When I first started here, I made it a point to steal some tickets and get on every single ride. It was the first and only time I ever rode on roller coasters. It was freeing and exciting, being so high up in the air. Suspended hundreds of feet in the sky, in that small moment in time, was the only time in my life where I felt like Daddy couldn’t get me.
I reveled in that feeling the entire night. Especially because I knew it was the last time I’d allow myself that pleasure again.
Like a true believer, I’m devoted to my mission. My time spent on the fairgrounds are restricted to luring demons to my dollhouse and eating—though I’d give that up if my body would allow it.
So, I just watch the guests enjoy the rides. The sound of their thrilled screams and happy laughter always brings me such joy.
Even though it’s really cold here in Washington.
Satan’s Affair is absolutely incredible. Despite the sun not having completely sunk in the horizon, mosaics of blues, pinks, reds, purples and greens flash in big bulbs alongside every single ride and building in sight. Clouds of colorful smoke drift throughout the night sky from the smoke machines placed throughout the grounds, the colors morphing into new shades from the multicolored lights.
It’s just so pretty.
Monsters are painted on the food trucks, the scary beings holding up platters of burgers and fries or holding a lemonade. Some of the monsters are depicted as eating the food—elephant ears, hot dogs and deep-fried Oreos posed at their mouths, sharp teeth poking beneath their lips.
My stomach grumbles and I remember myself.
The haunted houses won’t open until night falls. So not for another couple hours. The fair doesn’t let people in until about five o’clock, allowing them enough time to ride rides and eat before they’re drawn into the scary houses.
I skip down the steps and follow my nose to the first food truck I see. They’re offering hot fries and philly cheesesteaks. My mouth waters at the smell of salty fried goodness, sizzling meat and a surplus of spices.
The problem with hiding in the walls—I don’t get paid for my work. Another small price to pay, but it does force my hand when I need to eat.
A woman walks by with her rowdy young teenagers, pushing a stroller with a sleeping baby inside. I smile, the little cherub’s cheeks pink from the chill. The baby is nestled deeply into blankets and a fuzzy jumper. Her long lashes span across her cheeks as she sleeps peacefully, despite the loud screams and chatter surrounding her.
Oh, how I wish to be that innocent and unaware of the depraved world around me again.
“See this little girl, Sibby? She’s devoted to God and wants to drink the nectar for herself.”
I shake my head harshly, squeezing my eyes shut against the unwanted memories. That twelve-year-old girl birthed some more of Daddy’s babies within the next year. She died from complications in childbirth at fifteen years old, her third child—my sibling—a stillborn that dragged its mother’s life away with it.
I think that was the nicest thing anyone could have ever done for her. That baby offered her escape, and she took it gladly.
Gritting my teeth, I force myself to focus back on the innocent babe. I would love to go say hi, but babies don’t like my face. It’s not my fault though, this isn’t the type of place for a baby, but I understand some mothers don’t have a choice.
I let her walk by, noting the wallet sticking out of her stroller.
I won’t steal from a single mother. She looks exhausted already, though a small smile is on her face as she follows her teenagers around, happy because her kids are happy.
A middle-aged man walks by with an angry kid stomping through the grass next to him. The father is yelling at the kid, calling him names as he berates him for running off with his friends. He’s a strict father, by the sounds of it. And this kid just wanted to have fun with his friends.
His wallet sticks out of his back pocket as he trudges along, heading towards the exit. His hand is wrapped firmly around the kid’s bicep, keeping the kid from running off again. So many times, I remember Daddy holding me the same way. Usually when I ate without praying first and he’d have to force me into the bedroom, keeping me from eating the food.
My siblings would watch on, misery shining in their deadened eyes. They never fought Daddy like I did. They didn’t disobey him when his punishment always resulted in scars.
Before my eyes, I see the angry father morph into Daddy, and the kid turns into a younger version of myself. I prance up behind Daddy, light on my feet.
It’s too easy. The wallet slips from his back pocket, too focused on embarrassing his poor child. I scamper away, but not before the child spots me. It takes a moment to stop seeing myself—until my red face turns into the little boy’s again, brown eyes wide with tears of anger and embarrassment. When he sees my hand, a small smile lifts on his face and he deliberately turns away.
It’s entirely possible he might be punished for his father’s missing wallet. I can picture it now. A meaty finger pointed in the child’s face as he yells with rage, If you didn’t go to that stupid fair, my wallet wouldn’t be lost!
Momentarily, I feel awful. The father’s soul isn’t rotten and evil, though. He’s a strict father, but he loves his kid. That I can tell by the worry etched into the corners of his eyes as he walks away. His soul smells of a bonfire. Smoky, but not rotten.
He just doesn’t know how to love the right
