awesome_possum

He was standing on the curb. The wind was blowing strong, the air cold and biting on his bare arms and face. Rubbing his chest, he ignored the numbness that seemed to sift through his limbs, a force of its own that eased slowly up from his hands until the tiny hairs on his arms stood erect and goose bumps blemished his old skin. Old . . . yes, he was old now, but it hadn’t always been so.

Scowling, he stepped onto the street, finally daring to cross the busy intersection. It didn’t matter that he was old though, not in the larger scheme of things. He still held the respect of others; he was still master of his home. Age didn’t change that. The only thing that changed that was death, and death was exactly what it would take for him to relinquish those two things. And nothing she did was going to change that.

He reached the other side of the street and continued walking, his stiff arthritic limbs grinding together. Turning down an alley with the intent to save time, he was gladdened to see that some things hadn’t changed. Trash littered the walkway and graffiti the walls. Pools of dirty water gathered in depressions put there by the passage of time, the same as they had been in his youth. They reminded him of the overcast skies and he hoped it would rain.

Finally he passed through to the other side. The change was so drastic, and so abrupt, he paused to take it all in. Where the roads he had come from were teeming with traffic, this one was not. Huge oak trees lined the paved sidewalks, their bare branches reaching out to each other and touching lightly the roofs of houses, so that you could not tell where one began, and the other ended. Old like him, he thought. But as time wore on they had strengthened and he, he had grown week, frail as the very leaves that littered the ground, dry and stiff. One step and he could crush them. Why did she have to see this in him? Why couldn’t she just remember the man he had been?

Standing there, he closed his eyes and listened. He could hear the occasional skittering of a squirrel that was a bit behind on his winter foraging. From the park down the street came the soft clink of chains as the wind whispered to the swings. Easily, he imagined what that park was like in the spring. The laughter of children, not this desolate stillness, was what he longed for.

But the cold continued to seep deeper into his bones, and he needed to keep moving. Opening his eyes, he began his shuffling walk once more. It really wasn’t much farther. Then again, he moved slowly, and what once was short was now long.

Finally he had reached his destination. His home was located at the end of the street; just on the corner as it branched off into another. It wasn’t very big with its squat walls and pealing paint. Tiles from the roof sprouted grass and moss and even little white flowers when the weather allowed. Some of the roofing had even fallen off and lay on the ground in the high grass and weeds. A single Oak tree stood drooping in the corner of the tight yard, its bark dry and cracking. It looked as if a person had taken up a long curved knife and slashed it right down the middle and sap oozed from it. The leaves had long since parted, swept away by a soft wind. A short wrought iron fence with a creaking gate closed it off from the world. It became an oasis from order and law.

Yet, despite these things, despite the disrepair of the house, the disorder of the yard, it all held a certain air of beauty. Exotic, but familiar, like an abstract painting it all fit together. He remembered a time when he would take such care to cut the grass, to white wash the walls until they gleamed in the early morning, so pure they reflected light as if snow. He wished he could do so now, as he stood there looking at it, lovingly imagining the feel of nail and hammer between agile fingers again. But, he still appreciated what it had become.

"Father," the voice was soft and worried and he turned his head in its direction. Standing just in side the doorway was a girl. She was short and a bit too thin, and had drowsy eyes. Her hair was a drab brown, a sort of mousy color, and it was pulled back in a bun but in disarray as small wisps of it graced her high cheekbones. She was pale and looked as if she would blow away if she were to take but one step forward away from the sheltering house. How ironic that she now cared for him when it seemed to him that it had been yesterday when he last held her in his arms. "Where have you been father, you just about sacred me to death." she said earnestly, moving away from the house with quick deliberate steps, a light nit sweater in hand.

He didn’t answer, he just looked at her, and it seemed as if his lower lip extended just slightly as if he were a little boy being reprimanded for a crime he had not committed. "What if you had gotten lost," she went on, a little louder. "I would have had to come find you, and you might have died, Father." She had reached him and was searching his eyes.

