It all seems a bit silly now but then again, I was only ten.
Needless to say that, before lunch time, I was very distracted and I’d forgotten all about the TA’s silence before long. This was pulled back to the forefront of my mind when, as the last few stragglers left to go play, the TA shepherded me into the cloak room like usual though unusually we never left. I was waiting for her to insist on helping me into the coat I was fully capable of putting on myself but instead she just stood there and eyed the other students as they left.
There were grey clouds in my future, but there was absolutely no telling what was ahead. Little was I to know, a storm would soon follow.
Barely a moment passed once the classroom door had clicked shut after the last student to leave, then the TA produced a final print of the school photo.
She jabbed a finger at my tiny seated form and demanded, “What is this?”
I opened and closed my mouth, nothing but a shrill croak moving past the back of my throat. The TA’s nostrils were flared, her eyes ablaze. She kept stabbing a finger at the photo but when I could find no words for her, she leant down and got right up in my face.
“Let me show you something.” She said through gritted teeth.
She jabbed a finger behind her, towards the back wall of the cloakroom. Close to the ceiling were lines of portraits the class had drawn in a variety of mediums a few weeks ago. Naturally, I hadn’t been allowed to participate directly but I was still made to sit for a portrait. Originally, Mason had been excited to pair up with me and quietly I’d promised I’d draw a picture of him in return when I got home. Unfortunately, Mrs. Schlender, in her infinite wisdom, had decided this was not acceptable. So, blathering something about getting me ‘better socialised,’ she separated Winney and Rowan as well as myself and Mason, ordering us to swap our best friends. All four of us protested, myself and Rowan possibly a bit quieter than the other two for different reasons, but Mrs. Schlender maintained that she knew best and that was that. I sat quietly for Winney and tried my best not to say or do anything that might make things worse. What this became was scarcely breathing for fear it would be too loud and sitting at an angle so that Winney could only see the ‘good’ side of my face…for all the good it would do.
Winney, very visibly pissed to an almost comical degree, stabbed at her paper with coloured pencils and smooshed crayons so hard into the page that they slowly broke down into a red putty in her hands. She scored the paper, muttering grumpily to herself the whole time. I tried my best to sit absolutely still. When the drawing was completed, Winney had tossed it across the table towards me, a shit-eating grin on her face. I’d averted my gaze and mumbled a thank you but now I was confronted with it once more.
“Look at that and tell me what you see!” The TA squawked.
I opened my mouth but no sound came out. My eyes burned. I could not breathe.
“Tell me what you see!” The TA roared again.
For no other reason than to stop her shouting, I choked out the words, “It’s the portraits we drew of each other.”
“No,” The TA huffed and puffed, “Stop messing about. You know what I mean.”
The tears freely streaming down my cheeks, I said, “It’s the portrait Winney drew of me.”
The TA asked the question I was dreading, “And what do you see?”
Barely able to get the words out as anything other than a pained whimper, I answered, “I see a monster.”
Winney had drawn dark holes for the eyes, the face gaunt and scored with harsh lines. Half of the face was red with the colour seeping downwards outside of the lines. The girl in the picture’s dark hair stuck out at all angles and her mouth was small and hung open in a permanent frozen wail.
“Exactly! This is how the entire class sees you, this is why they are the way they are with you. Do you like being treated this way? Is that it?”
I shook my head, crying in pitiful gasps.
“Well, you don’t do yourself any favours, do you, child?” She snapped, “Time and time again I’ve tried to help you. You better start letting me otherwise this will never stop. They’ll be calling you ‘Monster Girl’ forever.”
On that note, the TA stormed out of the cloakroom, joining the other playground monitors outside, and left me to cry.
Mason broke the silence, “Old Eeyore’s been out awhile, hasn’t he?”
Mercifully, I was broken from my pitiful reverie. I realised only then in that moment I had been holding my breath and chewing my finger nails down to the nail bed.
I shrugged, “He’s an old, doddery gentleman. He likes to take his time and when he wants to come back in, he’ll paw at the door.”
Mason’s face twisted.
Carefully, he asked, “You sure he’ll be alright outside on his own?”
I frowned at him, “He’s a dog. So, yeah.”
Mason scrunched his eyes closed. After some false starts, he paused and then appeared to dismiss whatever thought was troubling him.
He then asked, “How long have you had Eeyore now?”
I had to think then. Mrs. Sharma had been pretty quick to suggest I get my own ‘emotional support animal,’ due to the fact her black lab was the only thing I would willingly interact with without prompting during our sessions. I suppose the thinking was that a dog would be a good stop-gap. My Mother took some time to warm to the idea but when she realised the alternative, especially as therapy was proving fruitless, she got me the dog.
I answered, “At least ten years now. He’s getting on a bit…”
I didn’t like to think about it. Eeyore wasn’t the puppy he had been but he was still Eeyore, my constant companion and one day, some day sooner than I’d like, there’d be an Eeyore shaped hole in my life.
And in the ground.
“Hey,” Mason interrupted my train of thought, “He’s still alive and wagging now so it’s not worth worrying about. That happy chappy has a good few years left in him yet.”
