I finally arrived at the house I grew up in. I was prepared to knock but the door was cracked open. Why would I knock? I had the key and no one would possibly be there. Indeed, something was wrong. Mother never left the door unlocked, much less open even when she was home. The fact was that she was not home; she was dead. I slowly opened the door, not knowing what to expect. I could not believe what I saw. My mother’s body was lying on the living room floor, not far from the front door. She looked like she had been dead a long while. How could that be? She should not have been there. My thoughts were telling me that that was not real because she died in the hospital. Why was her body here? I walked through the rest of the house and it appeared it had not been cleaned in years. The electricity must have been turned off because the lights failed to work when I tried the switch. I entered my old bedroom and was surprised to see that she kept my posters up on the walls. There was the Road Warriors, Jake “the Snake” Roberts, the 1986 Western divisional champion Houston Astros, and the 1986 Western conference champions Houston Rockets. My old stereo appeared to be in the same place along with other items. Basically, my room appeared to be untouched.
A noise came from the living room. It was not a loud noise but it sounded like a slurp. I picked up an old baseball bat I had left in the closet and slowly walked back. The sound was growing louder and sicker. It was a slurping and sucking sound. I was walking down the hallway leading to the sound and saw a shadow. I stopped in my tracks. Who could have been there? I had no idea but that sound was horrifying. I took a breath, grasped some courage, and jumped out. What I saw…what I saw…what I saw was Jack Xavier kneeling down beside my mother, biting and tearing and eating at her midsection. His mouth was covered in thick blood and pieces of flesh. He looked up at me and hissed. He sounded like a cornered possum. I was going to strike him with the bat but was frozen by a sight I could have never dreamed, even for the books I desired to write. Looking at me, he spoke, ”Boy, you have much to learn about pain and pleasure. Which would you like?”
“Sir, what would you like?”
Everything faded away and the scene reappeared as the inside of an airplane.
“Sir, what would you like to drink?”
“Rum and coke, please.” I said instinctively. The whole thing had been a dream. Hopefully, reality would be a little easier to take. I was about an hour from Houston. Sleeping was no longer an option as a time killer.
After a few drinks, the little seatbelt light lit and the grainy, staticy voice of the pilot came on to notify the passengers of the approach being made and how it was going to take about 15-20 minutes. He also told us of the weather conditions in Houston. It was raining and cold, typical Southeast Texas weather at that time of the year. The pilot had told us to have a wonderful visit before his voice disappeared. A wonderful visit was not on my itinerary.
Luckily, I had no luggage because Hobby Airport was a “madhouse” that day. To my surprise, my long time friend, Ryan, was at the gate waiting for me. There had to have been several flights from San Diego that day, how did he know which one? Maybe he had been there since we talked earlier that day. He was that type of loyal friend. I always admired that about him. I wished I could be more like that instead of a wanderer.
He extended his hand and spoke, “Steve, I almost did not recognize you. Did you dye your hair?”
I had forgotten that he had not seen me for over eight years. I had changed a lot more than most people in that time frame, in more ways than one.
