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Eyes Upon the Playground by Michael Giardina - Page 3
He watched it walk straight back up to where it had always been. It sat there quietly. Another praying mantis came edging its way over, this one more darkish brown. Garret watched the insect. The two pressed their bodies together and wings fluttered momentarily. Garret continued to watch intensely. He saw the darkish brown praying mantis walk up to the bright green one that he had so recently caressed. In a quick and calculated gesture the brown insect ripped the head from its greener mate and began to consume its body one appendage at a time. The green preying mantis, that one that Garret had touched and held within his hand, simply stared off into the sky never moving for an instant; a willful gesture. Walking back across the overpass, Garret came to the playground and he quickly eyed all corners, looking for a moving shadow, looking for a sign of Samantha in the darkness and yet nowhere was there even a rustle. Gareth walked up to a small fence that stood in front of a school-building. A large street-light, high above the fence, gave off a spectacular reddish-orange light that spread down upon the fence. There, in the distance, Garret saw something that made his heart drop. Held up by the fence were many small scarecrows completely constructed of hay, dressed up in clothing and yet, in the dark, they looked genuine. These small little children were strapped to the fence, lying sideways, blown over by the wind, their hay-appendages stretched out above their heads, almost crucified, looking of death. There, under this warm red light, it seemed as if these constructions of hay were truly young children. Garret placed his hand out to touch one of the creations. He needed to let his heart confirm that these were simply art projects, simply little playthings created by the children during playtime and yet how real, how frightening a sight. Garret reached out to touch the arm of one young scare-crow girl. Her warm pink dress fluttered in the wind and, as his hand reached out to touch the hay-shoulder, her pink glove fell to the ground and began to fly away in the wind. Garret jumped back and began to sweat. He couldn't stay here any longer and he walked hurriedly back towards the car. He looked back and believed he saw transparent image of Samantha hiding behind the small little children. He almost believed it but his eyes passed quickly away and he walked on. He would go back tomorrow, he would find Samantha, and-no matter how they came to exist-he would revenge those photographs. Garret rolled nervously about his bed, his body sweating profusely, his warm torso rolling around in the discomfort of his own sweat. His breath poured out over his naked chest and his heart began to race faster. He saw the picture of young a boy playing on the monkey bars and then quickly a vision of those children strapped to the fence, completely made of hay, completely creations of the children themselves. Samantha wouldn't sign off. Her connection was up all night, taunting him. All he had to do was turn over and explore. All he had to do was get out of his bed. He rolled over and began to watch the screen from his bed. The screen was black except for the cursor that would move if Samantha began to write again. He watched and wondered what exactly it would take to defeat this beast. How could he save the children? How could he, without incriminating himself, prove to anyone what he had seen. Hadn't he come to all of this through illegal means anyways? He had no recourse; he had to take things into his own hands. He continued to watch the black screen from his bed. He watched the cursor and hoped that it would begin to move, that Samantha would slip up, that somehow Samantha would give Garret the chance to get her. He continued to watch, he fumbled through his black book and realized that Samantha was connected more and more. The longer his nights became the longer Samantha was around. The more he thought about Samantha, the more Samantha was there to be watched. It seemed too convenient. It didn't seem fair. Garret watched the screen intensely and the cursor began to move. Samantha was beginning to write again and Garret jumped from the bed to watch. It didn't seem as though Samantha was writing a letter this time, though. All Samantha wrote was the following: It's not polite to stare. Garret looked at the screen, confused. He waited. I said, it's not polite to stare. Garret wondered what the words meant. He looked at his old logs and tried to figure out who exactly Samantha was writing to. You can say something to me, so why don't you? Garret wondered who exactly Samantha was addressing. He continued to fumble through the small black book to piece together an answer. You have my folder. Garret dropped the book as he read the line. He shook his head. His heart began to race. He was creating