Chelsea

That's not them

Two young girls make eye contact. Across the street from behind the sanctuary of her window, young Grace Ross stares wide eyed at the neigbor girl behind her window in the house across the street; neither of the two girls completely digesting the grotesque and hell-like scene that had just unfolded in the Drake's front yard. Penelope Drake, the girl behind the other window, stares not wide eyed but mesmerized by the red liquid on the horrible, noisy machine her father is holding, the way it splattered onto his clothes marking him as the condemned. Grace is now misty eyed and in disbelief. That is not her parents, dismembered in her neighbor's yard. Grace does not know what exactly they are but they are certainly not her parents. Give Grace a few years to process this. Penelope stares in confusion, not fully understanding what her father just did and the true gravity of the act. Give Penelope a few years to process this as well.

The two girls are as different as they can be- Grace having light brown hair, pale skin, and hazel eyes that are always complimented by everyone she meets. They are her pride and joy. Penelope on the other hand has darker skin -reddish almost- with dark brown hair and murky green eyes that hide away any emotion that may reside in them if emotion is there at all. Grace is very feminine, always being the one who would not go anywhere near mud unless it was life or death. Maybe it will be someday, you never know. Penelope however has always been a Tomboy and wouldn't do anything girly like wear makeup unless it was life or death. Again, maybe it will be one day.

The red and blue flashes of lights, blaring sirens, and current circumstances are more than enough and then some to put everyone, especially Grace, Penelope, Penelope's mother Candace, and the neighborhood dogs, on edge. Loud barking can be heard from various places but just barely due to the ear-piercing sirens. Candace Drake seems like she's about to go insane while a cop attempts to ask questions about her now-convicted husband of seven years, Ian Drake. Were there any previous incidents? Had he shown signs of planning something violent? Does he abuse you? The cops stop only after Candace has broken down and is now curled up on the concrete sobbing, clutching a brown shawl close to her chest.

Penelope holes herself up in her closet amidst stuffed animals, clothes, gum wrappers, and drawings of herself, her father Ian, and her mother Candace. She blocks the door with a small stool and curls up next to the mountain of stuffed animals, still not understanding what's going on at all. Grace, however, is not as fortunate. She is taken by the tall men in uniforms into the car with the obnoxious, red and blue lights, wailing for her parents to tell them to stop. She doesn't know where they are but they certainly aren't in pieces just blocks away from where she currently was on the drive to the police station to be placed in protective custody. No. That's not them. That's not them. That's not them.

"Grace Ross, yes? Is that you sweetie?" the officer asks the girl in the car seat behind her. "Yes ma'am" "I'm so sorry about your parents" says the officer, trying to strike a conversation. "Why? They're just fine" "No sweetie, they're dead, Mathew and Sylvia Ross are dead. I'm so sorry" "You're wrong then." replies the young girl, so confident that they are alive somewhere out there, maybe even waiting for them wherever this policewoman was taking her.

Penelope and Grace's five-year-old minds wouldn't even begin to digest what had happened for the next three or four years, and they would only come to terms with it on their dying day. Until then, they would forever be thinking the same thing...

That's not them.