Living Things

DO NOT OPEN. DEATH INSIDE.

The metal throne is uncomfortable and damp from morning dew. King Manny shifts first to his left butt cheek, then to the right, but there comes no relief from the cold, hard surface. He surveys his subjects as they go about their day: some look like they’re being pulled by an invisible lead, padding around like terriers following their go-get-em owners out for a morning jog, while others dart around like cheetahs circling water buffalo. They are playing a game; some of his subjects are villains, and some are heroes. 

Manny wants to play, but he has to keep watch over his subjects. Being king is lonely, but he knows loneliness and suffering are part of ruling over a land. His job is to stay vigilant and watch for the man with the Red Eyes. Red Eyes doesn’t sleep. Red Eyes doesn’t spare children. Red Eyes doesn’t care whether it’s night or the bright of day.

He pulls out his sketchbook; the cover is worn, but he likes it that way. “Manny,” his mother used to say, “the thing with books is, the more worn out they are, the better they tend to be.” He runs his hand over the top of the sketchbook and feels the life in it. He feels the death, too. He flips it open, and reads the list of names like he does every day.

Mom

Dad

Lolo

Auntie Julie 

Uncle Daniel

Uncle Hector 

Pepper

Pete Moore

Mrs. Maples  

Mr. Maples 

With his charcoal pencil, he writes “Who’s next?” below the list. He knows it’s only a matter of time before he’ll need to draw a line across another name.

The bells toll. At first, only the most attentive of his subjects respond, but action begetting action, soon waves of children drift down the brick-red corridor. The kids are swallowed up by several menacing doors with hydraulic dampers that mimic the anxious sighs of some of the less studious children.

The king shuts his ledger, removes his crown, and follows the other children into the classroom.

---

Inside, the teacher is unaware of the chaos brewing. It starts as a tiny dot, but the circular motion of Manny’s pencil gradually increases, and soon, the gravity from the black hole is uncontrollable. It tugs at Manny’s glasses, forcing him to hold them close to his head by the stems.

He isn’t positive, but he thinks he sees a pen fly by, then a chalkboard eraser—this time, he’s sure of it; a dust devil of chalk kicks up and swirls about in the middle of the classroom.

Workbooks, backpacks, pens and pencils—desks—children!—somersaulting and cartwheeling. It reminds Manny of a carnival ride he’d gone on with his father last year—the Tilt-A-Whirl. The trip to the carnival was an attempt to make Manny feel happy again, but all he could think about was his mother and the man he saw that night. The man with the Red Eyes.

“Manny,” says Mrs. Cooper. 

“Yes?” 

“Can you tell us the formula for calculating the size of a black hole?” 

“I think I’d need a spaceship and ruler,” says Manny.

The class snickers.

Mrs. Cooper presses her lips together. She does this when she’s frustrated, Manny knows this, so he attempts to defuse the situation.

“I think you said it was R=3M, with the R being the radius and M the mass.”

Mrs. Cooper smiles and writes the formula on the board.

“But Mrs. Cooper,” Manny continues. “I don’t understand why it matters. Why do we care how big a black hole is?”

The children look at Manny as if he’d just stood on his desk and exposed his little brown penis. 

“That’s an excellent question,” says Mrs. Cooper. “It teaches us. It helps us test our hypothesis and it gives us information about how the universe works. It’s like… understanding your parents—the more you can get to know them, the more you’ll know yourself.” 

Manny nods. Inside, he’s measuring the black hole that formed two years ago; he thinks it might be growing; his father always pretends to be happy; the world pretends to spin.

---

After school, Manny sits on the bleachers drawing a picture of a rabbit. He feels a raindrop on his cheek and, not wanting his latest creation to smear, closes his sketchbook, removes his camouflage jacket, and drapes it over the book. His drawing is nearly done. She just needs a name. 

