Maria Oh Maria

6th L E T T E R

He never barked

Dear Maria,

Remember the story of "Hansel and Gretel"? The one grandma used to tell us whenever we visited her in Largenia. It's amusing to think how naive we were back then. How we always bothered her for the same story every night and sipping her same old lime tea, how she would always begin with a "once upon a time".

Each time after the same happy ending, she would always tell us not to wander too far into the woods, never trust strangers and so on.

But it never really made sense to me. How could there be a chocolate house in the middle of a woods? Wouldn't it melt under the sun or something? And if magic isn't real then there's no way a witch could exist, let alone one that only eats fat little children.

The story itself was so bizarre that it made me suspect if the bizarreness was intended. Did someone lie? Lie so that they could hide the truth. They told a tale, the  tale became a lore, the lore was written and passed on as a lovely story of two children and their bravery and no one ever raised a question.

I wonder, then what actually happened to Hansel and Gretel. How did they come home? Where was their home and why did the leave in the first place? Did the villagers believed them about the witch? or did they not, just like mom and dad?

 I guess it's not exactly possible to expect answers from pink pillows and white blanket. Whatever it is, I'm curious.

 Maria, is it wrong to be curious about things no one is usually curious about? Like how the body of a four legged furry works, how the golden fur would feel if detached from the skin, how the teeth would look if placed on it's tail.

 Maria, I'm curious. And seeing him everyday playing and rolling around so happily just makes me even more curious. It's been a week since I have officially stopped sleeping before dawn. The music of that ice cream truck doesn't bother me anymore. It has also blend in with the chirping crickets and ticking clocks as I engage in a staring contest with the twisted lady outside of our house. Though till now, I've never had a win against her.

 The urges have seemed to increase so much that it's quite overwhelming to be honest. I feel like I am getting more and more tired every time I see him and not bring out the paper cutter from my pocket. It's a losing battle Maria. I'm reaching my limits. I have to give up.

 So yesterday when Mom asked me again to take Rory on a walk(and bring some chicken from the market), I decided to finally feed my curious mind some peace.

 I figured the paper cutter won't do the job so I brought out the kitchen knife from my old toy-box and left with Rory. Good thing, mom couldn't guess it to be inside my hand bag.

 And I have to say, it was daring and exciting in it's own way. But it was also painful to see him thrash against the restrains and whimper.

 It felt so satisfying when the whimpers finally stopped. I made sure not to get my clothes red and Dad's gloves sure came in handy.

 The flesh was sweet and juicy and went so good with Mr. Hartman's recipe. The man lives in our neighbourhood chats a lot with mom about food and stuff about his restraint.

 Sure he could never think the recipe could go so well with this meat and bring a taste as lively as the animal itself. Mom and Dad would also agree with that. Mom was impressed when I showed her the chicken I brought home. They all said it tasted quite different and interesting, obviously for the new ingredients and the recipe. "Have to thank Mr. Hartman. " Dad said so happily. Mom was happy too that the market sold raw chicken cut in small pieces for so cheap. Dad said we should go out and check out the town more often. No one looked at the lonely doggy bowl.

We all ate so happily.

Only if they knew where the delicious meat truly came from. I wanted to say it. I wanted to boast about my butchering skills but then again, the grinning men said shushhhh.

 Since you were gone, it had become a common habit for Rory to run off in the middle of his evening walk and come home late at night. Back then whenever he returned he always looked far less energetic, exhausted and unusually quite, as though he was looking for something or someone but couldn't sniff them out.

 But he had always come back  regardless of change of place. His eyes, no matter how agile, while leaving the door would always look around carefully to map out his way back home. These days whenever I took him out on a walk his tail would flap against the porch and eyes would linger on the door for a whole minute before being pulled out of the gate.

 Today he also behaved the same but took a little longer than usual to leave.

 Last night after dinner, we all waited for him like we always do. We waited, and waited, and waited. But the dog never barked on our door.

Your dear,

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