A Box of Weeds

The Silence is Always Worse

“Whatever you do, stay away from the cheese…” The line crackled and went dead in my hand. “Who is this?” I asked in vain, but the caller had gone. I replaced my cell in my purse and headed out the door. Today would be difficult. I hated saying goodbye, especially to my furry friends.

An hour later, blinded by tears, my poor Duke’s collar dangled from my hand as I left the three-story vet hospital and headed downtown. I walked slowly, taking in the early spring air. Duke would have loved this walk.

Town square loomed ahead, the old style buildings whispered of days long ago. I loved this town, had moved here when Duke was just a puppy. Today, there were banners everywhere boasting of a festival. Vendors with tents were scattered all over the sidewalks, and a live polka band played nearby.

As I got closer, I could smell the various foods cooking and could read the many banners blowing in the light breeze. A cheese festival.

A boulder settled in my stomach, and my legs turned to rubber. Why did I feel such dread?

“...stay away from the cheese…” The raspy, strange voice repeated in my mind. Had that prank call meant something? A premonition of things to come?

I changed course, settling for a nice residential area and lumbered awkwardly down the tree-lined sidewalk. My legs had just now regained their strength and the dizziness started to abate.

An earsplitting crash shook the ground. I fell, my ankle twisted underneath me. Confused, I looked back the way I had come. Smoke and flames, tendrils curled up toward the sky. Screams, faint and weak haunted me. Downtown was gone, an ugly gaping wound remained.

The screams had frightened me, but the silence was worse.
It’s always worse.