Writing on the Wall

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It happened at Christmas. Quite a time for the world to end, but if we could pick and choose when Hell unhinged its jaw and tried to swallow us whole, we’d probably pick never.

As it is, I suppose it could have been worse. Being nine years old and watching your neighbor break through the sliding glass door like it was made of paper isn’t the most traumatizing thing ever. His blood spurting from shredded wounds and dead vacant eyes that somehow still see you, really see you? You can come back from that. After a few weeks I’d even get over the black blood that dripped onto my brand new Cabbage Patch Doll with the blond hair and pretty, smiling eyes. It’s fine. That’s all fine.

What you don’t come back from is watching him eat your parents. Literally, honestly, violently eat your parents. I saw it. All of it. Huddled behind the Christmas tree, peaking out through the fragrant green needles and soft glow of the multicolored lights, I watched it happen. And I remember. The sounds, the sight, the smell. I’ll never forget. Nearly ten years later I can relive it with perfect clarity, but I seriously try not to. Life is horrifying enough. I don’t need to borrow on past troubles.

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