Lucy Parsons's Divorce Tactics-Personal Narrative

Lucy Parsons was her name. She was my favorite. Over the last century, I had scared over 147 children, but Lucy Parsons, with her missing front tooth and frazzled hair—she was my absolute favorite. She made my job a challenge, you see, and, oh, how I love a challenge. The usual tactics I used to frighten the miniature humans seemed to have no effect on the ardent 7-year old. An occasional scratch on a door or a slight growl from inside the closet was met with eye rolls. No, Lucy was too smart for these mediocre scare tactics. "One day, I'm going to be a detective. I'm not scared of anything." She would boast, a twinkle in her eye. Her parents believed that she was talking to no one in particular, but I knew. Her comment was meant for me. The

It was a sunny afternoon in July of 1997 and I had spent all day coming up with new tactics to frighten even the most gallant of little girls. But that night, when I crept silently to my post under the bed, her plucky head was nowhere to be found. In her place was her mother, Martha, who cried silently, clutching a picture of the young girl in her hands. The big humans in the blue suits kept repeating the word. Kidnapped, they would say, she has been kidnapped. I didn't understand. I knew what a nap was. It was when the tiny humans went to sleep while the sun still showing outside. I had even seen Martha send Lucy to this "nap" when the young girl was being naughty. But the light was no longer shining and Lucy was not in her bed and her mother was still crying and I still did not understand where my favorite child had

Amongst the other aromas of grass, corn, wheat and slight fecal matter, the smell of Lucy began to weaken. I was starting to get discouraged, when I heard small whimpers coming from within the maze. I called her name. "LUCY! LUCY!" Following the sound, I came into an opening in the maze. There sat a bound Lucy, a silvery band wrapped around her mouth. Her eyes were puffy and red, one of them slightly darker than the other. A red substance oozed out of the corner of her head, sticking her curly hair to her face. Just as I was about to claw off the ropes around her hands, a big human stumbled into the field. He was not a good-looking human. He spelled of sour milk and his body fit disproportionately to his bulbous, veiny head. His ghastly appearance angered me even more. How dare this grotesque excuse for a human take my tiny, lovely,