The Last Moment Of Childhood [FICTOID]

Halloween, 1967.

I was eight years old. Dressed like a hobo, going door to door to ask people if they would contribute to UNICEF.

We lived in Venice -- California, not Italy -- near the amusement pier.  There were boat docks on one side of the canal, narrow two story houses on the other.

Sandy lived there.  I knew her from school.  She was nice, but always quiet, a little gun shy, if you know what I mean.

I’d already rung three other doorbells before going to Sandy’s house.  Their bell didn’t work -- Sandy’s dad wasn’t handy around the house.

I was going to knock then I saw the door was slightly ajar, and I could hear voices inside.

I don’t know why, but I pushed the door open and stepped in.

My eyes went wide with surprise.  A big pool of blood spread scross the living room floor.  Sandy’s dad lay in the middle of it, a heavy iron bird -- some sort of sculpture the local artists made, I guess -- sunk deep in his skull.

“We’ll put him in the refrigerator,” Sandy’s mom said.  She had her back to me and didn’t realize I was there.  “Don’t cry, sweetie,” she said.  “He’s never going to hurt us again.”

She saw Sandy staring in my direction, turned, and saw me.

For a long time none of us said anything, then Sandy’s mom said, “Sandy, why don’t you go trick or treating with your friend?  I’ll take care of everything here.”

Sandy nodded then took me by the hand and led me out, closing the front door behind us.

My mind felt numb, but every step seemed to strengthen it.  I looked at Sandy.  She looked like she wanted to talk, but her voice wouldn’t come out when she worked her mouth.

I said nothing.

We rang the bell of the next house on the row.  A sweet little old lady opened the door.  “Oh, a little hobo collecting for UNICEF!” she said.

I held out my UNICEF carton for her to drop some coins it.  That was a requirement if you went trick or treating for them.  

She looked at Sandy.  “What’s your friend supposed to be?  She looks like she’s drenched in blood.”

“She’s an axe murderer,” I said.

© Buzz Dixon