Black Mould

The flurries dance around me amidst the frosted fury. Some people don’t like the cold. But in it, I thrive. My feet glide against the ground, the blades cutting through the solid ice. The melted corners of the rink ooze like blood out from the cracks. The snow falling like ash. I skate through the beauty and smile up at the pale clouds and scarcity of the sun. I've always preferred grey to gold anyway. I hear screams that sound like children's laughter…

The screams turn into the sound of my alarm, disrupting my slumber. As they return, I whip my head towards the sound and find myself gazing out my window at the neighbour’s kids running in the streets with an air horn. I scowl, not at the innocent children, but at their parents. The way a child acts is solely the product of their parents. Most people on this street are snobby rich folk who will later pass that along to their children, dooming them to a life of dinner parties, golf course brunches, and no use for solidarity. With all the money my parents had, they never paid me any mind. 

 I emerge from my single black comforter bed in my painted black room. I like my room dark. If I wanted some light, that’s what the living room is for. I go on with my morning routine, which consists of listening to a crime podcast as I sit and eat my blueberry yogurt and granola in my grey glass bowl, accompanied by my breakfast spoon. I then brush my teeth for exactly 2 minutes before running a comb through my dark brown waves. I throw on a plain black tee and glasses before heading out the door for my late-morning stroll.

 On my way back, Robby, one of my neighbour's kids is seen lying on his front lawn with his eyes sealed shut. Is he…nope, his leg just moved. 

“Mr. Greywall!” I jolt my head towards a smiling Robby sitting up on his lawn and waving toward me. I would love nothing more than to ignore him and complete my stroll in time, but it turns out I don't have that option because his little body is now quickly making its way toward me. 

“Mr. Greywall look!” He holds up a pink ladybug perched in his hands. He smiles through his gapped teeth and stares up at me, gleaming with pale blue eyes, his blonde hair falling in his face. I look down at the bug in his hand, then back at him.

“I used to play with bugs as a kid as well. Where did you find this little guy?” Robby looks at me and through his smile says,

“In my mom's daisy garden over there.” He points to a large circular area in his front garden designed with dozens of blossomed white daisies. They would be prettier if they were black, I think. 

“Robby!” Another voice yells from the garden. “What did I tell you about digging around for bugs in my garden!?”

“It's messy and disgusting,” Robby repeats, his smile fading.

“It's messy and disgusting.” Robbie's mother, a tall slender blond woman with a straw hat, echoes like she wants to engrave it into his mind.  I look at Robby and his pink ladybug. His smile has disappeared as he watches his mother trek away.

“If you want, there is a dirt patch in my backyard that usually has a lot of bugs. I bet you could find a friend for your bug there.”   Robbies smile instantly returns. Mission accomplished. 

I lead Robby back to my backyard for him to hunt for more bugs. Before shutting the sliding glass door I call out, “And watch out kid, the pink ones bite.” 

I return, handing Robby a sandwich and taking a seat in my grey outdoor patio chair.  The sun shines on my ebony roses and climbing ivy as Robby sits cross-legged beside a dirt patch. We talk about our favourite kinds of bugs… until I hear my side gate swing open. 

“Robby, there you are!” Robby's mother storms over and grabs his arm to stand.

“What did I tell you about bothering the neighbours?”

“That people like their personal space,” Robby replies meekly. 

“That people like their personal space.” Robby's mother repeats back, once again carving it into his little mind.  

“Mr Greywall I am sorry for all of this. Robby, sweetie, come on let’s go.” She ushers Robby out the gate back home. 

 Robby's mother reminds me a lot of my own. My parents died years ago in a house fire that I survived but I can't help but be reminded of my mother every time I see Robby’s. My mother never let me go into the backyard and hunt for bugs, hang out with kids from school, or let me go to any public library because apparently, people had too much freedom there. Instead, I spent my days cooped up reading old crime books that my father had as a child and cooking meals, pretending that I own my own restaurant and everyone waiting outside of my kitchen depended on me to serve them a delightful dinner. Looking back, my parents were cagey, controlling, and judgmental of my interests, as if I needed to fit their clay mould when I was already set in stone. All the parents on this street are like that. Them and their everlasting sprinkler systems, blinding green lawns, daisy gardens, picturesque fountains, and three-car garages. Some would call me hypocritical because I too live on this street, but I am not like my parents, or what my parents tried to create. My parents rarely got the time to talk with the other neighbours because they were always working — not that they ever would anyway. I need to unlearn their behaviours before I accidentally become them. I need to be the kind of neighbour who bakes their neighbour's cookies… 

I head inside on a new mission. Bake some five-dollar cookies that will be devoured by millionaires. They will consume the sweet taste like children on their birthdays. They will savour the sweet sensation of chocolate, hazelnuts and berries and wish that life’s pleasures could always be that simple. For me, this is a win-win. I can teach these snobs about life's simple pleasures while also undoing my parent's wrongs. Soon, I will be the most liked person on this street. Maybe these cookies will teach the parents on this street to let their kids enjoy the simplicity of their innocent pleasures. Maybe they can be reminded of their youth and understand that their children cannot become clones of them, but instead come in all different sorts of interests and hobbies, likes, wants, and needs. Children are like assorted cookies. 