Down on the field, the high school kids are running football drills. It reminds Manny of sitting on the docks, watching his father and the rest of the dockworkers haul crates onto trucks, everything from transistor radios to frozen peas to kitchen equipment. He visited the docks every day after school when his mother began her treatment. He’d wait for his father to be done with work, then they’d head straight over to the hospital to see her.

The bleachers are empty except for Manny. The whistle starts a drill, and the sun comes out from behind a raincloud as if it’s a player on the field.

Manny removes his jacket from on top of the sketchbook and opens it. Her ears are a little longer than he’d intended to draw them. “What’s your name?” He whispers to the page. He remembers what his mother used to call him when he’d show up at the house, arms and face caked with mud and slacks painted spring green with grass stains. Yes, that will do nicely, Manny thinks.

“Let’s call you Terra.” 

A long, fuzzy ear flops over the side of the sketchbook. “Terra, what are you doing?” Manny laughs. Then, in one tight motion, the rabbit hops out of the book and nuzzles up against Manny’s chest. 

“Hello, boy,” says Terra. “Thank you for creating me and for the beautiful name. What does it mean?” Her fur is softer than anything Manny has ever felt, and beneath it, a living warmth. 

“How are you real?” says Manny. 

“I don’t know, I’m a rabbit. How are you real? Maybe it’s the same.” Manny considers this and doesn’t have a good answer. He knows he was born but isn’t sure where he was before that.  

“Terra means Earth,” says Manny while stroking the rabbit’s long, velvety ears. He can see the black smudge where his thumb accidentally rubbed charcoal against her haunch while drawing her. Then there are her eyes, one of them perfect, with just the right amount of pupil to iris, the other a black mass of ink and shadow; a mistake, but one that he doesn’t mind so much. 

“Oh yes, that is a lovely name with a nice meaning,” says Terra, “but what does it mean to you?”

Manny thinks, then replies, “I’m not sure. I suppose it means something to me. My mother would call me that sometimes. It’s a name that has been said with a lot of smiles and laughter, but it’s also the saddest name I’ve ever heard.” 

“I don’t wish to make you sad, boy. Perhaps there is a better name, one that makes you laugh?” 

“No, I don’t want to laugh,” says Manny. And he didn’t. He didn’t want to cry either. He wanted to forget it all. “We don’t need to talk about it. I think I felt another raindrop. Might be best for you to go home for awhile.” 

“Ok, boy,” says Terra. “Thank you for drawing me and for the lovely name.” 

Manny fingers the key around his neck as he walks home. He wears his house key on a bright orange ribbon his father found in the hall closet. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t mean anything to his father, but Manny remembers when the ribbon had been used last: two years ago on Saturday, he thought. His mother’s birthday. He’d wrapped her gift himself, finishing it with the orange ribbon, her favorite color. Manny couldn’t recall what the gift was, but he vividly remembered her pulling on the orange ribbon with her long, delicate fingers to unwrap it. When he closes his eyes, he can smell the wax and smoke from the birthday candles, and he can almost hear the jovial conversation of his extended family and his lolo’s deep laugh coming from the living room.

Just off of the fire trail there is a tire swing that listlessly sways. Manny isn’t sure who hung it, but he’s never seen another person on or near it, not in the year and a half he’s lived in this town. He lays down on the swing and looks up at the tops of the trees. The sky is overcast. An occasional drop of rain touches his eyelids and nose. He hears a scratching sound coming from his sketchbook and opens it. Terra hops out onto his chest. 

“Hello, boy,” says Terra. Her little nose is working, bouncing up and down. The few drops of rain activate the dirt, the trees—all of nature. The smells dance on the breeze. 

“Hello, Terra,” says Manny. Her long ears are draped over Manny’s shoulders like a ceremonial stole. He kisses her on her forehead. 

“This is a nice little swing,” says Terra. “Did you build it?”

“No, not me. It was here when we moved. I’ve never seen anyone on this trail, but I have seen deer—once I saw a coyote!” A lone squirrel insistently chatters from a gnarled tree branch above them.

“Boy, I couldn’t help but notice something while in that, um, what do you call it?”

