My Memoir – Where the Dark Things Grow
**The following is part of my memoir. Please go to this page for more information, as well as an easy-access list of each chapter.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.”
— Psalm 23:4
Jessie couldn’t wait to get out of the car when they pulled into the grass-covered driveway at her great-grandmother’s house. She flung open the door and jumped out, meeting her cousin Buckey and their German Shepherd friend, Dusty, in the yard.
Spring sang through the air. Sunlight poured from a cloudless sky, and butterflies fluttered above the begonias crowding a nearby flower bed.
“Let’s go to the creek,” Buckey urged. He gripped a stick taller than himself, because Buckey never went anywhere without a stick. It served as a staff, a sword, and more often than not, a gun.
“Yeah!” Jessie answered, already moving.
Their sprint toward the trees ended abruptly when a voice carried across the yard.
“Jessie! Buckey! Go inside the house for a while! You can play later!” One of their uncles waved from the barn.
The cousins sagged in unison, all dramatic sighs and drooping shoulders, then trudged toward the house like condemned explorers.
Inside, the air smelled of cornbread rising in the oven, the house wrapped in a thin blanket of heat from the baking. Dark-paneled walls were decorated with mounted deer heads, antlers, and old photos. Two clay owls hung near the door—Jessie and her Mama had painted them for Uncle Darrell years ago and gifted them one Christmas.
Cousin Buckey went into the kitchen while Jessie plopped down on the sofa to wait, but she had too much energy for sitting or waiting—and why couldn’t she play outside, anyway?
Curiosity got the best of her, and she went to the window overlooking the backyard. Peering through sheer yellow curtains, she glimpsed the barn in the distance. A few uncles were there, all standing around the rabbit cages.
Jessie propped her elbows on the windowsill and rested her cheeks within her hands. She smiled, watching, thinking about a bunny they let her hold one day, but wouldn’t let her keep.
Maybe they’ll let me hold one today, she wondered.
Her smile faltered.
Why is he…?
Jessie’s elbows slipped. She straightened, heartbeat rising into her throat.
No…don’t do that…
Her forehead pressed to the glass. Her breath fogged a halo around her mouth and nose.
One uncle lifted a rabbit by its hind legs. It thrashed, shrieking. The sound fought its way through the window anyway.
One blow to the rabbit’s head with a hammer, and it went limp.
Jessie stumbled back from the window, tears running hot and silent.
She was never the same.
Growing up, death seemed to follow me everywhere. Even to this day, fifty years later. And each death brought with it either trauma or a supernatural experience that, until today, I could never explain.
I was at Greers Ferry for the weekend. It might’ve been Easter; I don’t remember.
My uncle raised rabbits for food, and there are things that must be done when animals are raised to be eaten. That experience traumatized me and changed everything I thought I knew about the world—it showed me how dark and frightening it really is. And what made it so much worse was to witness family members whom I loved dearly and trusted and felt safe with, engaging in such cruelty.
Now, don’t misunderstand. I adored my family. I felt safe with them, and I know now that killing animals for food is a natural part of survival. But to a child, witnessing such a thing can be traumatic. It alters how you think, how you grow, and how you see the world.
The killing of the rabbits changed me.
I couldn’t unsee it, couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened. In the days that followed, I woke not with joy or curiosity, but breathless and sweating, wishing only to run away from everything.
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