Red Light, Green Light.
Our town had one traffic light. This light was located on a hill at the
outskirts of town, just before the Roman Catholic church. It was as if one was being
given a choice before descending into the sleepy village, where the rivers ran
clear: proceed with caution or bypass this valley altogether. The traffic light
however, always flashed green. No matter the time, season or reason; one could
always go.
That day the light was a brilliant red, the color of many bloody sunsets.
Later, I would often wonder if anyone else had noticed that the light had changed
its mind after all this time. It was as if we were being warned, turn back, and
take heed before it was all too late. However, no one else seemed to notice the
subtle change.
Walking home I remembered feeling anxious. Half way to my destination, a
random stranger on the back of a van shouted out to me; murder, murder on the
hill! I stopped abruptly, confused. What was this murder he spoke of? Murder on
the hill? It couldn't be my hill, I quickened my pace.
The hill, yes my hill would be called Chisel Hill from that day forth.
Multiple stabs wounds, chisel to chest causing all breath to cease. The barking
of the stray dogs drowned out the screams of the murdered and the sobs of the
murderer. The culmination of their love lay on the death bed, splattered in the
warm sticky blood of her mother and the cold tears of her father. She was too
little to cry out for help, too young to care, destined to be an orphan;
forever.
My father cutting the grass around our home saw the accused running through
the yard, stumbling as if drunk. He called out to him, "aye you
okay"? To which he just nodded his head, as if to say "yeah,
everything is everything". But everything was not everything. Our neighbor
lay dead in her bed, her daughter splattered with congealed blood, while
softly calling out to her Ma.
By the time I got up to the hill, most of the village had already assembled
on our freshly cut grass. My neighbor’s body was now wrapped in white as if
mummified. Her arms flaying from side to side, waving a final goodbye, as she
took her last journey down the hill on the gurney. Her daughter placated with a bottle
of warm milk, her tears no longer flowing. Her killer found frothing from the
mouth on the local football field. His body and soul being eaten from the
inside out, as he silently begged for forgiveness.
Their love was one of questions. People often questioned his sexuality; and
she may have begun questioning it as well. She was rumored to be his first;
girlfriend, confidant, love. She acted as his shield to the whispers, snickers
and side way glances. Their offspring was confirmation that he was deeply
rooted in the land of love between a man and a woman, even though many seemed
to think to the contrary.
She was not the model of chastity, having already abandoned a few husbands
and dismantled hearts along the way. This was her second go at living on the
hill, the first being in wedded bliss.. Not for her so much, but for the
husband, whose heart she would eventually break. She treated her first hillside
love with disgust and disdain; this one she treated kindly. Maybe he was breaking
down her walls, or maybe she was biding her time until something better came along.
However, what came was not what she expected. Murder was not something anyone
expected in our quiet country village, with its one traffic light.
And so that one traffic light on the outskirts of town continued to flash
green for many years to come, as if to say go but proceed with care. It would
be quite some time before that light would flash red once more. Blood would
again flow, on that same hill, on that very same spot, in that very same house.
Another life would be taken; as the barks of the stray dogs would once again
muffle out the screams of murder
