “We need something to plug the hole. I don’t think we gots any thread for me to sew it shut; we’ll have to make a trip into town.”
          An odd look flashed across Angelina’s face. “I, um, have something.”
          “You do?”
          “Under the sink.” I opened the sink. “The, um, pink box.”
          “Pink box?” I muttered. I shuffled through the junk under the sink and pulled out a little pink box. “What is this?” I asked, taking the lid off. Inside were thin tubes of cardboard. I didn’t recognize them. “Sweetheart?” I took one of the cardboard tubes out and pushed the lower part in. A compact cotton rocket with a string came out, falling on the bathroom floor. A woman’s product. A slutty woman’s monthly product. I stared at my daughter, my young, innocent little daughter.
          “When did you get these?” I asked quietly.
          “A few months ago,” she said, just as softly.
          “You’re not supposed to use this kind,” I said, trying to keep my anger smothered. “You know that? These…they ruin you. Make you…different.” I cleared my throat. “Do you know what I mean? Different?”
          Angelina’s face was flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Daddy. They were all the school nurse had.” She reached down between us and grabbed a new one. I watched her push out the cotton and turned away, sickened. My daughter, using a woman’s unsavory tools. It was almost worse than shooting her. It was like she had shot me. I didn’t even know she was old enough to get a monthly.
          “I’ll get you some proper products,” I grunted. “None of this shit.” I shook my head. “You can use ‘em to plug the hole until I can sew it up. But that’s it. Toss the rest.”
          “Okay, Daddy,” came Angelina’s voice, small and sweet. “Should I flush them?”
          “No,” I snapped. I took a breath and steadied myself. “Toss ‘em. In the trash. I’ll take em out tomorrow.” I looked at the clock hanging in the hallway. 9 o’clock at night. “It’s your bedtime.”
          “Oh,” she said. I heard her rummage under the sink again and turned around. I watched her take a roll of bandages and fasten that damn cotton thing to her wound. She stood quietly, her head bowed. I held out a hand. She let me examine her arm, and dammit, the bleeding had stopped. I sighed and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
          “You put those things in the trash and get yourself to bed.” I felt the exhaustion creeping up on me. “I’ll tuck you in, but then I’m going off to bed myself.”
          “Okay, Daddy,” said Angelina, ever obedient. I watched her disappear out the back door.
          I made sure she was out of sight before I went into the kitchen, opened up the top cabinet, and took a swig of whiskey. I’m not a drinker, not usually, but this day earned a shot or two. She came back inside quickly, almost darting out of sight and up the stairs, leaping over the sleeping pile of dogs on her way up.
          I followed up the stairs a few minutes later. Angelina was in her bed, already under the covers, her lights still on. I went in to kiss her goodnight and tuck the blankets around her. We said nothing to each other. She looked different to me, less like my sweet little girl. She wasn’t smiling. Her lips were downturned in a way I can only call rude, but I gave her a pat on the head anyway. As I turned, I saw my wife’s cosmetic bag on the corner of Angelina’s dresser. My stomach hardened. She must’ve taken it out of the trash. Maybe the packaged makeup was new. I glanced at her one more time, but she was already turned away and curled up in her blankets. We’d have to discuss it tomorrow.
         I melted into my own bed. I wasn’t often glad for the empty space beside me, but tonight, I needed to be alone. I stared up at the ceiling, looking at the tiny waterline cracks running around the perimeter. Too much had happened today. The woman. Angelina. The women’s products. The bullets. The plumbing. I took in a deep, full breath, before closing my eyes.
         A few hours later, a hand shook my shoulder. Angelina used to have nightmares as a child, but they were rare these days. I used to let her sleep on her mom’s side of the bed when she did. I wasn’t up for it tonight. I needed to sleep. “Daddy,” she whispered from behind me.
         I didn’t even open my eyes. “What is it?”
          “My arm really hurts.” She sounded so strangely loud. Maybe I was still stuck in sleep.
          “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I’m sure it’s fine.”
          “How do you know?” she said.
          “What?”
          “How d’you know?” she repeated. “How d’you know it’s fine?”
          “I just know,” I mumbled, wanting her to go away so I could fall back asleep.
          “But Daddy,” she said, her voice deepening, grating like steel against stone. The sound of that voice took up the whole room. I felt something dip the edge of the mattress, something heavier than my daughter, something pinning my legs down beneath it. “You won’t even look at me.”