Those eyes he did not wish to meet. They were grey as his dear Ellen’s had been and she was gone now and he didn’t want to think of that. He didn’t want to stand here in the cold and listen to her talk. He wanted her to leave him in peace and quit fussing . . .

"Here, Father," she said, "I’ve brought you your sweater." And he allowed her to wrap it gently but snuggly around his shoulders.

He followed her diligently up to the front porch, feebly pulling the jacked closer, malice emanating from his eyes. She didn’t seem to notice, but kept walking, and as they reached the door, she pulled it open for him and quietly motioned for him to enter. As the door closed, he shuffled over the ragged carpet to his chair. It was perhaps as old as he and was falling apart with gashes up and down the side and back as if a cat had utilized it for sharpening claws. Facing away from the front window, it possessed the perfect angle for the little stove fireplace located in the middle of the room.

As he mechanically sat down, mindful of creaking joints, she moved into the kitchen. She very much liked this kitchen. As a child she had spent many an afternoon faithfully watching her mother bake and wash. It was a place of comfort and warmth, even though the one who had made it thus had already moved on in the larger scheme of things. Small, it had just enough room for a rusted sink underneath a window stuck shut from years of neglect, looking out to the tiny yard. The counters were wood and had at one point been a forest green, but now had faded to a pale sickening color that often seems to remind people of puce. An old stove squatted in one corner, and spoons, pots, and pans, all of varying length, hung from the wall. In fact, the only modern accessory was the refrigerator; an accommodation just acquired that summer at her insistence.

"I’ll warm you up some hot soup." she called back to the living room. A reply was mumbled back, but she was already at work. Opening the fridge, she took out a small container filled with the soup she had made the night before and set about putting that in a pot and adding it to the stove.

As it warmed she hummed a little tune to herself, glad to see her father safe at home once more. "Father," she called pleasantly, "You have not taken your pills yet today."

Silence.

Turning around she saw him standing there. He was haggard and drawn, his eyes wide and his pupils dilated. His whole continence appeared menacing and he gripped a knife in his left hand.

Frightened, she backed up against the counter until it dug sharply into her side. "Father, listen to me. Put that down, you’re just not fee – "

"SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!" It was an explosion, grotesque in its suddenness. His voice was loud and courses, grating to the ears. "All I ever do is listen to YOU! I will not do so any more." Taking a step he brought the knife down across her face at a slanting angle violently opening up a large gash upon her cheek. The skin flapped, the blood sprayed, her voice shook and wailed. She fell to the ground. Grunting, he kneeled before her.

"Ahahahhahaha, not so well now are we? Not so quick to discount me?" Laughing maniacally he took up the knife once more, this time burring it deeply and violently in her abdomen. As it sunk in, again and again and again, he could see her moan. Her hand had flown to her wounded face and she moved her head right and left, a blind man seeking reason when none can be found but in the light. She moved her lips but she couldn’t seem to get them to do what she wanted. Twisting the knife sharply to the right, he pulled it out for the last time and threw it the floor. Backing away he surveyed his work.

Her whole body seemed to be in spasms, her eyes wide and searching. . .and like a fish that has spent too much time out of water, she slowly ceased to move. And he remained standing, staring, not daring to move from his place. His face, his hands, his shirt, his being, coated in her blood . . . and the kitchen she had so loved, violated, graffitied, the floor stained red. And the knife laying silently on the ground, innocent save for its stains. Oh that knife, he had given that knife to her . . . she had so loved to cook and he had wanted her to have a nice set of knives . . .

Collapsing on the floor he began to rock back and forth upon his heels. No no no no, he moaned and moaned and moaned, utterly pathetic and helpless, paralyzed by the monstrous deed. Free? He was bound in irons.

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I think I need work on run-ons and sentence fragments towards the end. =/ not to sure on what to do about those however.

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--Possum--

"I'm all in favor of keeping dangerous weapons out of the hands of fools. Lets start with typewriters."