Little Girl Lost: Volume 1 of the Little Girl Lost Trilogy. Cindy Hanna

spend with him is a precious gift they both embrace. She begins to teach him his numbers and the alphabet as he grows. They play, giggle and have in-depth conversations only a mother and small child can share. She teaches him about his world and he, like a sponge, soaks up all his mother has to offer.

      Sally loves to watch her son sleep. She spends long hours, late into the night, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his tiny chest as he peacefully snuggles against her side. His laugh is as contagious as his uncle’s had been, and Sally cannot help but belly laugh along with him. These are the times that make her heart soar. These are the instances that make her mess-of-a-life worth living. She treasures every moment of Eric Angel’s existence.

      At the end of each workday, Ax rounds up his girls and brings them to his home. There, he locks all five in a room, where they exist, as college girls might, in an overcrowded space with only two beds.

      The prostitutes share everything, including their love of Eric Angel. He is their ray of sunshine, their glimmer of hope and a way for each of them to forget just how dire their existence is. Sally falls asleep every night with her son clutched tightly to her chest, just as a small child might cling to its teddy bear.

      One prostitute, Misty, shares stories of her former life in Las Vegas. She tells them of the gentleman’s club where she worked as a stripper and of its house mom, Mama Pearl, who took care of the dancers. The three girls vow that if they ever get out of this mess with Ax, they will head straight to Las Vegas and Mama Pearl. Sadly, they never get the chance. Misty overdoses on cocaine while with a john, and dies. Her death serves as a chilling reminder of just how fleeting life is.

      * * * * *

      Sally awakes in a pool of sweat, attempting to breathe. Her hair, T-shirt and bedding are soaked through. Disoriented, she sits up and tries to remember where she is. She feels Eric Angel nuzzle closer to her as the fog begins to lift, his small body fitting neatly against her own. With a start, Sally remembers the dream—another one of her dreams.

       Damn it! I have try to remember. What did I see? A bug? A bee?

       A bumblebee coming straight at the windshield. bumblebee coming straight at the windshield.

      She recalls the disjointed, nonsensical fragments.

       It hit the windshield, but it didn’t splat. Why didn’t it splat? Bugs always splat. Yet this one broke through the glass, leaving a neat little hole as an entry point.

      A veil of blackness drapes itself across her dream memory as her vision flees. Sally lies back down. Shutting her eyes, she feels the inevitable onset of a headache.

       What the hell does it mean? Why am I dreaming about bumblebees and little black holes in windshields?

      She knows that her dream is trying to tell her something and senses that a terrible event is going to transpire, but what, when, where—she cannot say. Instinctually, she wraps her arms around her sleeping child and pulls him closer.

      * * * * *

      Sally is cursed with her dreams. Most people dismiss their night visions as fantasy—not meant to become reality. Not Sally, she knows better. For her, dreams are warnings, premonitions. Although they often lack important details such as where and when certain events will occur, she has come to realize that they always become reality. Her dreams, like a good mystery, keep her guessing and searching for more clues. Sometimes the puzzle pieces come quickly. Sometimes they take weeks, months and even years to reveal themselves to her.

      Sally lies, hugging Eric Angel close, remembering her very first premonition dream. It had been several months prior to her brother’s fatal accident. She recalls how she had awoken in a pool of sweat, feeling disoriented and trying to make sense of her bizarre nightmare. The pieces of that dream had been so fractured: wetness—darkness— sun—eternal bonding—a smile—her brother’s face. She had no concept, at the time, of what the dream foretold. Its only lasting impression was how unsettled it made her feel.

      Not until after the fateful day at the beach did the full meaning of her vision become clear. The dream snapped into crystal-clear focus as she sat alone in the emergency room, beside her brother’s dead body, waiting for her mother to arrive. A cold chill had worked its way down her spine as the realization of the dream’s powerful message had sunk in, causing her to shiver. It was then and there that she had vowed to never ignore another one of her visions.

      * * * * *

      Sally lies there, pulling Eric Angel closer to her, as a chill creeps its way down her spine—her body convulsing and shivering. A long time passes before she finally drifts into a restless sleep.

      Along with the dawn comes another day for Sally to sell herself in order to spend time with her son. The johns, seeming to be more abundant this day, allow the girls to bring in extra money for Ax. Pleased, and in a rare act of kindness, he allows his bitches to call it an early day.

      Sally is delighted. This means extra time she can spend with Eric Angel. They giggle, bond and play one of their favorite games. Angel even gets in on the fun. They turn on the radio to a rock-and-roll station and begin to silly dance.

      * * * * *

      One day, when they were quite young, Sally and Eric had been dancing to some music in her room when their father appeared in the doorway, watching them. Afraid that they had somehow angered him, the children immediately stopped. He had smiled, not unkindly, but encouragingly. “No. No. Keep going. You look like you were having fun.”

      Seeing his reassuring grin, the siblings resumed their dancing. In a rare and cherished moment, their father joined in. A few minutes later, their mother, drawn by their laughter, came into the room. She stood and watched for a moment, a wide grin upon her face, as she looked from her children to her husband. She, too, joined them.

      Both parents winked at one another as they mimicked their children. Seeing their parents dance so silly made Sally and Eric dissolve into uncontrolled belly guffaws. Soon they were all trying to catch their breath. Thus the game of silly dance was created. This memory always brought a smile to Sally’s face and warmed her heart, for, to her, it represented the best of spending quality time together as a family.

      * * * * *

      Angel, Sally and Eric Angel silly dance until they fall to the ground with belly laughter. The three play late into the night, until Eric Angel falls asleep. Sally bears a content look.

       Wish time would freeze. Those whom I love most surround me. Can’t ever remember feeling happier.

      Most five-year-olds are not content to sit silently in the backseat of a car day after day for long hours, yet this was normal for Eric Angel. Oh, sure, he had protested once or twice and received vicious beatings from Ax. Even at this tender age, he had learned—just as his mother had—to do exactly as instructed, without having to be told twice. He had discerned that it was better to be bored than to meet the wrath of Ax.

      On a cold afternoon, not long after Eric Angel’s fifth birthday, mayhem breaks out at the motel. Another pimp tries to move his girls into Ax’s territory. Ax rises to the occasion to defend his turf. “Ain’t no motha fucka gonna mess with my turf!”

      Needing someplace to secure Eric Angel, Ax locks the boy in his car, located in the parking lot, before bolting across the street to the rear of the motel to confront the would-be squatter pimp. An angry argument erupts. Their voices rise and they begin to throw blows. Ax dominates the other man in size and strength.

      The other man manages to break free of Ax’s vise-like grip and runs towards Ax’s car across the street. Ax nonchalantly follows suit, an evil grin curling the edges of his mouth. “Not so fast, motha fucka.”

      The other pimp has a good fifty-foot lead. Ax pursues him into the street, fetches his revolver from his waistband, aims and repeatedly fires at the man, emptying his gun. There is no large bang like in the movies, just a series of little pops. The man pauses for a moment, then slumps and falls