SING LIKE A SONGBIRD

ring around the rosie,
a pocket full of posies,
ashes to ashes,
we all fall

d o w n

I
THE WRITING ON THE WALL

Missing: a girl, her son, and a dog.

She scoffed at this description inwardly. She was hardly a girl anymore, even if her thick black bangs made her seem twelve rather than twenty. No, a more fitting description would simply read lost property. To Randy, that's what they were. Item #1, #2, and #3, are reported missing, cap'n. No, no sign of them since dawn. Should we send out a search party? Of course! It's the principle of the thing, property isn't supposed to be running off without permission of the captain!

As if sensing this black humor stemming from his owner, the dog picked up his ears and looked at her reproachfully. She patted Major on the head absently, hearing the comforting thump of his tail against the passenger door. Major was a beautiful dog, a five year old German Shepherd with a cunning black mask and a perpetually serious expression.

Randy had bought him when Major was just a puppy. He was supposed to be destined as a drug-dog but was deemed too friendly and easy-going for the force; disgustedly, Randy had brought him home, and Rosie considered him their protector.

"Huh, boy? You gonna keep us safe in the big city?" she whispered so as not to wake her sleeping son. Major wagged his tail, ears going back, and set his muzzle on her thigh. She patted his head and checked on Sebastian in the rearview mirror. He was sleeping in the way all small children sleep, head thrown back, mouth slightly open, eyes sunken into his small, fragile head. His blonde hair was catching the last rays of the sun and it looked like a halo of blazing light.

He was so delicate looking. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel.

(it's not just sebastian you're all very delicate)

She merged seamlessly into traffic and felt a little seed of hope in her chest when she saw the sign GOTHAM LEFT LANE ONLY EXIT 34. Ten miles, and they would be in Gotham. Five miles after that, they would be downtown. And half a mile after that, she would be putting Sebastian to sleep in a proper bed and having a cup of coffee with her sister, Aimee.

Staying with Aimee would have to be a temporary measure. Not only because extended periods of time with her sister tended to turn her into the Hulk, but also because Randy would know she came here. Where else would she go? Aimee was her only option. The idea—almost a vision, with its clarity—rose in her mind of Randy kicking down the front door and dragging her out by her hair. My wife! He would bellow, sing-song, his eyes slitted and teeth bared in that heartlessly broad smile, Let's go home!

And he would drag her down the stairs, bump, bump, bump, before throwing her in the trunk of the car. She squeezed the wheel tighter.

(Stop it, Rosie!)

There was a good chance he wouldn't even follow them. He would make up some story—she's away in Canada, doing some sort of artist trip, you know those women, always trying to find themselves-

(yes if it wasn't for major he would make up a story like that except—)

Except she'd taken Major.

She patted the dog's head again and tried to flush out this thought but it persisted, nagging in the back of her mind like a fishhook. Taking her son was one thing. Randy and Sebastian had never gotten along, not after THE INCIDENT, but Randy considered Major his dog.

By taking her son, she'd crippled him. But he could crawl.

But taking Major had ripped his balls off. She knew that. Wasn't that the very reason she'd done it? Randy would, after a fashion, function on his own after coming to terms—however violent—that his son and wife had left him. But not only had his wife left him, she'd cleaned out the checking account and taken his fucking dog.

You cold, heartless bitch, she heard his voice in her head, You couldn't even leave me the mutt? You had to take everything?

Yes, she thought back selfishly, feeling those hot, livid coals of anger begin to burn in her chest once more. Yes, I took my son and Major because that's my property. He was lucky she hadn't burned the house down or taken a knife to the tires of his precious pickup truck.

With more force than was necessary she flicked her left turn signal on, and took the exit ramp down into Gotham.

She almost made it to Aimee's house.

Almost.

She had gotten lost in the busy streets of Gotham. The whole city was intimidating. High, glassy skyscrapers that crowded every street like jagged teeth; tight, narrow little alleyways that crooked off in different directions like a spider's web; wealthy, impeccably dressed people strolling past the homeless who looked tired and dirty and broken somehow. The motorists were unforgiving and she got flipped off twice before getting cut off in the middle of downtown.

Aimee had a fairly nice apartment, some modest little flat near a club called Reflections. She had a decent income these days, what with being that fancy food-critic for a magazine somewhere. Rosie was about to turn around and find a parking garage somewhere when she saw him.

