That Gleeful Smile

A Short Story by Jona Nightingale

If I had to pick a moment when I knew I was an influential person, it would be my fourth birthday. 

It’s never the idea of what happened that did me in, but the smile on my mother’s face as they dragged her away to the hospital covered in blood.

She looked happy.

I can hear her laughter now, high-pitched and giggly. It must have been the first time that year she had laughed.

I remember it clearly.

I was turning four, so full of life and curiosity. So prone to causing trouble. That day, I must have said something to my father because I could hear my parents fighting when I turned away to play.

They used to do that a lot. Fighting for a cause, and I was usually the cause. But somehow, my father must have won this time because my mother was different.

She held her breath when he passed by, taking up less space. Her forced smiles were contagious.

My mother always spoke to me in whispers, her voice barely above the sound of silence.

In less than a week, my mother had pulled herself off the couch to appease my father and show that she, too, could be a housewife who did mundane activities other than drinking and cooking.

She sent birthday invites to her friends and other parents who hated their lives just as much as she had.

It was to be a grand affair. And while I am sure someone was having an affair at that moment, it was a grand mess instead.

It all started when Blake Gareth and his mother arrived.

They refused to bring a gift and thought it was good to get a book of helpful tips on being a happy housewife for my mom.

Between the forced smiles and the third or fourth glass of wine, I think I heard something break in her that night.

I saw my mother reach for a knife.

I never knew that blood could be so beautiful and grand, or that mothers had more rage than a volcano. By the time someone dared to stop my mother, she had killed half of the parents, my father’s mistress, and my father.

I remember eating cake as the children screamed and cried. It was a carrot cake with golden raisins and walnuts.

Blake Gareth was deadly allergic to all three; carrots, raisins, and nuts. After they wiped the blood off his shocked face, I tried to offer him some cake, but sadly, he declined.

The police arrived when I finished the third slice of cake; I remember wanting a glass of milk, but there was blood on my hands, and I didn’t want to get the fridge dirty.

Maybe I should have asked an adult, but they seemed somewhat indisposed at the time.

I don’t remember much after going upstairs to shower and head to bed. I could hear screaming as I pulled the covers over my head, but I think that’s normal after watching something traumatic.

It took them a few days to realize that I was still in the house, and a bit longer to find someone to take me in.

My grandparents were the ones to take me in.

My grandmother was also a drinker. But she turned to gardening rather than violence.

She was different; she walked around the house with the random bruises given to her by my grandfather and his siblings. She was quiet, hardly saying a word while they beat her.

I don’t know if she was strong or too far gone to care anymore. I gave her a gun for her 81st birthday.

A year after I had left the house to travel, I heard she had killed all of them. I felt a bit proud of her.

Just like my mom, if she pushed hard enough, she could also do it. Taking life with a smile.