“Sketchbook.” 

“Yes, sketchbook! There is a page with a list of names. Some of them are crossed out.” Terra jumps off of Manny’s chest, landing with a light thud on the ground below. She sniffs the dried leaves and dirt, then looks up at Manny for an answer. 

“Well, those people, the crossed-out ones, are dead,” says Manny. “Red Eyes got to them.” He sits up and puts his forearms on his knees. “I’m trying to find a pattern. I need to find out who will be next so I can set a trap.” 

“Red Eyes…who is it, boy? How will I recognize them?” Terra extends her neck and surveys the area. Her ears unroll, they are erect, making her taller than any rabbit Manny has ever seen.

“I caught a glimpse of him through the window, a man with dark hair and stubble, standing beneath a streetlamp. He wore black slacks and a white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked up at me like he knew me, even raised a hand. His eyes were red like he’d be crying, and he had those lines—my dad calls them crows-feet—a weird name, don’t you think? I’ve never seen the feet of a crow up close, but I can’t imagine they look like that!”

“What makes you so sure he’s responsible for all the death?”

“My mom was dead the next day. Five years before that, I’d seen the same man just before my cat Pepper died back in Guam. This man is always around when someone dies. I told my dad about Red Eyes and—”

“And what did he say?”

“He said it was a coincidence—that the man wasn’t Death. That he was probably just a man out for a walk after work. Then he told me that the death of my mom was God’s will. It didn’t make sense to me—she was just living her life, and then…then she’s dead? I started to think about it, and think about it, and think about it until it just came to me—it’s all a big lie. Cancer doesn’t just happen, someone caused it—this man caused it—Red Eyes—and I’m not going to let it happen again. I’ll stop him.”

“What will you do, boy? It’s not like you can kill Death, right?”

“I’m not sure what I’m going to do. Not yet.”

“What’s that sound?” says Terra. “Is it Red Eyes?” She dives behind a rock, making herself as small as possible. She looks tiny now, whereas before, when her ears were erect, she was taller than a sapling.

Manny jumps down from the swing. There’s nothing there at first. Then, from around the bend, a dog comes barreling down the fire trail. 

“Maybe it’s friendly,” says Manny, backing up. 

“It’s not friendly, boy,” says Terra. “You need to go—now!”

Before Manny knows it, his legs are moving faster than he thought possible. He jumps over rocks and roots, cutting to the left through the thicket, toward the creek.

Its approach is silent, and Manny realizes every movie he has ever seen with dogs chasing people has been a lie. He expected snarling, growling, and barking, but this was like being hunted by a shark. Manny slides down a hill and crosses the stream; the silent hunter pursues. 

Manny trips over a gnarled root, falling onto the dry, hard soil. He straightens his glasses, turning over just in time to see the silent hunter leap at him, the dog’s mouth salivating with ferocity.

THUD—Terra kicks the beast in the ribs. The sound reminds Manny of the boxes landing inside the trucks on the docks. The dog yelps, then the hunter refocuses, this time on Terra. 

“Terra, look out!” Manny yells.

Terra leaps away, moving deeper into the woods. The silent hunter cuts through the bramble after her. 

Manny takes his sketchbook from his pocket, his nimble hand working the charcoal pencil. He reaches through the page.

Terra cowers beneath an oak tree. Her long ears are draped down the back of her head, spilling into patches of foxtail and yellow wildflowers.

The silent hunter, its head low and eyes level, inches forward. A slow, rolling growl rumbles out from its jowls.

Terra thinks about the little time she’s had in the world; what an exciting and lovely day it has been. She wonders if this is what all days are like. A yelp snaps Terra from the mental replay of her short-lived life. Manny is there with his sketchbook in one hand and a lead in the other. He’s got the lead around the dog’s neck, tugging on it as the dog strides from side to side, unsure of what to do. 

“Boy, wrap the end around the tree over there!” says Terra.

Manny quickly does what his friend suggests, pulling on it several times to ensure it’s tight enough. 

