The Anniversary
It was the end of summer.
Had it been two thousand years ago, the druids would have been burning sacrifices to appease the deities and keep the dead from reeking havoc and ruining their crops.
But it wasn’t.
It was now. And the only flames were on the candles inside the lovingly, hand-carved pumpkins. These days people did not worry about appeasing the gods, they simply pleased themselves.
Sam sat at his bedroom window and looked out into the street below. Blue skies turned grey as the wind snatched the autumn leaves from the trees, forcing them to dance in the orangey-glow of the street lights, before scattering them to the ground, bruised and dying.
Up and down the road children skipped from house to house, collecting sweets and treats from friendly neighbours, like bees buzzing from flower to flower, their costumes flowing behind them. Witches and wizards, ghosts and ghouls, creeping vampires and shuffling mummies. All with one thing in common. To fill their bags with the treats of the night.
Sam watched. His forehead pressed up against the cold glass, unaware he was crying again. The tears rolled down his cheeks, taking his dreams with them. His lips were trembling, but made no sound. He glanced around his room. His toys were scattered across the floor, played with and forgotten. His mother was always telling him off for that. He looked back out into the night, wishing he could be like all the other boys and girls. But he knew he couldn’t be. They weren’t dead.
It was a lonely place, death. Sam missed his friends and family. There was no
Heaven, as his teachers promised him. Luckily, there was no hell either. Just mind-numbing solitude.
His mother would come into his room sometimes. She never tidied it up these days. She just sat on his bed and hugged his pillow, crying into the spot where he once laid his head. She would talk to him too and he would answer, but she’d never hear him.
He just wanted to hug her. To tell her everything would be all right and that he loved her. But he couldn’t. It wasn’t fair.
His father never came into his room anymore. Sam could sometimes sense his dad at the door, hand on the door knob, almost turning it. But then he was gone. Maybe he will come in again one day. Read him a story like he used to. It would be nice to see him again. His dad always made him feel safe. Finding or fixing things for him. But in the end, even his father couldn’t save him.
Sam looked out onto Halloween again. He could see Tommy coming down the
street. He knew it was Tommy. He had been his best friend. Besides, he always dressed up as a devil – complete with painted red face. His mother had even made him cardboard cloven hooves to fit over his shoes – but they weren’t much use when it rained.
Tommy had a new friend with him tonight. Another boy. Sam assumed it was a boy, because Tommy was at that age when he thought all girls were ‘smelly’ and ‘horrible.’ The other boy was dressed as Frankenstein’s Monster, and was swinging a bag of sweets in his hand.
The two boys stopped outside Sam’s house. Tommy pointed up at the window.
“That’s where Sam used to live,” he told Frankenstein, “he was my best friend, but he died last year.”
Frankenstein looked up at the empty window. Sam returned his gaze.
“How did he die? Cancer? I had an Auntie die of cancer.” He replied, chewing a sweet beneath his mask.
“Someone killed him. A year ago today. My mam said he was stabbed eighteen times. They never caught the killer. I wasn’t allowed out the house for a month.”
Tommy could see the fear behind the eyes of Frankenstein’s mask.
“Ha, ha!” Tommy yelled. “Got you! I really scared you that time!”
“No you didn’t,” Frankenstein said with mock bravado, his heart pounding in his chest.
“C’mon,” Tommy said, “let’s go to the next street……I know a short cut.”
Sam was banging on the window now, screaming for Frankenstein to get away, to run away from the devil.
Tommy gripped the handle of the knife beneath his cape as the two boys walked off into the darkness. He thought he’d heard Sam’s voice, but it couldn’t’ve been. He had killed him last year.
Stabbed him eighteen times.
(c) Glenn Upsall 2008