Jason’s Sister

By Jonathon Azrael

(Alexander Weber-Kamin)

011107

            Jason’s sister sat in the kitchen sharpening knives. Skittering, serpentine, up and down across the whetstone, the knives made the rasping hisst, hisst, hisst of a snake in the grass. A hideous stench permeates the otherwise sterile room. Over the sink, a pair of flies dances a darkly malevolent ballet. Jason’s sister did not know why she was sharpening her knives, only feeling the mind numbing pleasure welling from her anticipatory thrill.

            Seated across from the young woman, a darkly handsome Angel of Death waits patiently. With expressions twisting from pious glory to unholy greed and craven cowardice, the Angel is a turbulent spectre. An almost reflexive clenching and releasing of his scythe is his only movement.

            In the yard, young Jason leans against a gnarled oak. In the semidarkness of the shade, the five fingered leaves of the oak lay down shadows grasping and clawing in a hideous mockery of life. Seemingly surrounded by a sea of hands, the boy is tugged this way and that by the immaterial hands of the tree. Blissfully unaware of anything but his readings, the hours flash by until a shrill cry startles him from his reverie. “Lunchtime!” clamors his sister from the kitchen door. Oddly, she seems rushed, as though she had some important duty that she had to fulfill.

            Jason obediently rises from his island of tranquility. With the hesitance of one wakened from a deeply beautiful slumber, Jason slowly walks into the house. In the kitchen, the chill Angel rises and slowly, majestically, invisibly spreads his arms wide. Clutched to the Angel’s bony breast, Jason is clenched tightly, brotherly, a last embrasure of siblings, never to be released.

            With a tentative flicker, the fires of the stove click to life. Settling a thin layer of soot across the multitudinous pots and pans, the simultaneous purification and corruption of the clean, wholesome pots begins. Filled with their viscous, fleshy contents, the pots and pans begin bubbling and cooking.

            Their respective tasks completed, the Angel leisurely departs while the sister slowly begins washing her knives. Gleefully, violently she begins scrubbing the simple tools. “Lord, have pity on them, for they know not what they do… Can’t miss that spot.” is the mantra, whispered, repeated until its speaker’s throat is rubbed bloodily raw with emotion.

            As the noontime sun slowly dies towards nightfall, the sister returns to her position at the table. The house is echoingly silent, even the flies have all found places to land. In this land of thanatopsis, Jason’s sister sits in the kitchen sharpening knives, waiting for her parents’ return.

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Last update : 27-02-2008 18:07

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