The Red Sled
Goddamn that red sled. It’s staring at you like it’s been waiting. For how long, is not up for speculation at this moment. What a horrible sight it is. Stand there, don’t move. You can’t move, both your mind and body are suspended by the sight of the red sled that rests unnaturally against the stacked firewood. Who put it there?
You return to your family cottage every summer with the wife and kids of course. How can you pretend like you don’t know about it, the red sled? The way it just sits there is almost like it knows you better than you know yourself. It’s undisturbed, almost peaceful yet wholly malignant. Think to call for the kids, your wife, remember what brought you out back in the first place. You are pathetic, don’t move.
This place, your summer escape, your parent’s summer escape, your grandparent’s summer escape, is filled with memories. Yet one important memory you’ve seemed to forget. You made it passed that memory, triumphed over it you can even say. You managed to succeed in life, graduated from Yale, fell in love, had two sons of your own, and return here annually.
The red sled doesn’t belong in your life, the new life you had to make for yourself to climb out of the guilty hole you dug. Now fall back into that hole. See all your triumphs in reverse like you are descending down a well with tiers that demarcate each triumph.
It is you driving with family aboard the station wagon, your sons quarrelling in the backseat. Your wife is beautiful, her hair flows out the car window like it was made of gold. It is sunny; summer vacation is here. It is you in the delivery room for the second time, two brothers you think. When your wife cries it is so perfect, you faint. You wake up and feel this is the proudest moment of your life. It is you at graduation, searching the audience with diploma in hand and seeing the tears in your parents’ eyes. Keep falling down deeper.
There he is, your brother, the boy you’ve managed to forget. He wasn’t at your graduation, your wedding, wasn’t there for the birth of your two sons but he is here now. It is winter time and he’s dragging along his favorite sled. You would both go to the top of the trail and much to your mother’s dismay, catapult down the ice and snow. But it is especially cold today and icy. You tell your mother you fell off the back but you know, only you, know the truth. You see the snow plow at the bottom of the street and watched your brother descend down the trail, right out of your life.
It wasn’t the red sled that killed your kid brother. You killed him, then buried him. He wasn’t there to witness all your triumphs, your success. You never let him.
Your wife puts her hand on your shoulder. Climb out of that hole for a second time. She’s frightened when she sees your face. She puts her arm around you and walks you toward the house. You look back over your shoulder and expect to see the vile sled, but it is not there.
2 comments:
That's a crazy story. I like how it's in second person, making the reader the protagonist. So is it guilt from the past that makes the sled appear there in the present, or does the sled mysteriously disappear in the end?
i've recently got stuck on experimenting with the second person. it allows for a certain freedom in "telling" a story. the short falls short because it is a trick and you know what mr. carver says about that- "no tricks". it's still a work in progress, i haven't abandoned it yet. as for the ending, "you" can figure that out. it's all about mental slips, or freudian slips if you want to get technical.
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