Patsy

He didn't remember his mom ever not locking the front door. True, he hadn't come home in a long while, but his mom wasn't what he'd call a charming person. Distrustful, cantankerous, OCD-type of bossy. She even had that sixth sense which warned her of an open door somewhere, and she'd yell “Door!” from the opposite side of the house. So when he called her a week ago, and she had said “The door's open, son”, he hadn't thought it'd be as literal as this, after ten years out of the country.

Ten years. A decade. She had no idea that he had enrolled in the military and had been sent to hell, and had come back, relatively unscathed compared to most soldiers in his platoon. He knew his mom would disapprove, but that was the main reason he had packed his stuff and fled the house in the first place. That and his dad who had been a marine and who had “disappeared”. It was only fitting that he had taken up the torch to fight his father's fight. He knew his mom would shake her head, but she would have to admit he was dashing in his white uniform.

“Mom?” The door opened straight onto the living room. The curtains were flung wide open and flowing in the breeze – an open window, somewhere. Spring was there and it was about time it did. A quick glance around showed him that nothing had changed: same worn-to-the-thread sofa, same TV set, same carpet with subtly-hidden-with-furniture stains. He remembered that time when he had sneaked outside his bedroom to watch football when his mom was asleep. He had made himself a sandwich but had spilt ketchup on the carpet. He had known that it would be useless to try and move any piece of furniture by even a millimetre to cover it up. He had scrubbed and scrubbed in vain, covered it up. In the morning his mom had found out and had rubbed his ears so hard he had felt the heat and the buzzing well into the afternoon. Even greedy Patsy couldn't lick the thing off, and she had given it a good go all through the night. Where was that dratted dog, by the way?

“Patsy?” That old dirtbag must be nearing biblical age now. He dropped his army bag on the floor, next to the sofa. “Patsy?”

He smelt something off, and instinctively went to the kitchen. As soon as he saw the two feet, one shoeless, lying on the ground he started running – only to be stopped short by the full view of the body and by the stench that felt like a wall. His mom had probably fainted or had fallen or something. There were traces of blood on the counter. She lay motionless. The dog was there too. Patsy had clawed her way through the thin cotton shirt and inside the ribcage. She was busy tugging at a whitish piece of something, a rib maybe. The heavy body was jerking at every tug from the powerful jaws. The dog had eaten the nose and ears clean, the half-eaten lips bared in a ridiculous rictus on his mom's face, his mom who had never smiled. Patsy had eaten most of the fingers, and he could easily picture her using her worn-out molars to try and smash the bones. There were several piles of vomit and shit, with earrings and strips of cloth discernible in the goo.

The brute had been too busy feasting, or was too old and deaf to have heard him come in. She didn't seem at all surprised when she lifted her head, looked at him with her slightly-veiled, dropping eyes. She was wagging her tail because yeah, the prodigal son had returned. Her rheumatic walk would have been farcical in other circumstances. Now it gave her the air of a bad sci-fi movie machine. She snuggled her bloodied muzzle in his hand like she used to, licked his fingers. Then she went back to her feast. He suddenly realised that she had left a fragment of bone on one of his fingers.

Something, at this precise moment in time, flashed in his mind. Very calmly, he reached for the holster in the small of his back, pulled his 9mm out, aimed carefully at the dog who, for some reason, had turned around. Patsy bared her teeth and growled. He could see pieces of bones and tendons stuck on her pink and brown gums. He stared straight into her black eyes and shot her in the head, once. Blood sprayed everywhere. Few drops landed on his carefully-polished shoes, and the bottom of his then-immaculate pants. Most of the blood spattered his mom's body. The force of the bullet sent the dog flying across the kitchen, landing with a thud on the opposite wall. He repositioned himself, grabbed the butt of the handle into the palm of his other hand. Calmly, he shot the dog, again. Again. Again. Until he ran out of bullets.

He calmly stepped out of the kitchen, through the living room and onto the porch. The draught through the front door was soothing, eerily embalming his face. He sat down. He had been fighting off the images ever since the flash had come, but now he embraced them. Every child, every woman, every man. Burnt, dismembered, bleeding. Crying, screeching, agonising. Their eyes, their seemingly iris-less, dark-as-night eyes. The hot nights illumined by rockets, home-made bombs. The air raids, the choppers. The sounds, the fury, the tinnital silence. The carefully-crafted, mutually-unintelligible, reciprocal hate.

When he heard the sirens in the distance, he knew he had a choice – several, actually. When he saw the three black and white cars hurtling down the road, he knew he still could make a choice. But he didn't move. The cries of the children, their hands stretched towards him, held him back.

All the officers came out of the car at once, but one was faster than the others and halfway across the front lawn when he spoke: “Sir, I can see the gun in your hands. Drop it!” His fingers fidgeting on the handle of his gun. “Don't shoot! Don't shoot!” “Shoot her, she has a gun, she has a gun!” When he came closer he noticed the blood-spattered shoes. He quickly drew his gun and aimed straight at him. The other officers did the same, two took cover. “Cover, cover! Sniper up at 2 o'clock!” Rookies maybe. Or ones who had been fired at before. “Sir, please drop the gun, now!” His eyes were darting quickly between the gun and his shoes. His dark eyes still contrasted with his light dark skin and his dark grey hair. He was a veteran, like him. “Keep pressing on the wound! We're losing him!” Older than the others. Could've been his dad, for all he knew. “Mom! Mom!” The gun fell between his shoes. The cop was a few feet in front of him.

Immediately, the officer's voice became much calmer. Something had changed. He walked closer, and said: “Rough day, son?”

When he tried to open his mouth he felt a knot in his throat. He managed to say “Yeah.”

“Would you like to tell me why you're crying?”

“I am?” “Flank! Flank! They're behind us!”

“Listen, why don't you come in the car so we see what's what inside the house and then we can have a chat?” He nodded. “We'll have to put you in handcuffs, son, you know it's standard procedure.”

He stood up, and saw everyone tensing. He turned around, his wrists crossed behind him. Two officers rushed inside the house. One picked up his gun. He didn't mind being roughed up. He didn't say a word. “I didn't like my folk, but now I miss them”. They would find, they would understand. He was led inside the car. Forceful hand bending his head. Door shut. Looking at his shoes. Outside. “Tell mom and dad I did my best. Tell them I.” All guns were being holstered. The old cop listening, looking straight at him. Nodding briefly to his colleague. Talking on the radio. They would understand why his mom, why Patsy. They might even be able to explain why the dog did this. But would he be able to understand the ultimate why? Would they? Would they be able to understand the constant cries of the children, the hate, the terror? The absolute, gut-wrenching, mind-crippling terror.