When They were Blue

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The dog howling in the distance mixes in with the sobs of the children who are lying on the floor. As he comes out of the closet with the towels in his hands the crying of the children becomes softer. Some of the younger ones begin to scream. He will go to them first tonight. He throws the towels to the floor, but with no force. His eyes are weary and dark circles line the bottoms. The blue cannot be seen. The pupils have grown to cover the color. A thin line of color sometimes surrounds the pool of black. Sometimes when he’s not so insane the black gets smaller as the color grows. Sometimes he cries as he licks the blood from his fingers. Sometimes he talks to them, calling and crying in words too big to understand. Sometimes he sits on the red chair in front of the television with a mirror and a knife. He looks at his reflection and cuts words into his skin, not even flinching. When the little ones cry at the sight of running blood, he throws a furious glance at them. Sometimes he yells. Sometimes he makes them come to him and he makes them touch the blood. She says before, his eyes were all blue. She says before she wasn’t afraid of him... before when his eyes were blue. Tonight there is no blue. Tonight there are only his hands twisting around the towels, the sound of dripping blood coming from the closet, and his fingers curling around the handle of the knife. Tonight there are only the screams and sobs of the children, sweetly mixing in with the whines of a dog somewhere in the distance.





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