a beginning and an end

Once upon a time a child was born whose parents loved him very much.

...

That night the boy went to sleep and dreamt that everything was perfect and no one was ever sad.

may 21, 1964

I had that dream again last night, the one where Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny loom menacingly in front of me, gongs sounding in the background, cameras pointed at me, and all I feel is pure, abject fear. I told my wife about it, and she told me to stop hitting the hooch so often. It's her answer to everything. The thing is, I've started to see them in my waking life, too. If I see a man with a white beard out of the corner of my eye, I break out in that same cold sweat, and only sheer willpower keeps me from running like hell in the other direction. We now never visit Jane and Howard, friends of ours, ostensibly because they've become too busy since they had the fourth kid, but I've been maneuvering us away - they have a white cat.

Went to the bar after work with a couple buddies, that dream was in my head all day, I was hoping a few stiff ones might knock it right back out. It worked like a charm. A few hours of banter and I was feeling pretty good, walking home in the crisp evening air, I even felt up to seeing my wife. I can bear her disappointment better when everything is a little bit muted, when my brain is a little bit numb. And I can certainly bear it better without the fear that Santa Claus is lurking around the corner to get me. Sheesh, like I don't got enough problems.

She didn't seem as willing to see me as I was to see her, however. She greeted me with a cold, appraising look, then turned heel into the kitchen to remove supper from the oven. "I kept it warm for you," she said.

"Thanks, honey," I replied, grabbing her waist to pull her in for a kiss - or so I thought, but she flinched and wiggled away.

I sighed, grabbed the plate she offered, then skulked into the den. I settled into a book while eating, dropping bits of casserole on the oriental carpet that I ignored, tonight, I wasn't in the mood.

Gretchen

I pull the trigger and the wall behind her is sprayed red. I know she isn’t dead though. Gretchen is too big of a pain in the ass to die easily.

“You bastard,” she spits. “You God damned bastard.”

But this isn’t a movie. This isn’t a novel. This is payback. This is business. Hell, this is pleasure. There will be no long winded speech. I walk up to her, put the barrel against her temple, and paint the rest of the room.

Sarah has dinner ready for me when I get home. Meatloaf. It must be Friday.

“How was your day?” she asks.

“Fine. Good. Same as usual,” I say. This is not a lie.