Her heart leapt in her throat.

That straight, flat nose with a full mouth and a scruffy beard. It was the beard she immediately recognized but when he lifted his hand to scratch his nose she caught a glimpse of a shiny gold watch. A Rolex rip-off, the kind she had gotten Randy for his birthday last year. He was wearing a baseball cap and had sunglasses on but she would have bet everything in her wallet, which was close to six hundred dollars in cash, that it was Randy.

He wasn't sitting in the pickup truck, but some nondescript little car he probably rented. She would have obviously recognized the ridiculously oversized shiny black truck that Randy prized.

He was here. In Gotham.

A feeble, desperate part of her tried to insist that it could be anyone. Plenty of guys were growing beards these days, and lots of them probably had fake watches, and one or two could have that flat, smushed nose. It didn't have to be Randy.

Her throat felt as though a wet, hot hand were squeezing it, and the urge to pull out of traffic and floor it was overwhelming. He had outsmarted her—he knew she would go to her sister's, he knew she would end up here. She felt it in the spaces between her ribs, stealing over her spine like an old chill; it was Randy. There was no doubt about it.

Some cold, scaly voice spoke up in the back of her mind. If you break or turn or do anything to draw attention, he'll see you. And if he sees you, you're dead. He'll follow you and wait until you run out of gas and then beat you to death in a gas station while your child looks on. Is that what you want to happen, Rosebud?

She numbly shocked to discover that the calculating, raspy voice in her mind was that of her father's, who had been dead many years. No, what you should do is simply keep driving. Turn at this corner and find a motel.

Yes, that's what she would do. She inched past Randy in the car, fighting every urge to turn and gape at him like he was a circus monkey. Keep driving, find a motel, and ditch the car. Thank God she had used her neighbor's car and not the one Randy had bought for her.

(this is what happens when you marry a cop Rosie this is what happens are you happy now?)

Rosie turned carefully, handling the car like it was fine china, and chanced a look in the rearview mirror.

If Randy had seen her—if indeed it was Randy—then he made no sign.

She drove mindlessly, blindly, her mind running in caged little circles. What if it wasn't Randy? What if it was just some innocuous man waiting for his girlfriend or his boyfriend or his mother or a dentist appointment, for all she knew? But even if it was a random man who happened to look like Randy…even if it was just some innocent bystander…

"It's not worth it," she murmured to Major, who was looking at her with his ears perked and alert. "It's not worth the risk."

Sebastian stirred in his car seat and Rosie looked behind her again. She wasn't just doing this for her, she was doing it for Bash. He deserved a good life, a life that wasn't filled with a looming, threatening father and a cowed, shrill mother.

She was also doing this because of THE INCIDENT but she told herself not to think about that.

It took twenty or so minutes until she was on the very outskirts of Gotham, that sprawling, smog-choked city. An apartment building of dirty brick stood in front of her, as though the car had driven itself. A woman was sitting on the front porch, smoking a cigarette and watching cars go by. She couldn't have been a day over seventy-five but was wearing a strappy pink halter top, the kind prepubescent girls wear in an attempt to look sexy. Her hair was fluffy white in a sharp contrast to her dark skin.

Rosie got out of the car and slowly approached. "Hi," she said, and her voice sounded strange and rusty to her own ears. "I'm looking for a place to spend the night."

The woman looked her up and down, taking a drag on her cigarette. "Ayuh," she replied, "Guess y'are."

She stood there awkwardly, shifting her weight. "Do…do you maybe know…?"

Her voice trailed off.

Randy's voice, sardonic and cutting, piped up in the back of her head. That's my girl! Always stuttering and stammering like she was raised in a fucking BARN, don't you have any manners? I know your mother was a piece-a-shit but your FATHER at least should have told you that you stand up straight and look someone in the eye!

Rosie closed her eyes briefly, tightly, willing her mental Randy to shut up. "Do you know of a motel in the area that accepts pets?"

The woman did not immediately answer, and Rosie began to assume she was being ignored. It dragged on for a very long, unpleasant few seconds while the woman sized her up, and then she finally spoke. "How far y'runnin', baby?"

"I'm sorry?" Rosie stammered. "I'm—"

"How far y'runnin'? Is Gotham ya last stop? Or are ya gonna keep on keepin' on?" The woman asked, and stubbed out her cigarette. She poked one bony finger towards the car. "Ya got a kid, a dawg, and what looks like half y'life packed in a shitty lil' car. You gonna run to California? California's shit."

