MicroHorror

I like to watch Annabelle from my living room window and touch my cheek as if I’m caressing hers. I pull back the heavy gold drapes just a tad and squint through the slit of morning sunlight, so I can’t be seen. I reach for my new camera with the telescopic lens and begin snapping pictures of the beautiful child.

Mother always demanded that the curtains remain closed during the day. She feared the sun would fade the forest green carpet she had installed soon after my birth in 1975, the year Father left. Mother passed six months ago, leaving me her house and the family inheritance. After a bit of unpleasantness, the police ruled her tumble down the stairs an accident.

Annabelle is playing with her dog, Miss Frizzy, as she often does these summer mornings. I watch her run after the pup, a small, black and white terrier. She crouches down and the dog licks her delicious face as if it were covered with ice cream. I take more pictures. I can almost hear her laughing. Such a sweet laugh. Soon, her mother appears, obviously annoyed that Annie, as I like to call her, has gotten herself dirty. They get into their car, Miss Frizzy and Annie in the back seat, and drive off to day camp.

I wave goodbye and open the photo album, the one I no longer hide from Mother. I’ve collected pictures of Annie since she was a toddler, many with Mother’s old Polaroid. Mother and Mrs. Tierney used to be friends, and I was once allowed to care for the newborn. I will develop these pictures in the dark room I built in our basement and add them to the album.

I think about Annie at camp. She told me how she swims and plays tag with other children. Sometimes she pastes beads and shells onto colorful paper. She writes her name across the bottom and up one side, all in capital letters: A-N-N-A-B-E-L-L-E. She gave me one of her creations as a gift two weeks ago, but her mother didn’t approve. She treats me like some kind of monster after she and Mother had their talk.

I’ve taped Annie’s gift onto my refrigerator door. I long to show her how wonderful it looks there. Mrs. Tierney doesn’t appreciate Annie’s creativity. I think of myself as Annie’s protector and mentor, since her father left when she was a baby. We have much in common, but her mother refuses to accept our special relationship. To her I’m a creature to be kept away from her sweet child.

When Mother found my collection of pictures, she had that same look in her eyes. She forbade me to talk with Annie, demanding I stay in the house when she played outdoors. I found this imprisonment intolerable, although Mother said it was for my own good.

I spend my day developing the new photographs of Annie and redecorating Mother’s room. I buy paint and other materials.

At three o’clock, they return from camp. Annie is wearing her yellow shorts with orange butterflies, her favorite outfit. I ask about camp, but Annie’s mother tells her to go inside because Miss Frizzy misses her. Annie takes out a drawing from her book bag and hands it to me before running to play with Miss Frizzy. It is a picture of two people standing on green grass in front of a house–me and Annabelle. The bright yellow sun is smiling.

I will tape her picture to my refrigerator, next to her other gift for the time being. I must find a more prominent place to display her art. That is why I am painting Mother’s room a bright yellow and pasting butterfly decals on the walls. Annabelle’s drawings will look so beautiful there. And I will devote myself to the precious child.