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  • Don't Read...Well, You Know The Drill...(pt 3)

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  • This is my Blog...There are many like it, but this one is mine...

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        Friday, December 22, 2006

    Don't Read...Well, You Know The Drill...(pt 3)

    ...and glass sprayed outwards from the upstairs bedroom. The 'Baby's Room', as they had all come to call it.

    Pastor Sam's wife came flying out and down, like a special effects shot gone terribly awry, but the snap of her forearms breaking, and the crunch of her kneecaps and forehead as they met the gravel was all too real.

    As Mommy's face raised up, her forehead embedded with chunks of white gravel, her lower face festooned with what looked like blackberry jam, and maybe small bits of pulled pork, Millicent hitched out a small cry, and dropped down to the drive, to sit for a while.
    Behind Sam, he heard thumping as the other two sought refuge deeper in the van.

    Pastor Sam brought the pitcher up, almost languidly and looked at his reflection in it. He noted that he had 'missed a spot'. Had they been doing the dishes together, he could just hear his beloved wife chiding him. Gently. Sweetness was her hallmark.
    He saw that in the spot he had missed, was a bit of dark matter, and some hairs. He nearly succumbed to hysteria when he asked himself the obvious question: "Which one of these is from the skull of my Dad?"

    He noted that there were a couple of blond hairs there, amongst the silver, and a few short brown ones, and his reverie nearly killed him...

    A stony scuttery sound brought him out of his fugue, and he saw his beautiful, loving wife crab-crawling across the white gravel towards him, mere feet away, her wrists flopping, like a rag doll's, her legs akimbo and dragging, her eyes blazing, and her jaws snapping at his daughter, seated there, with a terrible purpose, and...

    He brought the pitcher, up and over, and down, and smashed the base of it hard, onto the point where the nine bones of the skull of the woman who's virginity he had taken...been given, on the night of their marriage when they were both nineteen years of age...

    She cracked like a three-minute egg, and dropped as if all her strings had been cut, and her most secret sauce leaked out all over Millicent's buckle shoes, and began to spread up her pale blue socks, threatening to go all the way to the frilly lace anklets.

    His wife's fingers clawed in the white gravel, weakly, and mercifully, briefly, then stopped, and he dropped to his knees, and as he began to vomit helplessly on the one true love of his life's body, he could only hear his daughter choking back screams, and no sound at all from the van.

    They all well knew, by now, that they were not alone...

    Previews: they stand around the sad, tiny hole under the tree in the backyard, next to the other mounds where a cat, and two hamsters are buried in their own shoeboxes...

    ...he has gathered up the scraps of his son, in yet another shoebox, and he wants to pray, to comfort his children with this ritual...

    ...the horror of that room, collecting the bits...

    ...the wife, rolled up in a tarp, drug out onto the burn-pile, just beyond the hedge, there, soaked in gasoline, the match in his hand, and he realizes that he is about to send a signal up into the sky that...others...can see. Smell.

    ...memories of the potluck that went...awry...

    ...who is that solitary figure, over there under the trees? Just standing there...