SONNY BLUE
His wife gave it to him straight: You should be locked up, strapped down, balls cut off, and fed to the pigs.
He
moved toward her…
-Get away from me…
He
reached out…
-Don’t
touch me, motherfucker…
He
touched her.
She screamed. She slapped. She scratched. She pushed him
hard. He got mad. He saw red. He shot her two times. The gun wasn’t real; it
was a water pistol, Sonny’s water pistol. It squirted her blouse.
She grabbed her chest. She fell down and she died. Just like
that.
-Heart attack, he thought. Runs in her
family. Father, mother, both brothers… all dropped like shit out of a
donkey’s ass…
He
looked down at her. Her face had turned blue. It stopped him dead. It was
magical. It was spiritual. It was life-changing. It was a gift from God. It was
perfect… the color was perfect… Perfect…
-It’s
like the sky, the sea, my hydrangeas… It’s like the color of Sonny’s eyes… I
can’t live without it… The color is perfect… Perfect.
He
trembled. He kneeled. He kissed her blue nose. He kissed her blue ears. He
wept. He looked for his camera to capture the moment in living color.
-I’ll
take photos, he thought. I’ll shoot ten rolls. I’ll shoot
twenty. I’ll put photos upstairs, downstairs, attic, basement, garage, in the
bathroom above the toilet. I’ll surround myself, drown myself in it… in the
color… The color is a gift from God… The color is perfect.
He
aimed the camera. He zoomed. He was about to click when the smell stopped him…
Something
came loose in her stomach and flowed onto the living room carpet. The carpet
was green. She was leaking brown.
He dropped
the camera. His stomach flipped. He gagged. He held his breath. He held his
nose. The smell covered him, smothered him. It smelled like Sonny in the
morning, dirty diapers in the morning. It smelled like death in the morning.
He opened a
window. He took a deep breath. He cleared his head. He looked down at her. Her
face had changed color. Her face had turned gray. His legs wobbled. He felt
weak.
-No, no, no. I’ve lost it, he thought. I
can’t live without it. It was perfect. The color was perfect… It’s like the
sky, the sea, my hydrangeas… MY HYDRANGEAS…
He went
outside to visit his hydrangeas, to pick them all, to arrange bouquets, to
place them in the house, everywhere in the house, to surround himself, drown
himself in it… in the color. The color was perfect… perfect… It was a
gift from God.
His
hydrangeas were dead. He had forgotten. The cops murdered them. The cops dug up
the garden looking for Sonny. They didn’t find Sonny, but they killed his
hydrangeas. They killed every one.
Now what? he
thought. I’ve lost it. I can’t live without it. It was perfect. The
color was perfect… like the color of Sonny’s eyes…
He hated
playgrounds. At nite, shadows made the jungle gym look like bones, skeletons,
Halloween shit. It spooked him, but he dug anyway. He knew the spot.
-Sonny,
it’s Daddy. Where are you?
No
answer. He dug deeper.
-Daddy
can’t find you.
No
answer. He dug deeper.
-Daddy
needs something.
No
answer. He dug deeper. Blisters popped on his hands.
-Be a
good boy, Sonny. Daddy needs something from you.
No
answer.
-Daddy
needs something from you… Just one little thing…
His
hands hurt. He was desperate.
-OK
Sonny, let’s make a deal. Daddy will bring Mommy for a visit if Daddy can have
one of your pretty blue peepers. Just one. Daddy will rip it out of your head
so fast you’ll hardly feel a thing. How’s that sound, Sonny?
Nothing.
His hands bled. His spirits plunged. He was losing hope. He
prayed: Please help me, God. You gave me a gift and I lost it. I can’t
live without it. I don’t want to live without it. Please help me find it again.
It was perfect… Perfect…
That
nite, he dreamed blue. He dreamed blue sky, blue sea, blue hydrangeas, Sonny’s
blue eyes… His wife’s blue nose, ears, face… blue blue BLUE…
He woke up
with an idea. It was perfect.
He found the
water pistol, Sonny’s water pistol. He filled it to the top, ice-cold water.
-I’ll go
to Mrs. Spleen’s house, he thought. She’s old. She’s sick. She
looks like shit. When she opens the door, I’ll hit her with a
fucking tsunami. Fifty squirts. Ice-cold. With luck, she’ll drop like a bag of
hammers, turn blue and I’ll be back in business. If not, I’ll go to
the next house, then the next, then the next…. I won’t give up… Never… I’ll find
it again… It was perfect… The color was perfect… Perfect… I can’t
live without it, won’t live without it. It’s a gift from God… A gift…
He
put the water pistol in his pocket… and he went shopping.
____________________________
Copyright © 2012 by William J Fedigan
Bio: William J Fedigan writes about who he is, what he knows,
where he’s been.