“That ought to hold it,” Manny says, walking over to Terra. “Are you hurt?” 

“No, I don’t think so. Just scared,” says Terra, then she hops into Manny’s little brown arms. 

“You’re okay now. Do you want to get back into the sketchbook?” 

“Just for a while,” says Terra. “What should we do with the dog?” 

“Let’s leave it here.” 

---

Manny pulls his house key out from the top of his shirt. Inside, the silence is heavy, just like every day after school. His dad won’t be home for a few hours, but he knows he’ll call soon, to make sure he’s home safe. Manny makes himself a snack, peanut butter on toast, and flips on the TV; he doesn’t watch it, not really, but he likes the sound. It makes him feel less alone. The phone rings. He answers.

“Hi Manny, how was School?” says his dad. Manny can hear the sounds of a bustling warehouse in the background, the beeping of vehicles backing up, men and women shouting numbers and instructions to one another, and an ambient buzz of electricity and static. 

“Fine. When will you be home?” 

“Well, I wish I could tell you it’ll be soon, but I’m not getting out of here on time tonight. I’ll probably be home around nine. There is a microwavable mac and cheese in the freezer in the garage. You eat without me.” 

“Okay. Can I have an ice cream sandwich after?” says Manny. 

“Sure, but only one, please. I’ll see you soon, bud. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Manny remembers when his father didn’t say “I love you” so often, remembers when he didn’t hug him so much.

Manny holds out as long as he can before retrieving the mac and cheese from the garage. It gives him the creeps in there. He opens the door, feels around for the light switch, and flips it on just before panic sets in. The garage is filled with rakes and brooms, banker boxes full of odds and ends, and bins filled with clothing that will never be worn again. He grabs the mac and cheese from the freezer, then picks up a bin with his mother’s name written across the front of it on a piece of masking tape.

After eating dinner, he kneels before the bin on the floor in the living room. Out the back window, a silver birch bends and sways in the wind. A crack of thunder makes Manny jump. He opens his sketchbook, and Terra hops out. She stretches, sniffs the box, and looks up at Manny. 

“Hi, Terra,” says Manny, “I thought you might be bored. Would you like to…would you please stay with me for a bit? Just until the thunder stops.” 

“I would love to,” says Terra, nuzzling up against Manny’s arm.  

Manny opens the lid of the bin. Neatly folded over the box’s contents is a sweater that belonged to his mother. He buries his face in it and breathes deeply; with his eyes closed tight, she is right there with him, but when he finally opens them, the room is dark. 

“Terra?” whispers Manny. 

“The power must have gone out,” says Terra. “Do you have a flashlight?” Manny isn’t sure where his dad keeps the flashlight. Out the back window the sliver birch looks like a giant warlock conjuring a demon. He’s convinced that with the next flash of lightning, he’ll see the demon’s face pressed firmly against the window, or worse, he might come for him, Red Eyes. 

“I’m scared, boy. Isn’t there anything we can do?” says Terra. She is hanging from Manny’s neck, her hind claws digging into the tops of his knees. Manny feels his friend trembling. He tries to comfort her, but it’s hard when he’s just as scared.

Manny remembers something his lolo once told him, “Fear grips us when we are forced to sit with ourselves in the dark. The only monsters are within.” When Manny had asked him how to make the fear stop, his lolo replied, “You can’t kill the monsters of the mind, but you can create light, and within that light the monsters lose their power. They become nothing more than dancing shadows.”

Manny picks up his pencil and sketchbook. It’s hard to see, but it doesn’t need to be perfect. After a few short flips of the wrist, he puts the pencil down, reaches into his sketchbook, and pulls out a lantern. The room fills with a warm glow as shadows dance on the wall. Terra lifts her face from the crook of Manny’s arm and looks around in awe. 

“You did it, boy,” says Terra. 

