By Mark Silverhawk
Greenville Illinois, the Hayward residence, approximately 4:30pm
Buttercup is just standing there, staring at the floor as though her favorite treat is right under her nose and she’s just waiting for the command word to gulp it down. This imaginary treat, however, is somehow extremely threatening. Her growls are long and low in between short intakes of breath. Drool begins to pool on the hardwood floor under her snarling maw.
“Buttercup!” Daron Hayward barks again, his voice as firm and commanding as he can muster at fifteen, but this being the third time his call has been ignored, his tone hints now of fear. He has never heard Buttercup growl before, no one has.
Buttercup is a mutt, Malamute and German Shepherd. She views the world through innocent, ice-blue eyes and sports a thick coat of jet black fur, except for a dusting of silver on her soft belly. She may look intimidating, but she has always been a sweetheart and her temperament docile. The one hundred pounds of pampered and adored fluff just turned one a few days ago. One minute ago she was passionately trotting across the dining room retrieving a tossed knobby ball, now she seems to have completely lost her mind.
Kyndra, Daron’s younger sister by two years, had been camped out at the threshold where the living room carpet meets the hardwood floor of the dining room. She had tossed the retrieved knobby ball back across the dining room when Buttercup suddenly just stopped and stared at the floor. Now, Kyndra stands back as far as she can in the living room and still keep a weary eye on Buttercup.
Daron begins to back away. “I’m uh…just gonna walk away now,” he declares nervously.
Buttercup huffs suddenly and raises her head.
“Oh my God!” Daron gasps.
Kyndra shrieks in horror.
Buttercup’s beautiful, compassionate, ice-blue eyes, now glisten red with blood.
Daron’s intentions were to turn, run, and yell for his parents, but no sooner did his heels complete their fervent pivot, Buttercup was on him.
Kyndra is frozen in fear and disbelief as Buttercup takes her brother to the floor, tearing viciously at the back of his neck, blood spraying out across the living room. She breaks the gridlock between mind and body and blindly turns hard to run away, as far away from this daymare as possible. Her left knee, in full swing, catches the sharp corner of the coffee table cleanly, dislocating the knee-cap. Her screams renew and meld with her brother’s as she goes down.
Their grandfather, retired military official Dr. Albert Hayward, and their father, active military official Dr. Henry Hayward, come rushing into the kitchen then, having heard the event erupt from out on the patio where they were prepping for BBQ night. Albert is armed with a large, bare, steel skewer, his son -a butcher’s knife.
Their grandmother, Mrs. Judith Hayward, and their mother, Mrs. Eleanor Hayward, were upstairs in Judith’s office when the commotion began. Eleanor emerges from the stairwell with a dagger-like letter opener in one hand and a paperweight in the other, her mother-in-law close behind, her youngest grandchild, Peter, cradled in her arms.
Buttercup kills them all.
“The targets?”
“Eliminated.”
“And the subject?”
“Neutralized.”
“Good. Now activate the others.”
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
- - -
Originally from St. Louis Missouri, Mark Silverhawk is an artist/writer currently enjoying the edenic beauty of Hawaii from the isle of Maui. When He's not manifesting his imagination onto canvas or computer screen, he seeks the company of musical instruments, nature, animals, the ocean and a few select people.
Like the weathered soul rooted to a window seat gazing out through a particular pane of glass at nothing, having outlived the very capacity to experience life, left to aimlessly sift the rubble and dust memories of a once grand mosaic, perhaps I too am simply unwittingly waiting to die. I sure feel like it. I mean, I mope around, eat, defecate and sleep -if you can call tossing and turning to wake every other minute until I can’t take it anymore, sleep- but I feel as dead as an oak tree deep in the heart of winter.
But a tree is not dead in the winter is it? Interesting analogy. Perhaps I am merely dormant like a deciduous sapling longing for Spring’s awakening kiss. I like that better than “dead”.
I feel dormant, longing for something, or someone to wake me from this blackness. Could a new day, one beneficially different than the countless dark days that have passed, really be out there on some distant horizon?
Are you kidding? Only a fool can still have hope after what you’ve been through.
