“Dammit!!!”
Michonne Reilly, for the second time tripped on a sky-reaching root and fell face-first into a three-inch deep slop of rancid swamp water.
She was firmly resigned to the fact that she would make it. By this point, failure was not an alternative.
For Michonne to not make it was an unacceptable option.
Moss…
She was so sick of the Georgia swamp moss. The thickness of the humidity gagged her eleven-year old lungs to the point where a pack of Camel no-filters would have felt like an oxygen mask. At random intervals her boots would step in a foot-deep puddle that would immediately engulf her feet in a probing, slimy chill, while the hanging Spanish moss dangled from the trees and softly caressed her cheeks like the touch of a ghost.
Michonne feared that she could hike for years without ever finding fresh water, for the pools around her were the color of motor oil.
Trying to disregard her trepidation, she persevered. Despite her feet screaming wet protest, and the slow onset of dehydration, Michonne moved on.
If one were to meet her on the trail (if there was one), between her naturally mature looks and her tenacity, they easily would have pegged her for three years her senior.
As she crossed over a stream via a fallen tree, she quietly expressed to herself gratitude that the wood was there to provide boot-strap livery.
She made it across only to finally find some solid leaf-covered ground that served as both a swamp clearing and oasis.
At about two o’clock on her Cracker Jack pocket compass, Michonne noticed the small cabin. While it appeared modest, it was rather well-appointed for a desolate swamp. Despite the mold and half-inch layer of dirt enveloping the small house, she took comfort in the pretty curtains and the brightly painted orange and sky blue window boxes.
Michonne approached with stealth. Each step thought out like a move on Bobby Fischer’s chessboard. This would be an overly intrepid move for an average little girl, but she was forced to face the world’s underbelly at an abnormally young age.
When sneaking up on prey, the only benefit to the mass of fallen swamp leaves were their inherent lack of crunch. In a Georgia swamp, nothing crunched, for years of relentless damp humidity left everything soft and quiet.
Michonne saw Miner Redd sitting in his rocker, albeit there was no movement of his chair.
His snoring was chainsaw loud, but he neither lacked neighbors to complain, nor any local constabulary to deliver their concerns.
He merely slept, snored, and occasionally drooled.
Having no idea that Michonne was watching him in the midst of his humid slumber, he shifted to his right side without skipping a beat of the incessant snoring.
Miner was an ugly sight to behold. The wire-brush hair and crumb filled beard made her cringe. He resembled someone who trick or treated all twelve months of the year.
Yet, she felt no trepidation. She felt no fear. She jettisoned those feelings more and more as her proximately to Miner decreased.
She just stared while trying to understand why she was there as she watched the peacefulness of Miner’s afternoon rest, which most likely had begun at around midnight the previous evening.
Michonne got a bit of a chuckle at how his left pant leg was not just stained, but looked like at some point during the night, it opened a sluice for the urine to find its way down and add to the multi-shaded wooden porch stain-work.
She put her foot on the first step, and subsequently leaned her weight forward via her right leg.
“Crack!” was all the stair replied, yet Miner remained in the midst of his wildest dreams.
Step number two. “Snap!” and Miner subtly stirred as he shifted his body weight to his other side.
At that point, Michonne remained quiet and yet surprisingly calm. Fear was not part of her spider web of thoughts, and the more cognitive part of her turned toward logistics.
Last step.
She proceeded slowly in order to gain access to the main landing of the rickety old cottage.
“Creeeek…”
Suddenly, Miner’s left hand shot across the right arm of his chair expecting to swat an insect, yet Jim Beam would not yet release him from his semi-coma lease just yet.
It was then that Michonne removed from her small, child’s backpack the scalpel that she had stolen from her recent administering physician’s tray when he briefly left the exam room to convey instructions to the nurse. The razor sharp instrument felt and moved so naturally in her hand. It was not unlike the small carving knife which she used to whittle small animal shapes into the large oak log in the Narios’ backyard, which was an activity at which she became unusually proficient.
The early morning sunlight caught an angle on the blade, only to momentarily blind her and serve as a mirror ball to shine upon this red-neck dance floor.
Michonne approached Miner slowly, and brought the instrument within three inches of this throat.
Suddenly, he stirred and his arm grabbed Michonne as if he was awake all along and just playing possum. Miner Redd had damned good instincts. Otherwise, he would not have survived this long in his corner of the desolate swamp.
While he wrestled with the little girl’s left hand, Michonne managed to slowly, methodically, and borderline artistically, drag the instrument along Miner’s flamingo-like gullet, thus relieving him of his pesky Adam’s Apple. A spurt of blood shot into her right eye, which she gently wiped away like a baby’s tear.
Despite some brief gurgling coming from Miner’s throat, the action was swift, calm and quiet.
Michonne stepped back and looked at the results of her work which resembled that of a Kyoto sushi chef. In no way was she in shock or jarred. Rather, she gazed upon Miner’s pathetic, lifeless form like a great painter who stares at the completed work on a particularly gratifying canvas.