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.