Inside the bin are pictures of better times, his mother and father towering above him, happy smiles, mouse ears atop of their heads. Our trip to Disney World. One year before Red Eyes got to her. And there are ticket stubs to concerts, matchbooks, birthday cards, and even an old driver’s license. After a while, the lights click back on, and a woman on the television is selling anti-aging cream.

Manny returns the bin to the garage, and then shares an ice cream sandwich with Terra.

---

When Manny’s father gets home, Manny is sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at a picture he’d drawn of a knight holding a double-bladed axe. The knight is in mid-swing, legs planted firmly in the soil below him.

“Knock, Knock,” says his father, peeking his head into Manny’s room. 

“Hey, Dad,” says Manny. 

“Tomorrow is the field trip, right?” His father walks into the room and sits down on the bed beside Manny. “The exhibit is supposed to be amazing—an actual triceratops!” says his father. Manny notices a few grey hairs protruding from his father’s mustache, dissidents in the regime of youth. 

“It’s just the bones,” says Manny. He’s unsure why he says this or why his father’s enthusiasm is off-putting, but it is. Ever since his mother died, his father has tried to make up for it, and what’s worse than an understudy belting out a song they never expected to have to actually sing?  

“Well, I think it’s cool. What do you think about heading over to the lake this weekend? Would you be into that?”

“Sure,” says Manny. “Did you know it’s Mom’s birthday on Saturday?” 

“Yes, Manny. I did,” says his father, his eyes moving back and forth from one of Manny’s eyes to the other. “How do you feel about that?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Your mother was special, and she gave me you. That is a pretty wonderful thing.” 

“Do you think death is evil?” says Manny. The knight is staring at Manny, his hands loosely resting on the top of the hilt of his axe. Manny cocks his head. 

“No, I don’t think death is evil,” says his father. “It’s hard not to be angry about it, right?”

“Maybe,” says Manny, looking away. 

“If I could have kept her here—alive, I mean—I would have done it. I would have given my own life to save hers. But it doesn’t work that way.” 

“She could have fought harder,” says Manny. He knows he’s not being fair, but his dad is right; it’s hard not to be angry. 

“She fought hard. She didn’t want to leave us. Do you know what I told her?”

“What?”

“I told her that she could go if she needed to. I didn’t want her to be in pain. I also told her she wouldn’t be leaving us, she could never leave us—she’s here with us right now.”

“I’m going to stop it from happening to you—I have a plan,” says Manny.

His father pulls him close. “Manny, we can’t stop death. Without death, there is no life. Do you know what I’m saying? It doesn’t make it any less hard when we need to say goodbye…but I’m going to be happy. You know? I choose that. To be happy, to enjoy our time together. It’s okay to grieve, and if you still need to do that, that’s alright, but don’t be self-indulgent with your sadness. Do you know what I’m saying? Don’t let that darkness define you—you can create the light.” 

They say goodnight. Manny listens to his father descend the staircase and rummage through the downstairs pantry for the black licorice he likes. Manny takes his flashlight and sketchbook from the bedside table drawer, and draws a plain, wooden chest on the last page. On the face of the box, he adds a lock and the words: 

DO NOT OPEN. DEATH INSIDE. 

Terra, curled up on his legs at the end of the bed, looks up. “What is that, boy?”

Manny doesn’t answer right away—he’s focused on getting the lock just right. 

“We are going to trap Red Eyes.” Manny smiles, his eyes welling up with tears.

Terra’s ears flatten, her wet eyes gleam. “How are you going to lure it in?” 

“With death. We’re going back to the dog, and I’ll let it attack me. If I’m right, Red Eyes will be there to collect me.” 

“Boy, this sounds risky. Are you sure there is no—”

“There is no other way. You can stay in the book if you’d like…”

“I will be by your side,” says Terra. 

---

The leaves on the fire trail are damp from the morning dew, and the aroma of the earth fills their noses. Manny takes a sip of water from his canteen, then returns it to his satchel. Terra trails behind Manny with a hop, pause, hop, pause, sniffing at the trees. A squirrel that has become taken with Terra follows along. Every so often, Terra and the squirrel touch noses. Manny smiles gently at them, but he’s unable to appreciate it as much as he’d like, death being on his mind. They pass the tire-swing.

