Yesterday I left poor Tara staring at the hole that Sam was sucked into. All that was left was his blood and tattered shirt. I'm going to fast forward to 30 years later.
*
Sara sat on the wooden rocker. The combination of motion and sound was lulling. Thirty years had passed, but it seemed like only yesterday Sam had been swallowed by the earth. The search had ended after the first two years. The town believed her to have gone insane, but it was true. She had been inches away from touching his shoulders when he was ripped from her grasp.
It was hope that kept her in the house, hope that wouldn't leave her. Jeremy begged her to move in with him and the kids, but she refused. It wasn't so much that she'd miss the house. He was her only son and the spitting image of Sam, the man she would always love.
"Mom."
The baritone voice captured her attention.
"Jerry, when did you get here? Where are the kids?"
"I'm alone, Mom. I thought we should chat."
She frowned and considered rising from the rocker. "I'm not leaving this house."
He crossed into the room. "You can't stay here for ever. You can barely move around on your own. Let me help you."
"Jerry, go home."
"Mother, this is important. For God's sake, think of your grandchildren. If you die here by yourself the cats will eat you. Then what do I tell them?"
She laughed. The cheerful sound surprised her. It held no place in the morose surroundings. "Everyone dies, Jerry."
"Look, I'm spending the weekend."
"You won't make me change my mind." She glanced at the window.
He followed her line of vision. "He's not coming back."
He didn't wait for a reply, nor did she give one. Instead, he entered the old study his dad had been so fond of. He dumped his things on the bed and sat down to ponder the situation. Having grown up without a father had been difficult on his mother. She had scraped, saved and borrowed to keep him fed and clothed. Now it was time he returned the kindness. He grabbed the bag, pushed it to the ground and laid back on the bed.
It was still light out. He hadn't eaten anything. None of that mattered. He was exhausted. Sleep came quickly. For one whole hour he snored unperturbed. The altering of the curtain, the shifting of the mattress, and the hot breath upon his face all went unnoticed. Then he felt the slimy tip of a tongue tenderly trace the curve of his jaw.
TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW...^-^....
Socrates believed that the gods provided us with a type of insanity. The illness was responsible for poetry, mysticism, love, and philosophy. He called it Divine Madness. We call it intuition, inspiration, the muse. Regardless, I have been contaminated. This blog is an attempt to share the ramblings in my head by the subtle stroking of keys. I'm going to touch upon those situations that move me and define me as human.