The timer goes off and I bring the cookies out of the oven. I fish out a basket from my closet and a little blanket cloth to set neatly at the bottom. Amid my good mood, I open more curtains and windows, letting some gold inside. Maybe grey and gold can go nicely together.

I walk down my shiny green lawn and make my way over to Robbie's house with the sweet aroma of freshly baked cookies. I walk up the stone driveway and the shiny white porch steps. I knock three times and wait for an answer. To my surprise, Robby answers the door. As soon as he sees me, his gapped-tooth smile returns. 

“Hi, Mr. Greywall!” I smile down at the boy. I wonder if his parents also keep him cooped up.

“Hey buddy, are your parents home?” 

“No, they're over at the Johnsons for tea in the garden.” He says with a shrug. Before I could say something Robby spots the basket on my arm.

“Are those cookies!?” He asks excitedly. 

“Oh, yeah, yeah they are. Do you want one? I made all kinds so what are you in the mood for?”

“Hmmm, you got any chocolate in there.” He ponders, tapping a finger to his chin and inspecting the basket.

“Of course, Who doesn't love chocolate,” I say, reaching in for a double chocolate cookie. 

“My parents. They say that chocolate will make my belly big and my heart bad.”

“Well, you know what will actually do that? Staying cooped up in here.” I gesture towards his house.

“Yeah,” Robby says, taking a bite of cookie.

“Well, anyways kid I gotta get going,” I say, looking towards the street. “Make my rounds.” I hold up my basket. 

“Ok. Save me some chocolate ones,” Robby says, holding up his cookie.

“Will do kid.” I smile and walk back down the driveway and onto the next house.

 Leasa and Steavens house. They are a newly married couple who like to throw game night Tuesday bashes. Why a Tuesday? I walk up their cobblestone driveway and knock three times. After about ten seconds, Leasa answers the door. 

“Mr. Greywall! What a surprise!” Leasa says, half-dressed in her bright pink robe and hair in curlers. “Please won't you come in?” She opens the door wider for me but I stay put.

“Oh no that's ok I'm just here to offer some cookies.” I hold out my basket for her to take a look. After a second she yells for Steven. She smiles brightly at me while Steaven mumbles something incoherent and stumbles down the stairs to the door. 

“Mr, Greywall here has brought us some cookies dear, would you like some?” Steaven looks into the basket and then at me.

“Well, that's awfully kind you didn't need to do that!” Steven beams at me, slinging an arm around his wife. “You know what I think I will snag a few off of ya.” Steven digs around through the basket picking out some mixed berry, oatmeal, and chocolate chip raisin ones. He takes a bite of one and moans in delight, bending backwards a little in the process.

“Now that is a damn good cookie, here sweetie try one.” He hands Leasa one and she does the same. 

“Mr. Greywall, where did you learn to bake like that!?” She says mid-chewing.

“Oh, just years of practice.”  I chuckle. “I'm glad you like them so much.” They smile at me and I tell them I shall be on my way.

I walk up the black cement driveway of Tina and Micheal; a couple in their mid-thirties with three kids; Timmy, Tommy, and Tessa. Guess what their favourite letter is, I dare you. I knock on the door three times. Tommy answers the door in a fit of shouts and giggles. Timmy follows straight after with a Nerf gun and Tessa follows right behind with a bubble wand. I smile at the innocent children and hold out my basket of cookies.

“Are those cookies?” Tommy says already digging his hand in. Tina comes down their big spiral staircase mid putting on earrings. 

“Mr. Greywall! Fancy seeing you here!” She exclaims looking as if she's about to head out somewhere. 

“Kids, what have I told you about playing with those silly toys in the house when mommy is trying to get ready.”

“Mr. Greywall brought us cookies!” Tessa says jumping up and down and waving her bubble wand.

“Yes I can see that, that's all very nice.” Tina smiles at me.

“You are welcome to take as many as you guys like.” I say gingerly. I bid my goodbyes and walk off feeling good about myself. Those poor kids looked like they hadn't seen a cookie in ages.