“Would you like to swing for a while, boy?” says Terra. 

“No. We should get this done first.” 

They climb down the bank toward the stream, up the other side, and through the trees. When they reach the tree, the dog is lying on her side, whimpering. 

“It doesn’t seem to be doing well,” says Terra. 

“Hey! Dog!” says Manny. “Wake up!” The silent hunter’s eyes move, but it doesn’t rise to its feet. Manny isn’t sure what its eyes say, but they don’t say that they want to kill anyone. The eyes remind Manny of his last visit to Mercy Hospital in Guam. His mother’s eyes followed him around the room, but her head remained stationary. She told him she was feeling better, but by lunchtime the following day, she was gone.

Manny approaches the dog and leans over it. 

“Hey, are you okay?” he says. The dog whimpers. Its breathing is labored, and Manny isn’t sure what to do. 

“Should we go get help?” says Terra. 

“Yes, I guess so,” says Manny, taking out the canteen from his satchel. “Let me try to give it some water.” He unscrews the cap. There is a sound behind them. Startled, they turn around.

With rub-red eyes and wind-beaten skin like worn leather, Red Eyes stares at the dog. His white shirt is crisp, his black slacks pressed.

 Manny fumbles for his sketchbook, throwing it open to the back page.

“Why?—Why do you do this?” Manny pleads.

Terra hops behind a tree and hugs herself with her long ears.

The dog whines.

“Do what?” says Red Eyes, his tired gaze remains focused on the dog as he speaks. 

“Why do you kill living things?” Manny stands with his charcoal pencil at the ready. 

“I’m not here to kill anything.”

“Now, boy!” says Terra.

Red Eyes looks at Terra with curiosity. He doesn’t seem malicious or angry. He’s docile.

Manny opens the box and runs forward. Red Eyes makes no attempt to evade him, staring sympathetically into Manny’s eyes. In a moment, Red Eyes is gone, engulfed by the paper chest.

Manny slams the hatch shut, pulls out the orange ribbon dangling around his neck from his shirt, and locks it. It’s quiet in the woods. 

Manny untethers the dog from the tree, then pours water into his cupped hand. The dog graciously laps it up. He strokes the dog’s smooth fur, saying, “Good dog, good boy. See, we’re friends. We’re friends now.”

Terra rummages around in Manny’s bag and brings over a pack of cookies. 

“Well, it’s something. Maybe he’ll eat some,” says Manny. “Thanks, Terra.”

Terra nuzzles up against Manny’s leg. 

---

Nine years later. 

To make things feel less sterile, the room is decorated with plants, framed pictures, and even a couch with decretive pillows. But in the center of the room is a cold metal table and Manny’s friend Amigo.

Manny stands over his friend. 

“Would you like a few moments?” says the veterinarian. 

“Yes, please. If you wouldn’t mind?” 

“Take your time.”

The door shuts. Manny cries. He places his hand on Amigo’s chest, and the rise and fall reminds Manny of being a child at the ocean, the waves coming up to his feet, then retreating—in, out, in, out. 

He remembers that day in the woods, and thinks about his friend’s transition from silent hunter to big baby. He considers the changes within himself, too.

It’s cold in the room. He bites his lip. Couldn’t they at least have it be a comfortable temperature in these final moments? 

Manny whispers his love to Amigo, stroking his wrinkly forehead, then opens his sketchbook, flipping through the pages. He wishes he still had such an imagination, and hey, some of these drawings weren’t half bad. But then he comes to the final page and reads the words he’d written nearly a decade before.

DO NOT OPEN. DEATH INSIDE.

He pulls the orange ribbon and key from his front pocket.

He inserts the key into the keyhole.

He let’s out a wild sob, and then turns the key.

He embraces his friend.

---

---

Thank you for reading Living Things.

Buy me a coffin coffee.