Like Calls to Like

When Whinnie was eight years old, her grandpa said she would die a slow,  painful death. 

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    He said it so casually as if telling her that Jeopardy would come on at seven-thirty, or that Mr. Henderson was attempting to fix one of his hopelessly broken-down tractors again. 

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    “You know, Whinnie,” he began, his age-roughened voice cutting through the still dusk with the practiced ease of a machete slicing a coconut in two, “if you don’t start behaving like us, you’ll die a slow, painful death.” He finished, with such matter-of-fact righteousness that it took Whinnie a moment to process the deep severity of what he was telling her. 

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    “I’m only eight, grandpa.” Whinne protested, unsure of what else to say in the face of such predictions. “Momma says I’m healthy and the doctors say I’m in all the right charts.” She added, knowing full well that if her beloved Dr. Fenwick were here, she would say the same thing with a smile like sunlight on freshly fallen snow and offer her a sticky-sweet lollipop for extra measure.

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    “Bah!” Her grandpa exclaimed, waving his grubby hands in the air, “I don’t need your science and medicine to tell me what I know. What He knows.” He said this grumpily, turning on his heel to face Whinnie with a grimace. 

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    Twilight on the farm was usually Whinnie’s favorite time. With crickets beginning their evening serenades, and summery air sizzling into itself as dainty breezes rushed down into the valley and calmed the birds into silence. It hearkened her back to watching the hot air balloons with her aunt and cousins, waiting for the bliss that came with each new layer of nighttime folded over the world as the majestic contraptions became nothing but multicolored bubbles and blots against the sky. There was a certain stillness so full of life that wrapped the farm into its embrace as the sun began to set. Whinnie loved nothing more than racing across the back yard with her cousin, not caring if the cut weeds scraped at her bare feet, and mounting the glorious magnolia trees with triumph. 

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    But tonight, withering away under her grandpa’s accusatory glare, not even the cacophony of the magnolia leaves clacking against each other in the wind could call Whinnie back from the dark place her grandpa was so intent on taking her. 

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    “B-but I don’t wanna die.” Whinnie stuttered, feeling hope gutter out inside her as her grandpa’s face broke into the cruel semblance of a smile.

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    “We all die, girl, it’s just a matter of how.” He replied, his narrowed eyes making it abundantly clear that somehow he would not be dying the same slow and painful death as Whinnie. After all, he was saved. 

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  “But Grandpa,” Whinnie cried, all but begging him to cease this dreadful conversation “I don’t wanna die!” In the face of all her grandfather’s eccentricities, this much she knew to be true. She recalled the times she woke deep in the bowels of the night, choking on her own tears, and recounting her dreadful dream of vampires sucking her dry and leaving her cold and lifeless on her own kitchen floor. 

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Such memories came flooding back to her as she bit her lower lip and pleaded her body to not betray her with tears in front of her grandpa, an act that would show him nothing but weakness and worthlessness.

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“You know, Whinnie,” her grandpa said, crouching in front of her, “I could hold out hope for you. You’re not like us but you could be.” 

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Feigned sincerity and mock comfort were things Whinnie had long since learned how to see through, thanks in part to believing falsities presented by her grandpa only to face the consequences when she least expected them. She shook her head.

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“Daddy says you’re crazy.” She breathed, not daring to look her grandpa in the face, as she was sure it was screwed up in a great impression of homicidal rage that came whenever his son was brought into the conversation.

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“Well,” he said, straightening up, “he would say that wouldn’t he?” A hiss of strained breath through teeth and a sudden withdrawal of warm air let Whinnie know her grandpa was no longer crouching before her, although she still didn’t dare look at him. “And what do you think Whinnie?” He asked.

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Whinnie drew her gaze up from the crushed gravel driveway and towards her grandpa. Despite his stout stature, he cut an intimidating figure when he got defensive. As if even the horrendously drawn trout on his beige button-down shirt were demanding Whinnie turn a blind eye to the rest of the world, throw her morals to the farthest corner of a waste disposal center, and join the rest of her family in their maliciously ignorant practices. 

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At the sharp tang of iron, Whinnie realized she had chewed through her lower lip and drawn blood from trying so desperately to hold back tears and retorts. “I think you’re crazy too.” She said finally, jutting her chin out and sticking her gaze to a particularly gaudy copper button on her grandpa’s shirt rather than meeting his eyes. 

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“Really?” Her grandpa asked, daring her to elaborate. “But think, what have your parents done for you? Everything they tell you is wrong, everything I tell you is right. It’s truly as simple as that,” He said, doing an expert job of keeping his tone level despite failure staring him in the face. “I took you to see the balloons.” He practically whispered. “The balloons.”

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“The balloons?” Whinnie croaked in response. 

It was the most beautiful part of Whinnie’s life, seeing glorious concoctions of fabric and hot air rise into the painted sky, watching as they drifted off into who-knows where, full of ambition. But that joy would forever be tainted. Tainted by hearing her aunt say the balloons were summoned by Him and were ascending into the heavens to greet the gates. 

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Whinnie would die a slow,  painful death indeed.