The Severed Head in My House
By DarlaCarmichael on January 12, 2013
There is a severed head somewhere in our house. I know it’s there, but I don’t know where. I prefer to not be in the know on my husband’s discretions. My father in law had delivered it to the house, the lone prize of what could only have been a killing spree. I averted my eyes quickly, trying to maintain my plausible deniability. But, for that briefest of moments, I had looked it right in the eye. The sad brown eyes stared back at me, pleading for assistance in his final moments.
Frankly, I could have cried. Instead, I looked away and tried to forget. It was horrible. How could someone do this. It was my mother-in-law’s idea to bring such a disturbing trophy into our house. She had kept it, secreted away in storage for several years. She insisted that it was time for my husband to store it. I could definitely understand her not wanting to have that blood on her hands.
With my head down and eyes closed, I waited for it all to be over. For my husband to put it somewhere I would never accidentally run into it. Knowing it was going to be in our house, I had flashes all that day of running into it accidentally. I would be showering and instead of blindly reaching for the shampoo, I would accidentally grab the head. Or, I would be fixing the kids a snack and when looking in the pantry, I would come face to face with it. It was a horrid thought. And, really, I could see my husband strategically placing it around the house to cause such an incident to occur.
There was a long pause as the head changed hands. Then, oh god, then – something unexpected happened. It was the unmistakable sound of a light saber. Not a “real” one, but the plastic extendable toy-type that make light saber noises when turned on, moved or comes in contact with something. It was the “on” noise. I turned, cringing at seeing the big eyes staring back at me.
There, in front of the head, stood my fifteen month old. Pacifier firmly in place and chewing away, he squared his shoulder and raised the light saber that was nearly twice his height over his head. He swung it down. With a maniacal giggle hampered only by the pacifier, he continued his assault on the head. The laughter was uncontainable despite the gruesome severed head as a participant.
And, then, a shriek came from behind me. It was my six year old. I ran to shield his eyes from the sight, but it was too late. He ran excitedly up to my husband and gleefully shrieked, “Oh my gosh! I want it! I want it in my room! Hang it above my tv!” I frowned at my husband who was obviously enjoying the kid’s reactions a little too much.
I shook my head and stared once again at the big brown eyes staring from the lifeless head. I shielded my eyes as my husband hid it somewhere in the house, so I would not have to see its furry brown skin, small antlers and soft black nose, knowing that this creature had once been alive and even attached the rest of its body.
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