Maybe your right. Perhaps it’s time to lie down in the muck and let it consume me.
Exactly.
But what if your wrong? Is there even enough mental endurance left in me to fuel those dreams again?
No.
I’m hungry.
Why bother? Your dieing.
Rice. I love rice.
Liar. Your wasting your time.
I’m going to eat anyway.
A small bowl of yesterday’s rice is consumed.
Now I’m tired.
It’s only noon. Your getting weaker by the day.
I wish I could sleep on command. Just hit the pillow and wake in a few hours, that would be a dream. I hear that the lack of sleep can cause a person to lose their mind, but we hear a lot of things don’t we?
Yep. Like… the knife is right there. Your pills are in the nightstand drawer. Are you finished pretending to be alive?
Evidently not because I’m not in the mood to end my life today, no matter how seemingly hopeless it is. Sorry. There’s always tomorrow though.
Is there? And what can tomorrow possibly bring you? The same it brought you today; pain and suffering. Aren’t you tired of pain?
Yes, but maybe tomorrow is my new day. Maybe I just need to hang on, ignore you and hold on for another day and this hell, along with you, will all go away.
Go on and torment yourself, your only making this easier for me.
Whatever. I’m going to sleep.
Ya good luck with that.
Three hours later, after no sleep at all, just flip-flopping to the endless murmur of brain banter, I’m up again.
Is it tomorrow yet?
Might as well be. Everyday, every minute is the same; an endless trek of meaningless steps to nowhere.
Maybe They’ll call me today. Maybe you’ll shut up for five minutes.
There you go hoping again. Need I remind you…
No! You remind me enough thank you. I know where I’ve been and what has brought me here. It’s how to get out of this hole that I could use some support with.
But there’s no one to do that now is there? Whose going to help you now? Your lost and alone my friend. Lost and alone.
I’m going to eat again.
Go on. Eat. Eat until you can’t eat anymore. What difference does it make?
I love rice.
Whatever.
A knock at the door bolts me out of a dark corner in my mind.
I look around as if expecting to get someone’s approval to investigate, but the shadows could care less. I tentatively walk to the window and peek through the tattered curtains and faded glass at a young man in a postal uniform.More bills?
What else could it be? Don’t even answer the door. What if it’s just a disguise and he’s here to kill you?
Then I guess your dreams would come true.
True. Go on and open the door then.
But it can’t be good news. Can it?
You know what it is. More rejection!
With a deep sigh I open the door, but just a crack.
“Mr. Silver?” The Postman, holding a single envelope and a digital clipboard, inquires.
“Why not,” I say with resignation.Fool!
I sign my name, accept the letter and close the door.Did I say thank you?
No, you just shut the door in his face like a jerk. He hates you now.
I didn’t mean it though. I was distracted.
He hates you, just like everyone else.
I pull out a chair and sit at a cluttered dining table. The letter rests before me amid the piles of dirty dishes and dust. I make no move to open it.
Well open it already. I’m anxious to feel your heart sink again, to watch that last shred of hope you cling to crash against the jagged rocks of reality.
I continue to stare at the letter, frozen in indecision.
Just throw it away then. Do you really need another letter to remind you that your not good enough?
You know… someone once said, “Caution kills.” I thought it to be a joke, an oxymoron, but I think I get it now. Caution kills opportunity. What if this is it? Another opportunity I’m afraid to face, and I’m killing it, like your killing me.
I’m simply reporting the truth of your despair. You’re the one who refuses to face it.
Well I’m ready to face this. What do you think about that?
Then open the letter. Fool.
I open the letter. I read. I jump to my feet.
“They want to publish my book! It’s finally happened! My new day has come at last!”
I pause and listen within for taunting sarcasm.
Silence.
What, no reply? No lies to torment me?
Oh I’m still here, but it looks like I’m going on vacation. But rest assured, I’ll be back...
- - -
Originally from St. Louis Missouri, Mark Silverhawk an artist/writer currently enjoying the edenic beauty of Hawaii from the isle of Maui. When he's not manifesting his imagination onto canvas or computer screen, he seeks the company of musical instruments, nature, animals, the ocean and a few select people.