 I'm now at the last house on the street, the Johnsons. This is where Robby said his parents might be. I walk up the driveway undergoing some sort of renovation. The Johnson's house is no doubt the biggest on the street. Tall white pillars reaching from the porch to the roof, large Stained glass windows of historical figures ranging from Ann Frank to Jesus. I walk past the sprinklers and concerningly large garden gnomes until I reach the front door. I knock three times. No one answers. I knock again, three times. Still no answer…I notice the scent of burning wood. It takes me another second to notice laughter coming from…around back? I walk around to the garden gate only to find it perched open invitingly. Weird, I think. I walk through the gate and around the house to the backyard where I see all the neighbours conversing in drunken laughter and bonfire talk. The dads are gathered around the grill with beers in their hands while the moms are sitting around the bonfire with glasses of wine. This picture looks like something out of a cliche summer catalogue. I don't make myself visible just yet. 

“Did you guys see Greywall today? Walking house to house like a damn girl scout?” 

“He knocked on ours today and shoved his cookies basically down our throats,” Leasa says, putting a hand on Steven's thigh as he sits down. “I couldn't say no to his face so we just took a bunch and fed them to the squirrels.” laughter erupts.

“I think that might have been the worst oatmeal raisin I've tasted in my life,” Steven says, chuckling then sipping his beer.  

“He knocked on ours today and I swear when I walked down those stairs and saw him with my three kids… I wanted to call the police,” Tina says, throwing her hands up.

“Right! Oh my god, I found him this morning with my Robby in his backyard playing with bugs and eating some weird sandwich! I got Robby out of there as fast as I could.” Robby’s mom says, pouring herself another glass of wine.

“Oh hun watch out, one day you'll wake up and Robby will be making cookies with Greywall in his murder house.” Courtney, Allen's mom chimes in. 

“Maybe his next batch of cookies will burn that house to the ground.”

“Well I wouldn't put it past karma…his parents deserved better.” 

“Hey I just wanna say, I think it was an excellent call not inviting the piro to the bonfire.” Robby's mom says slurring her words and raising her glass towards the sky. The Johnsons raise their glasses as the rest join in. 

I stay hidden as a single tear fights its way out of my eye, gliding down my cheek a little too easily as if given up on restraint. I turn around in a wisp of burning fury. At that moment I curse everything warm; the fire, summer, my oven, etc.

 I wisk myself and my cookies away, back to my black bedroom and turn the AC up. I don't leave my bed until the next morning. I wake up and do my usual routine, listening to my crime podcast. I drag myself through my kitchen to get my breakfast bowl as I hear Corey Finguard from “Crime Archives'' start telling a story. A woman poisoned her ex-husband with ethylene glycol. It's colourless, odourless, and has a sweetness in taste! I think about tonight's pork cookout. Which is ironic. Pigs eating pigs. Lightbulb.

It's now 7:00 pm on a warm summer Friday. I walk to the open buffet set up in the field beside the park where I usually walk. There is a long white table-clothed table stretching out along the field, decorated with daisies. In the middle of the table, like every year, a large prized pig sits on a plate surrounded by appetizers and starters. I walk with my basket of fresh cookies like the nice neighbour I am and make small talk for about twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of bullshit. But it will all be worth it. I usually don't go to these things, but I managed to get myself invited because who doesn't love a good pig? We eat until dark and I watch the kid's table laugh and play, eating their hot dogs. I wish I could sit and laugh with them. Instead, I start making my rounds; person to person who was at that bonfire that night. Some of them are better at hiding their snarky and judging faces than others. I already spiked the punch earlier so most of them are drunk by now. I have about an hour. They will be sorry they laughed. They will be sorry their rose-coloured glasses weren't jade black. They will be sorry for trapping kids in their own mindsets. My parents sure were. Alas, those who play with fire, must burn. 

After my rounds are complete and everyone is gathered in the field for fireworks and sparklers, I make my way over in the dark to the pig, or better yet… what's left of it. I take out a needle from my mother's nursing days and inject the pig. Now, it will look like the pig poisoned them.

I look around, with nothing but distant streetlights and fireworks providing light to see if anyone saw me. I'm in the clear. I find my way to the far end of the field where three rocks sit, waiting for me. I sit down, feeling the cold rock through the thin fabric of my pants. The cricket sounds that were once background noise seem closer;  as if they are sitting with me. I close my eyes as I feel a cool night breeze against my eyelids, and cold dewy grass between my toes. 

“Mr. Greywall?” I hear none other than Robby's voice say from in front of me as I open my eyes. 

“Robby, come sit,” I say, patting the rock next to me. 

“Catch any more bugs tonight?”

“Too dark to see.” He says dangling his feet and looking up towards the stars.  

“Yeah. Too dark to see.” I say almost to myself. I look towards the stargazing boy and think to myself, “Soon he’ll be thanking his lucky stars.” Like the night sky, his possibilities will be infinite. Like the bugs on the ground, he will be free.