Secluded from the outside world for the majority of his life, a mentally impaired middle-aged man with the mindset of a young child wants nothing more than to go trick 'r treating this Halloween. When he manages to sneak out past his overprotective...
The last memory Randy had of his father was when their family had gathered in the kitchen for dinner and, unsurprisingly, yet another fight erupted between his parents. As many times as the incident has crossed his mind, he never could recall the reason behind the argument—nor would he ever dare to ask his mother—but he had a strong feeling that it wasn't the usual screaming, or even slapping, he had grown numb to witnessing.
One thing he knew for sure was that it had to be around Christmas time. Not because he remembered watching pearlescent flakes drift downwards as snow buried their little box of a house, or icicles forming from the top of the window frame, or even the caroling neighbors spreading their unwanted holiday cheer. Well, that was the year the first Gameboy came out.
And shit, he wanted it so bad.
Instead, he settled for whatever his mother could afford off her minimum wage income. $3.35 an hour could only get so much, but she managed to save up enough money to buy him a cheap set of soft pastels with a fifty page sketchpad. Considering that before he would use the kitchen wall as a canvas, she couldn't help but consider the gift a win-win.
Randy would often confuse his days with months. He never left the house, after all, and the only company he had was his mother. That is, when she would arrive home from work. On a good day, he'd catch her in the late evening. But, on those she picked up an extra shift, she wouldn't get off until past midnight. And, by that point, her son was long asleep.
Just like any other morning, he woke up and stretched to the point where he nearly ripped the seams on his fleece pajamas. It was then it hit him. He stepped into the hall so fast that, with his yellow polka dotted socks, he skidded into the wall across from his bedroom. Thankfully he had caught himself by grabbing onto the corner of a well-fixed picture frame, one of many dispersed along the wall. He glanced down at the old vacation photograph of his parents taken a couple of years before he was born and spared a few seconds to absorb the details, as if seeing it for the very first time. His mother had golden blonde hair, which gravitated attention with its chopped layers and curled bangs that nearly covered her dark brown eyes. To his surprise, his father sported a frizzed goatee that matched perfectly with the long mullet that stretched to his shoulders. The unkempt man was obviously sunburned, his blistered pink-tinted skin painful just to look at, but still flashed teeth from between his scarlet cheeks. Looking at the image, it crossed Randy's mind that this must have been the first time he had ever seen his father smile and, even if it was from some type of secondhand memento, he couldn't help but find solace in this moment. He smiled, realigning the frame to where it set evenly with the others, before he carried on toward the living room.
The beige linen loveseat, which should have been thrown out years ago, still had an imprint on the cushion from where the heavyset man would sit throughout most—if not all—of the day. He'd do nothing but sip from his beer, allowing most of it to drip onto his exposed belly, and once done would then order his mother to fetch him another until the cardboard box in the kitchen would cling with nothing but empty bottles. That's when his father would turn to a fifth of cheap bourbon.
Surprisingly, the booze still left a lingering stench that caught Randy off guard each time he walked through that room. Just like how what little tainted memories he had of his father were forever etched into his mind, the odor must have seeped into the walls as well as the tattered carpet surrounding them. Just another reminder that, despite how much things appeared to have changed, reality argued quite the contrary.
Although it was already weighing heavily on his mind, Randy smiled the second he walked into the kitchen and caught sight of what was tacked next to the back door. Thick steel rods barred the outside of the window on the door, as well as every other window in the house, but Randy paid no mind to it. He never did. Instead, his days consisted of the same routine pattern. Wake up, stumble down the hall and through the living room, reach the kitchen and gaze at the wall in front of him. Crooked X's defaced the glossed paper, crossing out each day of October until it reached the final box resting just above the paper's edge.
"Finally!" he squealed excitedly, throwing his arms in the air so high that he managed to hit the pot and pans hanging from the rack above him. The metal clattered against each other, causing a racket that echoed throughout the house far louder than he had imagined possible, but he didn't care. The only thing on his mind was the calendar.
Not that it really mattered. It was always the same, a countdown leading up to another day of disappointment. But maybe this year it'll be different.
Hearing the ruckus, his mother hollered from the other side of the house. But, rather than the expected nagging, she was calling for him. He followed her voice as he skipped excitedly down the hall and, instead of it leading to her room, found her standing behind a worn-out barstool in the bathroom. Scissors sway from one of her hands, an electric trimmer clasped in her other.
He took no time to nestle into the seat, ready for their weekly ritual.
"So, what do you think? Can I go out this year? Please!" he begged, his eyes pleading as he stared at her through the grimy mirror mounted above the sink. Again, he can't help but think that maybe—just maybe this year—things will finally change.
But that wasn't the case.
His mother sighed, using the scissors to clip at the hair trailing down the rear of his neck. She then turned on the trimmer with a flick of the thumb. "You know the rules."
"But, Mom—" he attempted to turn in his seat to look at her but, quickly, she gripped onto the top of his head. He felt the cold metal press against his throat, the T-shaped blade slicing through his silver whiskers as it passed over his Adam's apple, and slowly lifted his head to glance at her through the mirror. "Pl—"
The blade caught skin, enough to make him bleed but not enough to make his mother stop what she was doing. Instead, she set her wrinkled hand on top of his balding fluff of curled hair, using what little strength she had left to hold his head in place.
"Sit still," she said in a calm, but commanding, voice.
He listened. And as he sat there, watching the aged woman groom him through the reflective glass, his focus was pulled to the crimson substance as it led a path down to his heavily built chest.
It has been a while, indeed.
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