Special:

1 : distinguished by some unusual quality; especially : being in some way superior (our special blend)
2 : held in particular esteem (a special friend)
3 : readily distinguishable from others of the same category

{Source: Merriam-Webster's}

I have met thousands of people in my thirty-two years on this Earth. Sadly, most are either shallow, cruel, material, or so preoccupied with physical appearances that I find it difficult to be civil to them. Most of the time, I will insult them so callously that they have no choice but to disassociate themselves with me. I cannot stand people possessing these foul qualities, and my blunt rudeness, coupled with a fair vocabulary and a savage tongue, is at it's zenith when folks like that meet me...

In addition to the rotten though, I have met some truly beautiful people along the way, as well. However, sadly, they can be easily counted on one hand. A member of this group has absolutely no idea just HOW special she is. She sees not the gifts she offers the world, without EVER requesting ANYTHING in return. Selfless people such as her never realize their own worth. I do. I see it, and am grateful to have the honor to call such a special person my friend. I have yet to meet her equal, and am positively certain that I never will.

This story means a great deal to me; so, I beg those wishing to review, that they give me an honest account of what they think of it. I cannot achieve absolute perfection, but I will certainly pursue it tenaciously...

~The Hurting Sounds~

~One ~ Stacking the Odds~

"You've done a lovely job on them, Ivy." Said Mrs. Berkson, Isabella Violet York's neighbor. "What is it that you do to them that makes them grow so quickly, child?"

"I'm not sure ma'am. But if I touch the dirt around plants, my hands tingle; and if that happens, the plants grow." Ivy replied, kneeling in her small vegetable garden in front of her mother's mobile home, dropping the zucchini seeds into the dry, lifeless Southern Arizona soil, with her cut and bleeding fingers.

"Well, I'll be watching them extra carefully this time, honey." Mrs. Berkson added with a contemptuous tone, watching the delicate little girl with fascination. "I'll have Sampson bite the next person to hurt your garden, Ivy..." Sampson, being her Irish Wolf Hound.

"Maybe they were just hungry, Mrs. Berkson..." Ivy replied with a shrug, while lifting her gaze to meet Mrs. Berkson's. "They probably needed them more than I do..."

"You are far too good for this world, child." Mrs. Berkson said, with a small smile, and slight shake of her head, turning away and walking back to her own trailer.

Her task complete, Ivy climbed the creaky stairs into the trailer. With a stab of horror, she caught sight of "Uncle Scotty" sitting on the ratty maroon couch, holding a fifth of Wild Turkey whiskey in his grimy right hand. He was still in his "Ron's Rolling Auto" coveralls, which were as filthy as the rest of him. He smelled as if someone had dropped him in a vat of rotten grease, then bathed him in Wild Turkey...

Scrunghing her nose at the rancid smell, and fixing him with a piercing blue-eyed stare, she said nothing. She merely stood in the doorway, wishing her mother would have finally had the nerve to say enough was a enough. But, evidently her mother had taken him back, and forgiven him for slapping her around yet again.

How many times this had actually happened in the past three years of Scotty and her mother, Regina "Reggie" York's on again, off again, relationship, Ivy could not recall. However, she was willing to wager all that she owned, that it had to have been at least twenty-five instances...

Scotty, had never been above hitting her mother, but had only hit Ivy once during one of many drunken tirades. This was due to the fact that he had come away with angry red blisters on his hands, just by touching the girl. Shortly after that incident, he had ceased hitting her mother in front Ivy, opting instead to "straighten her out" when Ivy was at school, or nowhere near his proximity. Though the big tough guy known around the town of as "Swingin Scotty" would never admit it, he was scared to death of the little girl called Ivy...

Ivy felt that it was not possible for her to hate anyone. However, "Uncle Scotty" was the worst and easily most abusive, boyfriend her mother had ever had, and she desperately wanted to hate him.

"The fuck you looking at?" Slurred Uncle Scotty. "You're a fuckin creepy little kid, you know that?"

Saying nothing, Ivy walked to the rear of the trailer, where her mother was passed out on the bed. Ducking into her mother's bathroom, she quickly washed the crusted blood and soil off of her hands. As she dried her hands and sighing heavily, she walked over to her mother's sleeping form, removing her boots.

"Mommy?" Ivy said, shaking her gently. "What do you want me to cook for supper?"

"Oh, n-nothing for me, honey." Her mother said sleepily, stifling a yawn. "Just cook something up for your Uncle Scotty, ok?" Rolling over onto her side, she fell back to sleep instantly.

Ivy had been dreading this...

Now, not only must she put up with his rank smell and his ugly disposition, but had to cook his dinner for him as well.

"Uncle Scotty?" Ivy asked politely. "What do you want for supper?"

"Anythang but that shit ya got in that garden..." He answered, with a cold and slurred tone. "Aint never seen me a garden grow so fast. What the fuck ya doin to them things?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, UUUUncle Scotty..." She offered sarcastically, hating him for certain now. "What do you want to eat?"

"Mind yer tongue there missy!" He roared drunkenly. "Gonna have ta teach ya a lesson one a these days!"

She knew for a fact that he was scared to death of her, but just wanted the cooking to be done and over with. Turning away from him, she stalked off to the kitchen, while he turned back to his baseball game on the t.v. She had no sooner set foot into the tiny kitchen, when a large and ancient looking grey barn owl flew through the open kitchen window, and landed on the tiny dinette table, with an envelope attached to it's leg.

