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Samantha likes rocks: she picks them up and puts them in her pockets.
She puts them in her room, under her bed, and doesn't let anyone touch them.
(When Ma cleans, Samantha doesn't scream. She just stands there, back against the wall, and looks at her. She hardly blinks, and her voice is soft agony and fear.)
Samantha likes rocks, especially with textures and colors.
She put them together outside, in a long, single line.
She puts them in her room, under her bed, in a circle.
(She doesn't put them in the living room).
Samantha's hands are sweaty when held for a long time.
Clark is fast - he can outrun her, he thinks.
They are in a cornfield and there's no traffic to run into for miles and miles away.
He lets go of her hand.
Samantha doesn't move, at first.
Samantha doesn't move, just looks at her hand.
Her empty hand.
Samantha doesn't run away, though.
Samantha looks at Clark, and then on the ground, and lets her body fall.
Samantha crawls on the ground, rocks in both hands, and her line never ends.
Samantha goes to the doctor again, and Clark is there to hold her hand.
Samantha doesn't scream anymore. But her heart beats madly when they get closer to the big house.
Samantha doesn't scream anymore, but she stops breathing as they get closer and closer. She stops breathing and her horror reeks.
(Clark doesn't think about it. But he stops walking towards the house, and his hand gets closer to her body.)
Samantha's running.
Like lightning, sudden and fast. Clark's hand attached and all.
Samantha's running, and people are screaming, and Clark thinks he can hear Pa in the distance.
(Someone's screaming thief,and kidnap.)
Samantha's running, and then there's someone hitting her and she's on the ground and people say things like “crazy” and “dangerous” and Samantha doesn't scream anymore, but she's making the noises that hurts Clark inside and there's someone sitting on her and she doesn't breathe.
There are arms, taking him away from her.
There are arms, taking her away from him.
“Leave me!” He shake the arms away. “Let go!”
And he run away and there are men standing over her.
“Kid,” one of them says. “It's okay, we got the woman who kidnapped you-”
“She's not kidnapped me and no nothing!” he screams, pushing the man away. “She's my sister! Let her go, you're hurting her!”
And the man lets himself be pushed, because Clark moves him and another and another and Samantha is in the bottom of that pile and she's not screaming she's not crying she's not breathing and her heart is fast-fast-fast.
Samantha doesn't move.
Her hands are on her back and her face is on the dirty street floor and her hair is jumping around, like trying to protect her head from being hurt.
Clark doesn't listen to the stupid people around. Clark doesn't listen to the stupid man that says mean things. He's an Idjet.
Clark puts his hands in his pockets and searches.
Clark pulls out a rock and puts it in Samantha's left hand.
(It's a good rock. Solid and rough and a little too big for him, so it would fit right in her palm).
“It's okay,” he keeps his voice quiet.
(Samantha hates loud noises and bright lights and clothes that scratch.)
“It's okay, I'm here,” he says like Ma said to him many times in the past.
Samantha holds her stone like it's the only real thing in the world.
Clark puts his hand in his pocket again, pulling out a broken quartzite this time. Samantha doesn't like touching those, though. They hurt her fingers. She always makes him pick it up and move it until it shines in the sun.
He puts it aside.
The next is a broken flint. The outside is rough and the edges are sharp, but the inner part is smooth and nice to touch.
Samantha's hands are no longer on her back, now. They are under her body, hiding her pebble.
“I've got another one for ya,” Clark says. “I got it on my way from school, you know? I thought you might like it. Rock. I got you rocks. You like 'em, right?”
Samantha doesn't speak. Samantha doesn't move her hands as usual.
But when Clark presses the smooth part of the rock against her cheek, her hand reaches out and holds it.
Clark has more rocks in his pockets, and he pull them all out: pebbles and rocks, gray and black and red and yellow, dirt and all.
Samantha doesn't speak. But she sits on the dirty floor, bloody face and tears and all, and holds her rocks tightly.
Samantha doesn't speak, but there are tears as her body rocks back and forth. As she starts crawling on the ground, getting her rocks in place instead of a big, messy pile.
Samantha's cry is quiet, like no one ever cared enough to hear her.
“It's okay,” Clark says. “You can play. I'll watch out that no one mess’ with your stuff.”
(It doesn't matter that she doesn't understand.)