THE WORRY DOLLS
There is a legend amongst the highland Indian villages of Guatemala.
If you have a problem, then share it with a Worry Doll.
Before going to bed, tell one worry to each doll, then place them beneath your pillow.
While you sleep the dolls will take your worries away.
Chapter 3 – “Rosalinda’s Resurrection”
Came light into the eyes of little Rosalinda.
Rosalinda’s head throbbed as she lay on her side, her face on the slimy grit of the alleyway. Her slowly dawning gaze fell upon the form of Sister Juanita several feet away imbedded on her back into a crater of bags and boxes. Sister Juanita’s head lay twisted facing Rosalinda.
Void and without form, darkness was within the open eyes of Sister Juanita. The rain was relenting now but dark water still flowed out of Sister Juanita’s open mouth.
Rosalinda blinked and stared at that open mouth until she thought she could hear Sister Juanita whispering “Run, Rosalinda, run!”
Rosalinda was dazed, soaked, and afraid.
“Run, Rosalinda, run!”
Rosalinda obediently wobbled to her feet again, sobbing. With both little hands she smeared the tears and bloody snot and saliva on her face. Then the rainclouds broke and parted. Rosalinda was illuminated.
The full moon had a rainbow around it.
Rosalinda gazed up at the lunar rainbow and thought of her grandmother. “Mamich!” she cried out and she thought she could hear her grandmother saying, “A rainbow is God’s promise to good little girls like you”.
Then she heard, “Run, Rosalinda, run!”
Rosalinda stumbled away toward the yellow street lights at the mouth of the alleyway.
As Rosalinda came out of the alleyway she was suddenly confronted by a man with long hair, a beard, and dark glasses. She froze in terror.
The man too hesitated, surprised. He knew all of the children and their families living in that abandoned warehouse. The drenched little girl showed no recognition of him, only fear.
The man thought, “She does not belong here.”
Rosalinda bolted past him and ran away down the sidewalk. She finally sought refuge in the alcove of a closed shop entrance. In shadow she turned her face against the door, slipping down and curling-up on the concrete doorstep. She pulled a tiny yellow box from her pocket and clutched it deeply into her fist and then she held her fist against her forehead. Her shivering became uncontrollable. She sobbed, “Help me!” “Help me!”
The long-haired bearded man had stared at Rosalinda as she fled down the street and then he turned and shuffled into the alley way and he proceeded all the way down to the dead end.
He was no stranger to death or the dead. The sight of Sister Juanita’s sprawled body half buried in the mound of refuse did not frighten him.
It enraged him.
He had known Sister Juanita for a few months. He had met her in the San Nicolas Mission on the day that she had arrived; a place where he often stayed.
At that time his first words to her had been an adamant, “I believe in no religion, I have no religion and I want no religion! So, you don’t need to preach to me or pray for me. I have no future, only past. I don’t know where I started, but I’m certain where I’ll end!”
Sister Juanita had not tried to rebut him. Instead, unflinching, she had locked her eyes with his. Then he had encountered a coldness. In the silence between them he swore that he heard her whisper, “I feel the same as you.”
Near the feet of the now deceased Sister Juanita something stirred, bringing the bearded man back into the moment. In a swift gesture he grabbed a small board and he then swung it hard, hitting the rat gnawing on the feet of Sister Juanita, dispatching it.
Dropping the board, he unconsciously crossed himself while mumbling some words he had sworn to abandon long ago.
Turning then, he yanked back a battered wooden pallet propped against the building. The man took one more glance at what remained of Sister Juanita. Kneeling and then crawling through a hole in the wall on all four limbs like a rat he entered the abandoned warehouse.
Not far away, Rosalinda left the swaddle of shadows and the alcove of the closed shop. Acknowledged only by a weak yellow streetlight, blinded with tears and terror, clutching her little yellow box, she was splashing across the intersection when the blue Volkswagen Coupe turned the corner and struck her.
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