A Barn Dance

There’s a full moon hovering over us tonight, Mildred, with a kind of foreboding glow: a brightness that highlights those piercing yellow eyes floating amongst the naked tree branches. But even on moonless nights I can see them from our bedroom window, shooting through the darkness to meet my wide-eyed gaze; watching our home from afar and threatening to steal the very breath from my lungs. I can never escape them, can I, Mildred? Always out there, like a guard on the desolate dirt road, intently staring, those demonic yellow eyes bore into my soul night after night as you quietly wait for your moment. And I know you’re not going to wait much longer. I dare not sleep.

As the stars begin their skyward waltz each new night, you assume your perch in the mangled-looking oak tree. I’ve always hated that damn tree. It’s been an eyesore for years, but you would never let me cut it down. “Leave it, Harold,” you would say. “It has character.” So, of course, your new haunt would have to be that wretched tree, wouldn’t it, Mildred? Not any of the other beautiful trees standing near our house, amidst the acres of open wheat fields. Yes, you’ve picked that tree just to torment me more, just to strangle my sanity with an icy grip and a mocking laugh.

I’m sure most people would assume you’re just a wandering cat, an ordinary black cat who happens to enjoy sitting in that vile tree, but I know better. It’s you, Mildred! I swear it’s you, my beloved wife whose blood I can still envision streaming down my calloused hands. Your intense screams still streaking through my ears, and your pleas for mercy increasing as the reaping scythe slashed again and again. Oh, how I loved you. My darling Mildred, whose tender devotion lasted through 34 years of marital happiness. You were truly an enchanting woman with a smile and inner beauty derived from Heaven.

But that was all long gone by the time your blood began to splatter. Your divinity had been overthrown by wretched ravenous demons that had carved up your soul like a game pheasant and devoured your light and love. I know you tried to deny these facts when I confronted you, Mildred, claiming I was insane and babbling, but I don’t believe for a second that was really you. It was the demons responding, you see, and what other reaction would one expect to hear from demons at such a time? This is the tricky type of battle they wage with us simple mortals. They had consumed you, Mildred! I know deep within you were fighting – fighting to keep your soul, fighting to let the love of our God defeat the evil – but it was a battle you seemingly could not win. And how could I just stand by and watch these venomous imps employ their jagged claws to shred my angel’s soul? Each day I could see the sparkle and light fading a little more from your eyes as you grew ever more tired and weak. My poor Mildred. You would tell me it was a regular old illness, like the flu, that was attacking your aged body, and I may have believed that if the angels hadn’t already visited me and revealed the truth. They told me I was the only one who could release my loving wife from the sinister clutches holding her, and their message was clear and unfaltering. As I thanked them for their divine grace, I asked them for the strength I needed to complete the task that lay before me.

I saved you, Mildred. I know I saved you, even if you can’t remember all that occurred before I freed your soul. Trust me, my dear, the events of that day were not easy for me. After all, how easy can it be for anyone to viciously slash apart a loved one? I called you into the barn after I had finished sharpening the scythe. Its blade had become dull and rusty from years of disuse. As I stood there holding my weapon -- your salvation -- in my hands, you wore a confused look upon your face. “When are you going to throw that thing out, Harold?” you asked. “We don’t need it anymore.” Do you remember, Mildred?

My heart was heavy when I looked at you, and for a moment, I thought I had not the courage to do what had been asked of me. But I briefly closed my eyes and received a vision of the angels nodding their heads, telling me it was time. Studying my strange behavior, you asked if I was feeling all right, emitting a small cough after you sweetly called my name. You looked so beautiful, Mildred. But the cough invoked within me an uncontrollable rage, because I knew it was the bark of the demons inside you. They were mocking me. They were mocking Heaven! And as you reached out your hand to gently touch me, I swung the scythe back and slashed at your arm. The screams escaping from your mouth sounded wholly inhuman, with gurgled cries and baritone moans, and I suddenly felt proud I had successfully dealt a terrible surge of pain to Satan’s helpers. Invigorated, I bravely wielded the scythe until pools of blood gathered at my feet and crimson splatters decorated my overalls. Even with the sharpening I had completed just moments before our spiritual dance, the blade of the old scythe remained somewhat blunt, savagely tearing at your skin instead of cleanly slicing through you. It was messier than I had anticipated, I confess, and it briefly stirred in me a feeling of unease. When you collapsed into the soft piles of hay, your flesh was a mangled and pulpy mess, and parts of your body were simply unrecognizable. But you still tried to crawl away, Mildred! Those demons were strong and fighting to keep their place within your soul. You shrieked in pain and cried out for help, but it only served to perturb the horses. Truth be told, I felt bad for the few animals housed in the barn, because they couldn’t understand the danger we were all in and unfortunately seemed to think they should be frightened instead of relieved. To end their suffering and yours, I brought the scythe up one last time and with all my strength let its point land deep within the back of your head. The screaming stopped. Your body lay still. The battle was over.

That was three months ago, Mildred. You may sit in that oak tree so full of character and plan your revenge upon me; you may peer at me with those burning yellow eyes through the veil of night until I go insane from the torment; but what you cannot seem to understand is you should be thanking me for releasing you. God has called you to Heaven, Mildred, and you are not heeding His call. Such strange actions for a lifelong God-fearing woman. I have thought perhaps I did not successfully rid your agonized soul of the demons that consumed you; perhaps I acted too late, and now you are cursed for all eternity. But I disregard these doubts that simmer in my mind from time to time, for I know I acted with swiftness and resoluteness and the angels guided my hands.

Are you listening to me, Mildred? I have explained all of this to you so many times, every night for the past three months. But you never leave that damn tree! You never turn those penetrating yellow eyes from my direction! You just sit there with a calculated calm that slowly scrapes away my inner peace and replaces it with increasing agony. Say something, Mildred! Say something to let me know you understand and you’re grateful for the sacrifice I made. I saved you. Your loving and devoted Harold helped you when no one else could, and yet you don’t even seem to care. What diabolical cruelty!

So, this is what you truly desire for your husband, Mildred, is it? I’m loading the shotgun now. From out there on your macabre perch, can you hear the crack of the double barrel locking into place, and can you see me positioning the gun beneath my chin? It’s cocked and ready to perform your will, Mildred. We were married long enough for me to know that you are a patient woman who always gets her way.

Oh, Lord, please help me. Make her stop. Make her stop. Make her----.


Word Count: 1,436