Mason had a point and, bless him, he was doing his best to cheer me up but it didn’t loosen the knot in my stomach.
After a brief pause he cleared his throat and, with what he said next, undid all of his work to alleviate it, “How’s your Mum?”
Quickly, I said, “Busy. Always busy.”
“And where’s her jet set life taken her this week?”
“Somewhere far away,” I mumbled, “She didn’t tell me much about it.”
She never did and there was hardly ever time enough for her to say more than three words between each of her business trips anyway. I’m sure that’s how she liked it.
Mason’s face became scored with concern, “She works for the government, doesn’t she?”
I shrugged, “Something like that. She doesn’t tell me anything.”
Mason, his face still very much looking as though he’d swallowed a bee, absently added, “My Dad was in South Korea last month.”
More than mildly interested, I asked, “Oh, really? How come?”
He shrugged, saying, “Just business,” before looking at me and studying my face carefully, as though searching for the answer to a question he had only asked within his mind…though perhaps he was simply squinting through the darkness.
Either way, it made me uncomfortable, “What?”
Mason looked away, his face marked by the words he obviously wasn’t saying. I let him continue to chew on that metaphorical bee.
Though in spite of myself I couldn’t help but play ball just a little bit, “Is hunting a popular past time in South Korea?”
Strained, mason responded, “You’d be surprised. Lots of foxes and whatnot over there…”
There was that look again.
The discomfort rapidly increasing, I babbled, “Mason, you really don’t need to stay here with me in the dark and strain your eyes. Go home.”
He shook his head emphatically and rose from his seat. He first headed for the door but appeared to be struck by some great amount of indecision half way
there and paced back towards me.
He did this back and forth a couple of times before, quite suddenly, he all but bellowed, “Do you know what’s out there?”
I frowned and stared at him for a moment.
The answer seemed obvious, “…The dog?”
He looked at me, his brows knitted fretfully close together.
Then, piercing like a shot in the dark, came Eeyore’s panicked barking. With a start I jumped up, heaving myself away from the sofa and towards the hall. The barking, a rarity from Eeyore, soon devolved into a miserable whimper. My heart raced as I threw myself towards the front door. As soon as my hands touched the handle, Eeyore’s whining trailed off, leaving only a cold silence behind. I held my breath, wishing for him to start scrabbling at the door on the other side. I pulled down on the door handle.
Mason flung out his arm towards me, emitting a sharp cry, “Don’t!”
I ignored him - nothing was coming between me and Eeyore. But as I swung the door open, the sight I was greeted with on the other side robbed me of all the breath in my body. Upon the porch step were bloody paw prints, messy and dragged across the swollen wood backwards over the lip of the first step. My gaze was hauled over the edge with it, following the streaks of blood down to the bottom of the porch steps. There, the trail joined an ever growing pool and in the middle of that pool…was…was…
A scream rang in my mind, the blood in front of me staining every thought. I found myself, collapsed by Eeyore’s side. This hadn’t been an accident or night time dog fight, this had been an attack. I held the poor pup’s head in my hands. His eyes were wide and frightened but the light within had been brutally snuffed out. He stared and stared at a long gone horror, his limbs contorted, bloodied and broken. The sight of poor Eeyore became all-consuming and it began to feel like time didn’t exist outside of that horrific frame. What was both just a moment and also an eternity later, Mason was by my side, prying my hands away from Eeyore’s agape snout.
“We need to bury him.” He said, his voice sounding far away.
Then I found my words: “No! No! No!”
Mason picked me up and pushed me back towards the house. I struggled against him every step of the way, fighting to be close to Eeyore. Alas, Mason’s towering frame gave him the advantage and he shoved me back through my own front door. My will to fight left me as I passed over the threshold and I descended into a whimpering, snivelling heap on the floor. Mason pulled the door to behind me. Soon, I could hear the sound of Earth being pierced and flung away. A red hot pit of anger replaced all other emotions and in the distance I could hear myself wailing and thrashing. Eeyore had never wanted anything from me and, regardless of whether I gave him anything or not, he would’ve always been there. Now he was gone, he’d been taken by some stupid kids on this horrible night. My chest felt tight and the tears returned; I’d been abandoned again.
An over-extended arm caught the hem of Mason’s coat hanging from the stand and made the whole bloody thing topple down. Rudely returned to reality, I gave it a stiff kick. However, in so doing, my attention was drawn by a metallic scraping that came from underneath Mason’s parka. Slowly pulling aside the coat, I saw that a long, sharp blade had fallen out from a sheath specially sewn into the inner lining. This was no simple hunting knife of utilitarian form and function. The blade emerged from a swirling, artfully carved handle with ornate symbols engraved upon its metal. The knife, to put it bluntly, looked as though it was used for far more ceremonial purposes, for hunting far different prey…
My thoughts raced. I dried my tears, righted the coat stand and wrapped the knife in the dark hem of my dress. My thoughts reaching hyper speed, stretching out infinitely until my mind felt as though it was filled with a glaring white void, I deposited the knife into the first hiding spot I could find. I returned to the hallway to stare down the door. I fought with myself over how I would confront Mason, parrying with graphic imaginings of what he was going to do with that knife in retaliation. I felt myself shivering despite the absence of any draft and I found myself sinking my teeth into the inside of my lip.
