Chapter 21- Cataracts

"These are the best cinnamon rolls you've made Mom." I took a bite of my 3rd roll and wiped the thick sugary frosting off the corner of my lip. She smiled at me and poured me some more orange juice. "I see you drove your Father's jeep today." She nodded toward the window. "This doesn't have anything to do with the time I spend with Mr. Lawrence, does it?" She gave me the same look she used when she knew I was trying to get away with some teenage prank. The look that says "you can't fool me," the look that always disarms a kid. I smiled and took another bite of my roll. "I actually don't have a problem with ol' Harold, to tell you the truth I actually feel bad for the guy." It felt good to be completely honest with her. "In fact, the only issue I have is his overall grumpiness. I mean, I think he chooses to be an ornery old cuss. He could be nice, he could say hello or at least smile, but he chooses to be mean." She looked at me with sadness and understanding. "I think its his way of keeping his defenses up." She put her hand on my shoulder and looked out the back window, lost in thought. "He's been hurt deeply, and he thinks the only way to keep from getting hurt again is never to care." I began to understand the great depth of love my mother has for others. She is truly one of the best people I know. "Anyway, we're going to have an opportunity to fix all that." she said, putting plates in the sink and drying her hands off on her apron.

I stood reluctantly beside her holding a big plate of cinnamon rolls as she rang the doorbell. A dark shape passed by the window and moved towards the other room. "Harold?" she called out pleasantly. "Its me." She knocked on the door again. No answer, and no sign of movement. She reached for the handle and I put my hand out as of to say "wait." She gave me a scolding look and turned the knob. "Harold, we're here..." she called out, looking from left to right as she slowly opened the door. I stayed close behind her. The air was thick with the smell of leather and dusty old books. The lights were out, and the long black curtains and high furniture made it unnaturally dark. I began to understand his gloom, it must have been hard to be cheerful in such an environment.

"I stood by the door, my eyes trying to adjust. Off to the left I heard a creak, like something shifting it's weight on the hardwood floor. I squinted to focus my vision but still couldn't see anything."

"Harold, where are you?" Her wrinkled hands fumbled along the crumbling plaster, searching for a light switch. I stood by the door, my eyes trying to adjust. Off to the left I heard a creak, like something shifting it's weight on the hardwood floor. I squinted to focus my vision but still couldn't see anything. "Oh, here we are" I heard her say, and the hallway light flipped on. Standing in the room next to us was Harold Lawrence.  His face was pale and sweaty, and a large scratch ran from his blood mottled hair diagonally across his face to his chin. His eyes were blank and lifeless, a sickening yellow hue replacing the normal gray-blue.  He cocked his head to the side as if listening for us blindly. My mother gasped and reached out toward him. "Harold!" She called out. The beast bellowed and lunged toward her, and I barely had time to dive into his shoulder to divert his charge. Slamming him against the wall he turned his rage toward me, grasping at me with thick, dirty fingernails. I yelled to my mother "RUN!" but she stood, hands on her mouth in paralyzed fear. He was immensely strong for someone his age, as though whatever transformed him gave him strength he never had before. He latched onto my forearm with vice-like intensity, and as I twisted to break his grip I could feel my flesh burn. I smacked my elbow into his nose as hard as I could, and felt his hands loosen enough to break his hold. Stumbling backward I turned the corner and grabbed my mother's hand, pulling her down the hall toward the backyard. The screen door was closed but I put my shoulder through it, bursting the metal frame in a loud bang. My mother was sobbing uncontrollably. I looked around desperately for a way out.  The yard was surrounded by a sturdy fence over 8 feet tall.  Knowing it was impossible for my mother to scale it, I searched for an alternative.  I could hear crashing inside the house, accompanied by cries of pain and fury.

I pushed my mother toward the shed in the back corner of the yard.  Remembering the terrifying collection of rusty tools that scared me as a child, I looked for something that could be used to defend myself.  The building was made of thin boards, lined with shelves stacked with half used paint cans, a variety of rusty tools, and mason jars filled with nails, screws and other knick knacks.  Hanging from the ceiling were the blades and other tools I'd remembered from my childhood. They were rusty and dull, as though they hadn't been used in years. Old bent shovels, twisted rakes and other tools I couldn't identify swayed dangerously above our heads and hung precariously on the wall.

"I pushed my mother toward the shed in the back corner of the yard.  Remembering the terrifying collection of rusty tools that scared me as a child, I looked for something that could be used to defend myself."

"We've got to be quiet." I commanded, and unhooked a large blade that looked like a combination between a machete and a scythe. I wondered briefly what this diabolical looking tool was used for as I felt it's weight in my hands.  The handle was worn from years of use, and it was wrapped in old electrical tape that was beginning to peel and harden.  As I gripped the diabolical looking instrument my mother's eyes widened in horror. "No, you can't... Please... Its Harold!" I knelt down and looked her in the eyes. "Mom, listen to me. That's not Harold anymore." She shook her head like a child, closing her eyes as though that would make it all go away. "No, no, no..." I put my hand on her to calm her and she nodded knowingly, tears streaming down her face. Looking through the slats I tried to get a view of the back door, but I could barely see out. The light streaming through the cracks lit up the dusty interior in small thin rays, and I found them memorizingly beautiful. The dust danced and spun in the air listlessly and I swung my weapon through them, sending them spiraling into curls and rills.

A large crash snaps me out of my respite, and I hear the beast scrambling into the backyard. Peering through the slats I see his bloody swollen face upturned.  Was he smelling or listening?  It was almost impossible to tell. His skin was grey and cold, the blood was congealing in thick, black lumps around his wound.  I looked at his eyes.  They were changing even more- from the pale, sickly yellow to an almost ghostly white.  Something thick seemed to be encasing the retinas, like massive swollen cataracts.  I look back at my mother, staring back at me, too scared to move. I worry that her inability to control her emotions right now will reveal our position, and I put my finger to my mouth, signaling her to be as quiet as possible. This seems to have the opposite effect, triggering an almost uncontrollable fear in her eyes.

Before I can do anything she begins to sob and cry. I glance back in horror as I see the former Mr. Lawrence moving toward the shed in a full sprint. He crashes through the thin walls, splintering boards and sending paint cans and mason jars flying. I am thrown backward onto a lawn mower, the engine block slamming into the small of my back.  Shards of glass rain down on my face and I feel nails falling down the collar of my shirt.  The weapon once held is lost in the shuffle, and I kick out with my feet instinctively. My foot connects with his jaw, spinning him off balance and causing him to scream in pain. He swings his arms madly, trying desperately to grab hold of me. I fend him off with repeated blows with my legs, and don't stop until I hear the screams of horror emanating from my mother. She calls out "Oh please, stop! Please! Harold! Harold! It's me! Please!" The beast lunges toward the sound of her voice and I grab his legs to trip him just as he grabs onto her. His strong hands grip her hair as he falls, and he pulls her down to the ground with a crash. Her head hits the hard pack floor with a sickening crack and I see blood in her nose and in the corner of her mouth. He pulls himself toward her, mouth open, as though he wants to bite her. I grab the handle of the closest tool I can reach and swing hard. It connects with his head and he collapses to the ground, finally motionless.

I move quickly to my mother's side. Her breathing is slow and labored. Trying not to move her I call her name, touching her gently on the shoulder. Her eyes spring open with the sudden realization of where she is. She looks up at me "Harold, is he..." her eyes well up with tears.  "He's not going to hurt us Mom, we're safe." Her eyes flicker closed as I dial 911 on my cell phone. "There's been an accident," I tell the operator.  "We need an ambulance immediately."