"What the fuck is that there thing, ya creepy little shit?" Uncle Scotty said, springing to his feet and wobbling towards the table, to offer his drunken analysis of the current scene.

Ivy had no idea what an owl was doing in her mother's kitchen. Stranger yet, was the fact that it had an envelope tied fast to it's left leg. Quickly, she approached the owl, wanting to get to it before Uncle Scotty could succeed in delivering his inebriated carcass to the owl first.

When she was close enough to touch it, the owl held the letter up for Ivy to take. With a hand that shook slightly, she snatched the letter and quickly stuffed it into her waistband; hoping that in his currently incoherent state, he had not seen it...

As Uncle Scotty walked into the kitchen, Ivy's spirits lifted considerably, thrilling her with a huge jolt of relief. Evidently, he had not seen the letter that would have him demanding the letter immediately.

However, her elation was VERY short lived, as Uncle Scotty had now seized the owl. Though the bird beat it's wings frantically, and was shredding the man's chest with razor sharp talons, Scotty held fast to it.

"FUCK!" Thundered Scotty, as the owl nipped his right index finger, severing the finger nail, and the first half-inch of flesh as well. "GODDAM THING BIT MY FINGER OFF!"

Having said this, Uncle Scotty began beating the owl's head against the table...

"NO!" Screamed Ivy, horrified. "Let him go Uncle Scotty, p-please... He's scared... Please let him go..." She sobbed.

"Fuck you, and fuck this here bird!" He announced triumphantly. "Fuckin things dead anyway... I was hopin it'd last a little longer s' all" He said with a shrug, tossing the handsome barn owl's carcass to the kitchen floor like a piece of garbage.

"How could you?!" Ivy shrieked, dropping to her hands and knees, looking into the unseeing eyes of the battered and bloody owl. "WHY?! Couldn't you hear him screaming?! He was scared and you killed him! You are a very bad man..." She said, with a strangled voice, raising her tear stained face to look into the jubilant face of Scott Henderson.

"What the fuck ya talkin bout?!" He replied through a toothy grin. "What screamin?"

"He was screaming that he just wanted to go home." Stroking the owl's still warm feathers gently, she cast her back upon the bird. "Y-Y-You're an evil man!" She choked.

"We gonna get on that there screamin shit kick again?" He chuckled. "Your a kooky fuckin kid! Ya just ain't right..." Turning on his heel, and without another word, he ventured outside through the front door.

"I-I-I'm sorry..." She whispered raggedly to the bird, placing her hand flat against his soft feathers, stroking him softly. "He is a very bad man, and Mommy always says bad people get what they deserve..."

Cradling him in her arms, she made her way to her room, and placed the dead on her bed. She vowed to bury him after supper, in a place where Uncle Scotty would not find him.

Ivy reasoned, from a similar experience, that he would just dig him up again. Just like he had done with Tobious, her cat, and dance his body in front of her face for hours. Laughing his horrible and cruel cackle, while she cried, and begged for him to stop.

Ivy lay the owl on her bed, placing a blanket over him. Still sobbing, she made her way back to the kitchen. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she set to work.

At the very moment she pulled eggs out the refrigerator for her meat loaf, the screams started. When those screams in particular sounded, a horrifying nightmare became reality - Her garden was dying...

'Oh, no...' She thought inwardly, bolting for the door; hoping she had been mistaken. 'No... Maybe it's just a dry lawn... Summer is over, and it will be back in the spring...'

Wrenching the door open, and peering apprehensively into her garden from the stairs, Ivy, at once, had her worst fears confirmed: Uncle Scotty was grinding his work boots into all of her flowers and vegetables, and singing Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer while killing them.

Ivy snapped...

The fact that Ivy was only eleven, very skinny, and had absolutely no idea what she could possibly do to hurt this man, never even crossed her mind.

Seizing a shovel from the tool shed, Ivy made her way to the garden. Moving quietly, she was able to sneak up behind Uncle Scotty, and hit him with every ounce of strength she possessed. However, her strength had not been equal to the task for a drunk man that stood six-foot three-inches, and only served to draw his ire...

Ivy never saw the first punch coming, as it connected cleanly with her left temple. As a result, her vision began to blur, and there was an odd ringing in her ears. Falling to the ground in a heap, Ivy was only dimly aware of the other punches and kicks raining down on her face, chest, and stomach. Uncle Scotty, unaware of his hands being badly blistered, pounded away on her delicate frame...

Drifting in and out of consciousness, Ivy only caught tiny snatches of sounds, but she had distinctly heard a dog's bark, and a shout of, "Sampson, get him", and "Yep, he's dead all right... Lets drag this piece of filth out of the way...", "You poor, poor child" sobbed a woman's voice.

As the moments ticked by, Ivy's breathing was becoming more and more labored. The only desire she currently possessed was that of sleep, but all of these people were making too much noise, and they kept lightly patting her cheek.

Turning her face slowly away from that annoying patting, her blurred vision caught sight of someone, a man, being dragged by one arm. But it couldn't be a man Ivy reasoned... No, that man's head was flopping around at impossible angles, and missing half of the neck beneath it.

It must have been a movie prop of sorts, was Ivy's last thought as the darkness took her.