What am I going to do? What can I do?
I stared at specs of dust frozen in the shafts of moonlight spilling through every gap around the door. I had begun to consider barricading myself inside the house when the handle began to turn. I desperately willed myself to throw my body against the door, to scream and curse at him until he left, to do something, to do anything, to move at all…
Mason re-entered the hallway, muddied and bloodied, his face grey.
“That was quick.” Was what I found myself saying.
Mason exhaled, his chest heavy. He took a step towards me and I flinched.
“I’m going to bed,” I snapped, the tears returning, “Good night.”
“Nina...” The pitiful whisper followed me all the way up the corridor but I did not hear Mason move again until I’d closed and locked my bedroom door.
I heard him cross over to the living room. Only when I heard the door click and all other sound ebb away, did I find my voice filling the space that opened up.
“That stupid dog, that stupid dog...”
Thoroughly exhausted by grief, I crawled into bed.
What an awful idea. As I slept, my mind trotted out Eeyore’s final moments repeatedly, adding something new and horrible with each iteration. First he was silent, still, maybe even peaceful, then he was whimpering, louder and louder and then he was howling and then he was screaming. The tiny body contorted, writhing, ripping. The blood pouring out, looking like black bile. I’d tear my gaze away from poor Eeyore and see a shadow stalking not far from its kill. I’d stand then, screaming and cursing and the moonlight would tear through the black, hulking mass. In its place would stand Mason, looking all innocent. But then I’d look down and see the patch of red spreading, devouring all in its path. That black bile would streak my vision, the scene would fade out and then start again.
When I woke up, my whole body tense, I stared wide eyed at the ceiling waiting for my brain to fake me out and take me on another go around. When that didn’t happen, my eyes darted around my bedroom in search of anything that might have woken me. When I saw nothing obvious, I listened. Slowly, I sat upright in my bed, quietly begging the mattress not to creek. I heard quiet footsteps, the footsteps of someone attempting to be as equally silent as I, creeping up the hall way. I thought of the hiding spot where I’d deposited the blade earlier, weighing up whether I needed to go for it then or whether I could afford to wait and see whether I really needed to make quite so much noise. Thankfully, I heard the foot stops ease off and pad away from my bedroom door. I’ll admit I did wonder whether I should make a move and make certain the footsteps wouldn’t come back. After all, the first bow and quiver of arrows I ever owned were just steps away, tucked far into the back of my wardrobe.
They had been a birthday present from Mum. She always remembered the date, but she could never quite seem to be there in person for it. I’d usually wake up to a neatly wrapped box at the end of my bed.
Mason had told me about his archery club and I’d expressed an interest to Mum – you know, in the three odd words we’d get to exchange with one another in between her business trips – and later that year I got my own beginner set. The bow itself was very grown up with a shiny black finish. The arrows were a bit more fun with pink and purple fletching. When I was a tweenager, I thought they were dead cool (and, if I’m honest, I still do). The draw weight wasn’t anything super powerful but I definitely struggled to pull it all the way at first. When I started going multiple times a week to the archery range with Mason, that became much less of a problem.
Wakefulness returning to me, I dismissed the thought - brandishing a bow did seem a bit like overkill. What was I really scared of? Perhaps the knife I’d found in Mason’s coat wasn’t any indication of murderous intent at all. Being a huntsman, perhaps it was a good luck charm or a ‘security item.’ Perhaps its ornate appearance was less of th
e occult and more a freaky family heirloom…? That itself did seem a bit of a stretch. But then why had I been so quick to assume Mason wanted to hurt me? The question only needed to be thought to make me feel guilty. Mason had done nothing to deserve such distrust. Ever.
Ashamed, I buried myself under the duvet. Sleep soon followed, bearing down on me as a heavy doze.
I found myself half way between dreaming and remembering. I looked down at my impossibly tiny, symmetrical body and looked over to see an also improbably small Mason. Had we ever been this young? I could feel the tickle of grass beneath my palm and marvelled at the halcyon reconstruction of the green near our school – no muddy patches of worn away turf, not a speck of rust on the flag pole and you could certainly bet that no small child had broken a bone whilst hanging from this version of the goal posts. The idyllic scene put a tight knot in my stomach. I looked over to baby Mason and saw him tearing out ever plentiful blades of grass by the tiny fistful.
“What’s wrong?” A voice unmarked by everything that had happened in the last decade, with a quality of lightness that I had not heard in just as long, escaped from me.
“Nothing.” Mason grumbled, still tearing up the grass.
“What did it ever do to you?” I gestured.
Mason tsked, “It’s not the grass. It’s just my Dad.”
I pursed my lips, “Is he being a silly billy again?”
Mason sighed, “Yeah.”
He continued plucking at the ground.
I stood up abruptly then and asked, “Hey, wanna hang from the top of the goal post? I bet I can last longer than you.”
I Hate Halloween Page 4