By J. Robert King
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Additional resources for Angel of Death
The couch is in front of it. Your cat is in the corner, brown and yellow like the couch cover. Lots of the stuff is from the curb. You don’t take stuff from the dump. ” He nods. His hair looks uneven and greasy. He’s got acne. He looked better in the tavern. ” It is. The Formica table and the hot plate and the fridge are there. He sits down on the couch. The music starts. Cartoons of Pat Sajak and Vanna White soar into your lives. You get a root beer. You move the cat and the Snickers wrapper and sit next to him.
Especially their eyes. They stand in a thicket. That is how new they are. They stand in a thicket instead of a meadow. They fear the wild beasts with their fangs and stingers and claws and instincts. The animals they fear are the very ones they named. ” If it weren’t for the animal skins that God gave them, they would be naked. No instincts? Do you suppose they don’t know about…? Are they too stupid even to watch the rutting bulls and tangled spiders? They stand there, side by side and petrified.
There were plenty of fathers there who got scared, maybe, which helped. But still, one bad father was bad enough. He would have to be replaced by one very, very good, good father. The chimes of St Francis on the hill at the end of the street say it is two o’clock: time for confession. Mass is at six. Keith doesn’t put his hands in his pockets as he shuffles up the cracked sidewalk. Maybe if he holds them really still they will turn to ice and he can break them off at the wrists and put Father’s hands on in place of his own.
Angel of Death by J. Robert King