Rosie just blinked and stared. "I'm…I'm going to stay in Gotham," she blurted out, "My, my sister is here, I just…"

(you just couldn't go in to see her because a man who just LOOKED like your ex-husband was waiting for you)

"I just need a place to stay," Rosie finished helplessly. She was horrified to find that tears were starting to well up in her eyes. She did not want to cry in front of this strange woman.

"I ain't a charity case," the woman said gruffly. "Y'want the Sisters, they run a shelter. Downtown."

"I just need a motel! I have money," Rosie gulped and tried to steady herself. For god's sake, she was acting like an infant.

Now the woman looked interested. "You got a hundred bucks?"

"Wh-what?" she bit her lip and shook her head automatically. "Wh—I mean, yes, yes I do, why?"

"Gimmie a hundred bucks and y'got yourself an apartment," the woman replied flatly. "I gotta place upstairs that I can't get rid of. Hundred bucks, first month's rent."

She was scared and lonely and in a huge, dangerous city. This was a bizarre day, and she could still feel the flutterings of panic in the base of her throat like a trapped bird. A hundred dollars was amazingly, suspiciously low, but all she could think of was my own apartment. My very own apartment and I don't have to scrape and bow to Aimee or take a punch from Randy it's MINE.

"Yeah, yeah, I got a hundred bucks," she said, and practically tripped over herself getting back to the car. Major was sitting very still, his ears back, but that reproachful look was back on his face. "Shush," she scolded him, as though he could tell something was very wrong with this place, this odd little neighborhood on the outskirts of Gotham. It seemed clean enough, with several two family houses stacking the street like wedding cakes, most of them quite past their prime. It was a crowded, almost generic neighborhood, with the apartment building taking up most of the space.

There was a little chainlink fence surrounding a small, sad playground in the back of the apartment. Bash could play on there, maybe, definitely on the slides and maybe on the swings. Rosie counted under her breath, hiding the wad of cash under the steering wheel so the strange woman wouldn't think she was rolling in wealth.

She folded five twenties in her hand and then got back out of the car. The woman was looking at her with a wry, amused expression, and it was like being examined by a particularly old doctor.

"Here," Rosie said, handing her the money.

The woman counted it, very slowly, as if checking to make sure Andrew Jackson wasn't wearing an out-of-place turtleneck on any of the bills, and then tucked it into her bra. "C'mon. Bring the rugrat and the mutt if y'like."

Despite the apparent normalcy of the neighborhood there were still tremors of misgiving in Rosie's mind as she followed the woman up the stairs. The older woman wasn't much for talk but she briefly introduced herself as Doris, and somehow managed to half-smoke a cigarette in the time it took to walk up two flights of stairs.

Major heeled very closely, his ears back, tail low, looking around and obviously wanting to sniff everything. Doris gave him a look.

"That dog don't piss everywhere, does he?"

Rosie switched the sleepy Bash to the other hip and her brow furrowed. "Major? No, no, he's a service dog."

Doris frowned harder, the wrinkles in her face setting up like concrete. "Don't bite, does he?"

"Absolutely not," Rosie said with much more surety. "He's very well behaved."

"Ayuh," Doris agreed, sucking her hollowed cheeks in to take another drag, "but good dogs bite, y'know."

"He doesn't," she insisted, feeling prickly and provoked. Major was a handsome dog and wouldn't hurt a fly; he withstood Bash's sticky, grabby hands and encouraged the three-year-old to pull on his ears and play fetch with him. At five, he had reached the mellow middle age which would last far into his twilight years.

As Rosie followed behind Doris she was nearly overcome with hysterical giggles when she realized that the old woman was wearing a thong beneath her bright bicycle shorts. Who was this Doris? Some sort of ancient prostitute? There didn't seem to be anyone else in the building but Rosie could hear the steady, thickening cry of a baby from somewhere below them. Besides that, it was unnaturally still.

Looking out the window at the first floor landing, she saw the rusty old playground again, and from this angle she had a better view of the street. It really looked like a normal little neighborhood that you could find anywhere. Whenever she heard about Gotham, it was always in conjunction with crime, money, or that vigilante who was currently running amok. Batman, she remembered seeing in the headlines. From this distance it was probably a ten minute drive into downtown, and the street was fairly busy. She made a mental note to keep Bash inside the playground and away from the street.

