The Blue Chair Pt. 4

The Blue Chair Pt. 4 by: M. R. Vega

Jacob was solemn with the fretting from the day before now trying to figure out the necessary steps to have Emily; the family pet, a proper end. He didn’t dare deal with the H.O.A., knowing their neighbourhood had numerous Glady Kravits feining for any opportunity to shout foul play and bring more worry and trouble to his family. It was bad enough having Emily stinking up the back patio, the Humane Service Department was closed for the next week due to a water pipe issue. He didn’t care to ask and had hung up wishing there was a six-foot deep pit to place her in if only he thought. Of course, it couldn’t be that easy and he grumbled, thinking of a friend that’d help with a ‘maybe illegal dig’ at the park they used to bring her to on Sunday Fun Days through the year but sadly came toe to toe with his acknowledging that they had no family and the last friend they did have happened to pass away two years ago in a car crash. It goes, doesn’t it? 

His gritting and grinding had abruptly come back with a vengeance adding the spontaneous but dully noted migraines that trailed behind. He went to the kitchen cupboard where the Tylenol was waiting and popped three oversized capsules without a drink and thought of what had happened last night while they all slept. His deja vus were becoming more vivid, more like an elongated trailer of what was to come unlike the many prior that were scattered like a shredded magazine or a remembered green and forever falling characters illegible to an unaware eye. Knowing what was to be done next, at least assuming what steps he was to take, he scurried to the garage and grabbed a round-point shovel, an old over-sized duffel bag that had seen too many years and packed Emily as gently and cautiously as he could while avoiding spewing over the foul stench her body was emitting. Its flooding stench brought odd thoughts of long-sitting protein drinks, rotting fruit, veggies, and refried beans left in the fridge. He swallowed the bit of muffin he’d scruffed down earlier and was happy the taste of bile didn’t torch his throat and zipped up the bag with a weighted heart.

He dragged his body in through the house, lamenting over what was to come next, and quickly went to the car trying to discreetly put, what looked like a body bag, into the trunk. Upon finally getting Emily’s corpse in, he ran back to grab the shovel and kissed his wife as well as their child that she was clutching to. They both stared aimlessly at the moving screen that he just realized was muted and said he’d be right back. His wife though snapped to it and reached out to his hands delicately bringing his knuckles to her nose and whispered something he couldn’t quite catch an told them both he loved them, that he’d show them Em’s new resting place later tonight. His wife nearly glared at him with silent animosity he felt coaxed his everything and shook her head waving her hand at him as if to shoo-shoo like he was a fly.

‘So it begins’ he thought almost angrily and slammed his body down onto the driver’s seat after locking the front door of their house. He found that he was hoping they’d still be awake and willing to react to living after he shared news of Em having a safe place to rest for eternity. Shamefully though he found he was more or less appreciative of not having her body stink up the house or back patio. Even a dead dog, though heartbreaking, was a terrible smell to have dealt and he’d heard many a story of how difficult it was to remove such an organic scent from wherever Em’s body sat. 

He drove in silence, regretting his abilities, regretting his knowledge and abundant collection of what he’d seen while he rested and realized, essentially he hadn’t successfully slept through the night quietly or dreamlessly for too long. His graying and unshaven beard brought to light the age he was and he regretted not telling his wife the harrowing capability still unsure of how to address what it was, how it was, and what it meant.

He didn’t feel like a soothsayer, Nostradamus, Southeil, or Baba Vanga could’ve choked on this ability for all he cared, he just wanted to feel typical again, plain, simple, and let it be boring. He couldn’t stand the nightmare of seeing what is to come, it wasn’t something that had been trained like a movie shows, the recollections came in a shattered mirror type of form that made his assuming near detrimental and he’d kept his lips tight to sharing what he could do with anyone, say but Em. That realization whacked against his mind leaving a rattling of woe and sorrow that had him wanting to be right back at home starting at the muted screen with his family. That’d have to wait if ever happen, as he pulled up through the long winding roads of the City Park. 

