"You attempt to leave I will kill you" he gutturally growled from the floor as I looked down on him. Those words were filled with such intensity and wholehearted honesty I only could believe them true.
In the beginning he was a jovial man with a laugh that was uncontrollably contagious. He had the uncanny ability to draw people to him, a Pied Piper of sorts. One could not help but to love him, he in turn loved back. I too fell into the piper trap, yet, unlike the friends before me, I saw it in his eyes. There was a spec of distance, a window of evil locked by all the blue around it. It peered out yearning to be set free.
Over the years my fondness for him as my closest of friends had grown. Other friends, all fun and full of life one by one were gone. As the number of lost friends increased the window in his eyes began to open. I saw it, I did not turn my back on it. I felt the doom. There would be no defense if caught off guard.
The pity I felt grew with each loss of friendship. I have been accused of softness many a time, wearing my heart on my sleeve and consoling others whose hearts are hurting. This is an attribute I find empowering to have and my old friend fully embraced it.
As the years have passed, my old friend has aged exponentially. For many a thought of severe illness has crossed my mind but who am I to tell him "I think you are dying". No, not my place to put out what little is left of his piper demeanor, especially today. This summer day is beautiful and sunny, everything from the trees, birds, grass, to the hum of traffic is happy. I have a lightness in my soul I want to share with my old friend.
I come to the house, my old friend does not answer. He is not gone, I feel his presence, where can he be? I walk the house, opening every door anticipating a body lying dead. After clearing each room I head towards the kitchen. I silently enter the kitchen, taking quick inventory of the room-yes, everything is in place, even the damn butcher block of knives out on the counter. Boy do I hate that. Knives should be hidden away. In every horror movie ever made, the killer easily grabs one of those exposed weapons and uses it against it's owners, but this is my issue, and not the issue at hand.
The cellar door is open. This old house has a cold cellar under the kitchen, it's door inconveniently located directly in front of the sink. I hear my old friend jovial as in years past, singing to himself while he goes about his workings below. Relieved, I look down the cellar stairs and the atrocity that explodes in my eyes just can't be real.
My old friend did not lose all the friends over the years. No, he had their lifeless, well preserved bodies hanging like sides of cattle from the cellar rafters, each lovingly tagged with a name and date. I froze as he turned to look at me. My heart beating loudly in my ears I saw the blue was gone from his eyes. He first smiled, I knew not for happiness to see me, but the thrill his final friend had arrived, ready to be branded Best Friends Forever.
It is then that he yelled at me.
Those were his last words. The cellar door is now tiled over and there is a butcher block knife set, minus one knife, for sale on Ebay.
--Kimberly Demetrio, 2012
When I say I am writing, it's not just about the latest movies I've been sent to review, the witty expletives from my daughter's mouth, how I'm trying to save money, or my latest treasures. Nope, I write other stories such as this one. Running out of room for all my hand written composition books, it is time to start sharing these stories. I'll probably start a separate blog for them, seeing as they may not fit well with my Mommy Blog audience....or do they?