I couldn’t see what it was at first. It was so dark after Charlie had turned off the lamp. I’d never entirely trusted Charlie; with good reason.
It is true, however, that nothing had yet been proved.
Melvin’s cause of death was never properly determined, but I knew. All the evidence pointed at one person and one person alone.
When I reported it to them, the police refused to take me seriously.
Melvin had been plucked.
His little limp body had been murdered and then royally violated. The stench of decay clung to my nostrils.
I gagged on the damp, fetid air. My eyes started to adjust to the darkness in the cellar.
All I could see at first were dark shadows enveloping brown brickwork. Cobwebs attacked my face. I flapped my hands frantically, fearing spiders in my hair.
The shadows softened, I could see more now. I wished I couldn’t.
Now I knew the truth. The evidence was there; I just needed time to think. All the things I thought I knew were now proved to be lies. What kind of mind was it that could do this?
‘What have you brought me here for Charlie?’
‘Look,’ Charlie smirked, ‘Happy tenth birthday!’
A trail of blooded, dead animals, crawling with maggots. His dirty little secret was out.
My stomach turned and a few flecks of bile rose in my throat. And there it was, once resplendent in its golden frame.
The missing picture of our mother, covered with feathers.
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 