He finally came to the older portion of the park grounds, it was an odd portion. One of curved, jutting shale, dirt, and pavement where the daring frisbee golfers practiced their trick shots but due to a murder or five, it hadn’t been graced by many if only to smoke the devil weed in what looked like years. The tree at the knoll heading back to where the large parking lot was so happened to be Em’s favorite marking ground and the stained burned grass showed that. Grabbing the round-point shovel he headed to the spot where his son and Em were captured every year by his wife. There was a branching collage of photos showing that very spot splashed against the fridge, the family room, and even his office, he smiled remembering those times with glee. Pushing down quickly with the tip of that heavy shovel into soft ground while trying to think of anything but why he was there. He’d known she was going to die, knew that and so many other tragedies that’d quickly be piling up but for the life of him, couldn’t do anything but shovel and shovel with tears streaming past his cheeks. They burned at his retinas and collected in a large hanging droplet in his scruffed beard until losing grip dropping into the hole where the blade ricocheted off the large roots throwing him off balance. He patted at his now blistered hands ignoring the sharp pain, looked at the dark hole in silence but his quiet sniffing at the remaining tears, and walked back listlessly to the car to grab that damn duffel bag. 

But he couldn’t, Jacob was overcome by a grief he already thought was released and pushed absently away, he could barely stand and leaned against the car not aware that the trunk was already open and his jean pocket was rubbing against the bumper. The tears weren’t enough while he dug, now he struggled to breathe, strained to see the trunk of his car where Emily was waiting and he’d begged there was a way to had been able to prevent the next moments as well as the coming harrowing months. The anxiety had been waxing on his soul, tearing at the heart he kept strong for the only two he’d strived to bring light to and already he was starting to see the fraying of something within his wife. Emily’s passing was just the start.

Finally recuperating, he wiped the wetness from his face aggressively and lugged out the duffel bag. She’d gained weight since the beginning of this small expedition from house to grave or perhaps it was a weight of his that shared with the weakness he started to feel, not knowing how to take the appropriate steps in making everything better after covering her with the soil of the park grounds. Before taking the bag and slowly dropping her in, Jacob made a curious choice in jumping in alone and kneeling down as low as he could to see what the coolness may feel like for her, trying to gain a perspective on being dead and buried but even that was a silly joke, to think he could comprehend what death is to anyone. ‘We all die alone huh?’ he asked Emily while pulling himself out of the deep shoveled hole. Before shimmying her down he unzipped the bag, patted her head, looked at her grayed muzzle, nearly forgetting the collar and making sure to unclip and quickly pocket it before he kissed her crown. He zipped her back up, slowly straining to not have her break on entry and quickly set to push the soil over the bag.

He packed it down with a whack that became an almost cathartic cleanse of anger and futile remorse before realizing he had an audience now. A small crowd of four teens or college students were fifty yards away chuckling quietly to each other, while one was trying to shoosh them and wave them away. Instead, they shook the request away and waited for Jacob to pack up and drive away. Before doing so though he knelt on the newly packed dirt and whispered to Emily. ‘May I see you at the clearing when all is done old girl.’ and slowly got up, leaving the shovel behind, he got into the car, and drove back home with the windows rolled down, his music softly careening his loss.

Pulling up to the house felt surreal, knowing Emily wouldn’t be waiting, her tail wagging in anxious relinquishing of her bladder in the backyard as she did every other time upon arrival was something he needed to prepare himself for and breathed in a silent resolve for more moments than he’d care to admit. But then there was more to that he thought. Like watching a car accident at an intersection and how it seems to happen so slowly knowing that it was a mere blip of a fraction of a second. He thought this to himself, slowly getting out of the car, not feeling any lighter, taking each step with a leaded weight in his shoe, he thought how can he curtail what was to come and avoid the tragedies he’d been presented in those dire dreams? Seeing proof time and again that he wasn’t losing it, that somewhere through his time of experiencing these moments time and again with death, loss, family strife, and struggle among other lighter points, the deja vus never seemed to miss a truth or more than one. He shook his head, brought on a smile, and figured, he’d at least take it day by day, for now, and start his downward spiral tomorrow. Now he saw a moment of grace where he can share the grief he and his family all shared and have this time together, if only for this moment.

Published by Matty R. B.

I'm a writer, artist, story teller and avid reader. I preside in the realm between reality and fiction dabbling on memory, dream, and the grasp of darkness that gets us all. I rest when the weary wake and live through the odd hours and hot desert of filed terrors and mysteries. Welcome to DreamDarkStories.

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