The rush of air through the open door braces me, and I stiffen at the chill up and down my spine. My hand throbs with the weight of the axe.
‘Alright,’ I say. ‘Alright.’
There are screams in the air, a wail of thousands. Inside, standing before the window, I thought it was sirens. Perhaps rushing to fix the streetlights, or fetch the car from my neighbour’s lawn. But the quiet of dusk is split by distant screams, panicky shouts, and the brief bark of commanding tones. All carry the primal sound of my son, of pain sudden, and death evident.
A large number of people stand in the street and in the yards of the homes in either direction. They move in a similar stunned way; they are unbothered by the screaming, and keep their heads fixed firmly forward. Down the road, in the direction which leads out of the neighbourhood, a house is consumed by a fire, but none look as they pass. I make the sign for silence as I rush towards Casey.
‘What?’ she cries, bursts out with a sob. I dance around her, swing my leg back and kick the small man in the face. I spin again, blinded by the pound of my heart and the shock of pain up my leg. I stagger back for balance. All of the mad world spun around me.
I see that he’s not a small man while he sprawls away, just a young man, still nearly a boy. He gurgles a spiteful sound from behind his chewed-away lips. His scream is incoherent as he pushes himself up from the street and I can see the gnawed remnants of his tongue. Large, open wounds mar his flesh.
Casey screams as well, only now aware of the boy. Some of the people down the street turn in our direction, hold their heads aloft in a strange mockery of curiosity.
‘Quiet please, Casey.’
My voice shudders and my hand fumbles around her. I try to corral her safely behind me so I can swing the axe, but she’s too overwhelmed and steps in the directions I step. I pull her sideways and she just stumbles behind me, grabs at my arm and pulls me backwards. Her hands clasp around my wrist. I spin to keep my balance, throw out my other arm. The blade of the axe sings through the air.
‘Casey, stop.’
She jumps at the tone in my voice and backs away from me. Her jaw set, her wide eyes stare beyond me. I turn. The young man is on his feet already. Already coming. A shudder passes through me.
The axe smashes his temple easily, easier than I thought. My stomach lurches. Vomit rises in my chest. I only meant to brush him aside, to keep him from Casey. His body goes limp and he falls to the ground, merely the shape of a person. Casey begins to cry but it is a long while before I recognize the sound for its danger. Broken of my vigil of the crushed young man, I focus on the people closing from the street.
I reach for the axe but my hand slips from the handle. My hands are covered in blood. For a dizzying moment I waver in the street and wish for some breeze to wake me. The axe comes out of the young man’s skull, but it does not come easy.
A ragged man makes his way across my lawn. Close enough that I can see the familiar fall of light across his features. Tightening my hand on the axe brings a surge of nausea. I can’t do it again. Can’t do that again. I grab Casey, pull her roughly, turn her around and towards the open front door of her house. She screams again before I clamp my hand over her mouth and I carry her, cradled alongside the axe, across the threshold of her home.
‘Quiet,’ I say in that angry voice and I place her down and I close and lock the door.
‘Holy,’ I say, slumped against the door, but I don’t curse because Claire read somewhere that lesser words poison the growth of children. She cured me of the habit before my son was born. I thought the whole thing was dumb, but she was so happy at any kind of progress, and she deserved happiness. I look at Casey, shaking as she stands, my bloody handprint streaked across her face.
‘Are you alright Casey? Are you hurt?’
She doesn’t answer, she just stares at me with her wide eyes and uses both hands to bunch up the front of her shirt and wrap it around her forearms. I lean forward, I smile.
‘You know me Casey, I live next door with Claire, my wife. We just had a baby a little while ago. My name is Laurel. You know me Casey. You can tell me. Are you hurt?’
She shakes her head and I slump back into the door.
‘Holy,’ I say.
When Casey and her family moved in next door, Claire watched from the window. ‘Two girls,’ she said, ‘Oh, and a boy.’ ‘A boy,’ she said with a sound I hear now but didn’t hear then. She was this slim shape of darkness against the sunlight, her hand resting on the window frame. ‘They don’t have a dog,’ she said, ‘but I imagine they should. It would fit them better if they had a dog. She’s pretty but he isn’t, looks like he’d be a practical thinker, some sort of safe bet, say. Isn’t it funny the way that happens? As if you could actually just opt out.’
Claire made friends with them then, walked right out the front door and said something which made them laugh, played with their kids. Lifted them and carried them as though she were always allowed.
David was his name. I look about his darkened house. His living room sits just
