She should have been called ‘Helen of Forks’.
Her name is Helen. And she is the queen of forks.
It began with a curiosity for pointed objects at the naïve age of five. A girl with tight curls kept an eye out for sharp items. Her mother’s kitchen became a playground for her fascination.
Knives, scissors, toothpicks, and the blades of the food processor. But Helen’s predilection for forks remained unbeaten. A fork had not one but four pointed tines. It was the mother of all sharp creatures.
There was no time for dolls and teddies. Helen spent her beloved childhood raiding drawers and cupboards, filling her purple knapsack with forks of contrasting shapes and sizes. Some thin and long, others broad and heavy, but none escaped her whimsical liking.
Helen’s mother found her daughter’s freakish obsession nonsensical. The headache of buying replacements added to her aggravation. And doubting Helen’s mental balance, the woman sat her down one day, in hope of solving the maddening dilemma.
But the young girl only said what came to her naturally.
‘Mom, when I grow up, I want to be a fork.’
The statement was a young mind’s utter nonsense, but Helen’s mother deciphered much more from it. She set out to find the remedy for a crazy daughter. Her child had gone on to the other side (of sanity).
Doctors and psychologists, near and far, told the anxious woman that Helen’s love for forks was a passing phase. Children often displayed such silly tendencies.
Helen grew. And tired of her mother’s complaints. It was best she bid goodbye to her sharp buddies.
Now Helen is nineteen, living on her own, a waitress in a snazzy diner. She loves her job and its perks. A suitcase full of forks – the perfect incentive.
A babe in its mother arms. The perfect picture? An angry soul has returned to seek revenge in Yellow Eyes Still Haunt Me.