At the second story, Doris shuffled over and unlocked one of the two doors. Rosie braced herself for the stench of mold or mildew, but all she got was a whiff of fresh paint. She had already made up her mind to stay for the night and then see if she could get part of her money back tomorrow, after she went to see Aimee. But at least for tonight, it would work. Even if there were roaches and mice, she would make it work.

But to her pleasant surprise there were no signs of wildlife, roaches or otherwise. In fact, almost everything looked brand new—the walls were newly painted and there was new carpet on the floor, some sort of blue and tan seashell print. It was small, with one bedroom and a main living space with a small kitchenette. There was no furniture other than a stripped mattress on a plain little bedstead, along with some kitchen appliances.

"It's perfect," Rosie said, and meant it. It was small, but there was space in the corner of the bedroom for Bash's crib and Major would, of course, sleep at the foot of the bed as always. As for a couch or a television, that wasn't very important at the moment. They would just stay one night—perhaps two—and then be on their way.

Doris stubbed out her cigarette. "Glad y'like it."

She turned to go and Rosie was struck with an odd chill. Something about the relief that ebbed into Doris's tone triggered some sort of apprehension. "Why wouldn't anyone take this apartment?" Rosie asked.

Her tight, wrinkled old face was unfathomable. "Gets real drafty at night," she snapped, and then left.

That night, lying on the cold, creaky boxspring, Rosie found out. Or, at least, began to find out. She wouldn't truly find out until a month later, when her whole life would change drastically and permanently.

Bash was asleep, thank God, after a rowdy afternoon of demanding to watch television and then sobbing after he couldn't eat pretzels for dinner. Major had gone through the whole apartment, sniffing everything with his tail up and wagging, as if inspecting a perimeter. It hadn't been that bad of a day, despite Rosie constantly checking over her shoulder to see if Randy had gotten bored and decided to do a long, lazy loop around the city.

She awoke in the night with a raging thirst. Slipping quietly out of bed, so as not to disturb Bash or Major, she padded quietly to the kitchen and flicked on the lights.

For the briefest instant, she saw something written on the wall.

Rosie clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle a little scream, but a high, shrill noise escaped her nose anyway. It had been so sudden, like a camera flash, but it was gone now. Gooseflesh had broken out all along her arms and thighs and she scolded herself for being such a ninny.

She was nervous as a cut-cat and couldn't help it. Unable to help herself, she went over to the far wall and touched it, half-expecting to come away with paint-sticky fingers. The smell of new paint was quite strong, now.

What had it been, then? Her imagination?

(your imagination's been quite erratic lately Rosie dear)

Yes. Yes it had. First seeing Randy in front of Aimee's apartment and now, seeing literal writing on the wall? She was going crazy, she was certain of it. This whole day had a warped, twisted feeling to it, like a Twilight Zone episode or the distorted lens on a camera. She had left her husband three days ago, and now she was sleeping on a naked mattress with her only belongings in the world scattered around her. That alone was reason enough to be a little…well, kooky.

Still, she stayed. Squinting very hard at it, she thought she saw something.

Moving as though in a dream, she went back to the lightswitch and turned it on rapidly. The bright flash of light illuminated the whole kitchen and as her pupils contracted once more, she could see the writing again.

If it could even be called writing.

It was hidden behind a coat of fresh paint and only visible because the stark color had bled through. It really needed two or three coats to cover it up completely; in broad daylight or lit by a flash of light, the writing was quite clear.

HA

HA

HA

HA HA HA

It was deranged, erratic laughter. She could hear it, echoing faintly in her head, and shivered. Her eyes were wide and glassy.

Abruptly she shut off the light and went back the bedroom. She was overtired. It had been a long day. She wasn't even convinced this wasn't some sort of odd, mildly unsettling dream. Rosie fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, and decided just then that it had been a dream. The writing would be gone in the morning.

As she slept, faint laughter, manic and hysterical, floated unfettered in the hallways of her mind.

I'm eager to hear any opinions, good or bad, have any sort of feedback, or just a random comment! :D I really enjoyed writing this and I'm having fun planning where I want this story to go. Any watches are welcome and reviews are appreciated! xoxo, Sassy Bigfoot