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I Loved You at Your Darkest
For Thomas T.—It's not much, but I've given you an owl. Rest in peace, old friend.
Black Hallows, Colorado; 1990
It was a partly cloudy night. Moonlight shone into Patrick Jepson's bedroom from tightly secured windows that withheld the mid-January winter air. Toys from a previous life filled the twelve-year-old's room, toys he had played with before everything had changed, before events that had drastically altered his home life had forced him into a stale state of being. The toys were reminders of a better time. Train sets, Hungry Hungry Hippos, Legos and remote-control cars didn't matter much anymore.
The days that once brought the excitement one feels from setting up a board game, unwrapping a brand-new action figure or loading up Super Mario Land on his Nintendo Game Boy were pretty much gone. But Thomas, the white cotton-filled owl that went everywhere with the boy, was different. He was the toy Patrick loved more than he loved himself.
However, Thomas wasn't your average run-of-the-mill stuffed animal. His manufacturer, Shoreside Toys Inc., designed his elegant features to mimic that of a real owl. He stood approximately twenty-two inches tall with a wingspan of forty-two inches, tip to tip. His smooth polyester feathers enveloped him like a silk sheet, covering even his feet, which were anisodactyl, meaning three toes forward and one back. His talons were a deep-black plastic, not too sharp but sturdy.
"Do you believe in angels?" Patrick asked, as he stared up at the ceiling.
"I don't know," Thomas said in a tired, strained voice, like that of a man who had lived a lifetime. He sat perched at the edge of the mattress and ruffled his synthetic feathers. "If they exist, wouldn't that mean the devil exists too? I don't want to believe in Satan."
Patrick rolled to his side and examined the bird. "What kind of owl are you?"
Thomas lifted his left foot to his beak and nibbled on a small displaced bit of plastic that had strayed from his talon. After yanking the piece free, he stood once again on both feet. "You've never asked me that before." He cocked his head to one side. "Do you know any types of owls?"
Patrick thought for a couple seconds. "Only the barn owl. I don't know what they look like though. I remember Mrs. Phillips, my old teacher, read us a story about that particular breed," Patrick said.
Thomas shook his head and scoffed. "They're eerie creatures; their faces, well, one name comes to mind ... Mothman."
"Mothman?" Patrick giggled. "Who's that? Is he attracted to porch lights?"
"No," Thomas said, his quick response drawing in the child's gaze. "He's attracted to death, Patrick."
The boy's smile faded.
"I'm a snowy owl. I blend with the winter accumulation and am known for my speed. I'm a twilight predator, a raptor, ... a bird of prey."
"Your eyes are so blue. They remind me of the diamond my mother used to wear around her neck," the boy remarked.