a story in his head and there was no way it could be true. How could Samantha know about him. Was Samantha writing to him? Was this an attempt at communication? There was no way, Garret thought to himself. Straw and hay, during the day. Laugh and scream, it's time for you to dream. Garret pulled the keyboard close to him and got ready to take control of Samantha's keyboard. He was ready to respond. He was ready and, just as his fingers were about to touch the keyboard, the connection was lost. Samantha was gone. No sleep was had that night and, as the sun began to rise, Garret pulled his coat on and was already heading for the playground. He had to watch the children. He had to protect them. The sun shone over the playground and everything looked quiet and peaceful. Garret was so puzzled by the difference the sun could make. He saw the young little scarecrows smiling and happily waving about in the wind. For a moment his heart seemed to become filled with a sense of comfort. He saw young children rushing over the hills, chasing read balloons that escaped from their young grasp and floated up towards the sun. He felt like a protector. In his presence, Garret thought to himself, nothing can happen to these children. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw, coming over the hill, Samantha wandering towards a small patch of grass. Samantha sat down and began to watch the children. Garret grew tense. He saw a young girl fall from the swings and begin to cry. He watched the glimmer of happiness and joy emanating from Samantha's face. Garret could feel the pleasure that Samantha was gaining from little girl's pain and something snapped. Garret could no longer watch he had to run, had to intervene. Garret walked briskly towards Samantha, gaining speed quickly. Garret's eyes seemed to penetrate the ground and he looked as if he would walk directly through Samantha, crushing that woman with his passionate stride and yet, as Garret came closer he slowed himself. He sat down next to Samantha and didn't say a word. Samantha reached into her pocket as if to warm her hand. Samantha looked over and said, "Yes?" "What are you doing here?" Garret demanded. "Watching the children play," responded Samantha. "I know what you're doing." "You know nothing of the sort." "It's all about the children," Garret said, not letting his eyes off of Samantha for a second. Garret grabbed at Samantha's wrist and said in a slow and demanding voice, "You're going to come with me, now." "Where might that be?" Asked Samantha. Samantha turned her wrist over and intertwined her fingers with Garret's. Garret pulled his hand away, unsure of what the gesture meant. "Why are you so frightened?" Samantha said. "I said you're going to come with me. Don't say anything else. Get up." Samantha slowly stood and Garret reached into his pocket. He nodded at Samantha and shook his forehead in the direction he wished her to walk, "That way." He commanded. Samantha began to walk in the desired direction, warming her hand within her pocket. Garret made eye contact with Samantha and pointed to his pocket where the protruding barrel of a gun was pointing outwards in her direction. "I see," Samantha said. "Keep walking," Garret commanded. "It's okay, Garret. You don't understand," Samantha said. "How do you know my name?" "I've been watching you," said Samantha. "Watching me? Keep quiet. You don't know what you're talking about." "As you wish," said Samantha. Garret pushed Samantha up towards the leaning tree and said to her, "I can't let you do this anymore. I know what you're doing here. I've seen the pictures." "Surely," Samantha says, "Did you actually believe the thing about the police warrant? The Puerto Ricans? How about Pearl, did you believe that too?" "What?" "I constructed those just to play with you. I'm sorry, dear. I like to watch people. You're just another one of my ex-cookies." "Shut your mouth. I told you not to talk." "Fine, dear. Have it your way," said Samantha, looking out over the playground. From the top of the small mountain hill, up by the tree that grew into metal, Samantha watched the young children at play. Garret, holding a pistol within his hand, began to slip it slowly up from his jacket pocket. He held it at his torso and aimed it upwards at Samantha. Garret faced away from playground and eyed Samantha intently. He was deciding in his mind what exactly it meant to pull that trigger. His hand began to twitch when, from behind him, he heard an awful scream, a young girl crying. Garret turned around to see this young girl who fell from the swings, her knees scraped and her lip bleeding. Garret turned back and looked at Samantha who, upon watching the young girl, broke into a sort of ecstasy. Her face began to shine and she looked utterly content. Garret grabbed the pistol, pointing it directly at her face and screamed, "Quit it! You want me to kill you right now? You think that's beautiful? How the hell can you enjoy that?" Just then, in that split second, in the heat of passion, Samantha took the opportunity to remove her cold hand from her pocket, sporting a pistol of her own. She held it up to Garret's face and said, "You're no better than I am. You're just a voyeur. You thought you knew something about me but you didn't know anything. Even now, it turns out you're the one was being watched. How does it feel being the one on the other end of the rope?" They held their positions. Samantha looked calm and sure. Garret's body was sweating, his muscles twitching. Garret began to think about how Samantha slowly became more and more available as time went on. Was it possible that she was watching him all along? He thought for a moment about why Samantha would spend all night connected to him and never be writing a thing. Was she spending that whole time reading his notes, writing fake letters, was Samantha playing him? Was it possible? If so, why was she always down here? Why was she getting so close to the children? Samantha's mouth grew wider and wider, a smile forming, a grin growing. Everywhere Garret looked he saw Samantha's entire body mocking him. He felt as though Samantha were about to run at him, to remove him from his position as protector, to spend the rest of her life taking her photographs, causing such undue pain. In just that instant Garret felt justified. He knew that he could pull the trigger. He looked into Samantha's eyes and apparently the deal was sealed. In that moment the two men's fingers twitched. They pulled harder. Tension grew. Sparks began to fly through the air, bullets sailed in an instant. The sound of two large gunshots spread across the city like an earth quake. Garret watched as Samantha fell to the ground underneath the tree. Samantha turned her head to the side and said, "It's all about the children." Garret took aim and fired another shot. Samantha's body shook violently for that instant in time and then came to rest. Garret watched the lifeless body on the ground below him. Garret examined his chest, his arms, his face. It seemed that, though Samantha had fired at him, she had missed. It seemed so unlikely though, for they stood so close together. It seemed that in that instance they would both give their lives away and now Garret stood wondering, watching the lifeless body of Samantha on the ground, what exactly was her intent, who was she, what was she? Garret held his breath and grew tense. The world started to come back to him and he held the pistol tightly in his hand. He succeeded. Garret imagined himself as the catcher, the protector of the innocent. How beautiful a thing, he thought to himself, that he had-by some chance of luck-come upon this woman's horrible game. Garret knew, since the moment he first saw those pictures, that he would never let Samantha do to others what had been done to him. He smiled sweetly at the dead body that lay before him. In the background he began to hear screams. He heard women's voices screaming, fire engines and ambulances roaring towards his position. He turned around to face the playground and there, underneath the monkey bars, a small young girl lay lifeless. Garret looked back at Samantha. She hadn't missed, thought Garret. She didn't miss at all. He turned around and families were rushing towards the young girl. Two ambulance drivers were rushing racing towards the scene and Garret began to feel sick. He screamed violently, he began to rush down the hill, his gun flailing about wildly, his voice echoing in every man's ear. The police knelt behind their car-doors, taking aim and calling out to Garret. Several men flung their huge bodies at him, bringing his flailing body to the ground. Garret held the gun tightly to his temple and his finger began to quiver, pressure started to grow but just before the moment when the bullet was to be released from the chamber, the men ripped the gun from his hand. It never went off. For the rest of his life, with the image of that young girl, dressed in white, lying lifeless underneath the monkey bars, Garret regretted not pulling the trigger before the men ripped the gun from his grasp. He saw Samantha's lifeless face, her eyes penetrating past him, focused-or so they would be if she were still alive-right at the monkey bars, her mouth peeling into a smile. Garret's face grew red and struggled. As Garret was pulled way he got one last look at the small young girl in white. Her face was a mixture of powdery white, blue, and purple. Her skin seemed so lifeless and-in those last few moments in the playground-he watched a dark liquid pass out onto the beautiful white-sun-dress, watched a policeman reaching out towards a crying woman, perhaps his wife-and all Garret could think of was how much that sweet young child reminded him of a scarecrow. ... return to Creative Studios Fiction |
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