Everyone Needs A Friend

Situated in a rural landscape is a lone house sharing miles of roadway between neighbors. A single mailbox rests at the beginning of a winding driveway that leads up to a house in the distance. Its two-story architecture affords it an odd angled shingle-fitted sloped roof, with windows spaced accordingly throughout its sides. A rather quaint farm-style home by most anyone’s standards, but for all of its tranquility it holds an eerie ambiance even on this nice morning.

Scanning around his room, Sylas takes pleasure in the various dinosaur memorabilia that adorns his walls and shelves. He picks up one of the toys, running his fingers over the spines and head as the doorknob to his bedroom rattles slightly then turns. The door opens revealing a jubilant woman in her late 40s walking in while bearing a warm smile spread from ear to ear. Sylas glances at her ever so briefly, noticing the sunflowers patterned all over the blue background of the fabric.

Looking Sylas over while he sits in his chair, the dinosaur twists and turns between his fingers, her smile wanes a bit but she persists, “Good morning honey! Why don’t you get out of your room for a bit today? Take your bike into town and you may end up making some friends.” She could be mistaken but she could’ve sworn she saw his lips pull into a sneer at the suggestion.

“I will think about it, mom.”

The woman nods, her shoulders beginning to slump as she pulls the door closed but not before saying, “Ok, well your father and I will be leaving but we will be back late tonight. We’ve got meals in the freezer if you get hungry.” Holding the door just shy of closing, she awaits any sound of recognition from him but he just stares at the cracked door. It eventually draws fully shut.

Sylas listens as his mother’s footsteps make their way down the stairs and through the hall leading to the front door. The old familiar sound of the spring straining on the storm door followed by the bang of it shutting signifying her exit. Looking out of the window of his bedroom, his father, dressed in a red shirt with blue jean overalls, is leaning over the engine with the truck hood being precariously supported by two wooden blocks.

After a time, his father leans back, removes the blocks and closes the hood while his mother climbs into the passenger seat. His father turns his attention up at Sylas’ window with a mix of disappointment and disgust marring his face, same as he has done every day that Sylas can recall. Then shaking his head, his father turns to get into the driver’s seat and starts up the truck.

Sylas watches as the gravel is kicked up by the silver truck on its journey down the drive until he loses sight of it. He roughly pulls a magazine off the shelf and begins furiously flipping through it. His pulse pounding, his face becoming hot, he slams the magazine down on his desk and leans back. Taking in deep breaths, he looks down at the open pages and sees an advertisement with the heading “Pen Pals Needed. Who Doesn’t Need a Friend?”.

Lifting it back up, Sylas looks at it intently, there is a list of addresses of willing recipients to send a letter to. One happens to stand out amongst the rest and taking out his notepad, he begins to write.  

Starting with basic introductions about himself; his name, age, his love of dinosaurs and how he also would like a friend, Sylas also goes into detail on describing his parents and their relationship. He grabs an envelope; placing the letter and a few of his favorite dinosaur toys in it, he seals it.

He makes his way out of the house and takes his bike from off the porch to ride down to the mailbox. Opening it he removes the junk mail within, places his letter in, shuts the box and flips the flag up. Returning to the house, Sylas goes up into his room. His hand idly snakes a book from the shelf as he collapses onto the bed. Turning onto his side, he opens it to read.

The light from outside breaches the glass of the bedroom window, burning into the back of Sylas’ eyelids causing them to flick open. “Must’ve fallen asleep,” he murmurs as he swings his legs off the bed and his feet touch the floor. Standing up and stretching he sees the flag on the mailbox is down. He rubs his eyes with his fists then looks again to be sure. Running down the stairs and outside, he’s on his bike and down the drive before the tell-tale slam can be heard.

Reaching the box, he opens it expecting to see his puffed up envelope but instead a slender letter is in its place. His eyebrows raise as he retrieves it and opening the missive he begins reading.

Hey Sylas,

Being 12 years old can be a rough age. I’m sorry to hear about the issues between you and your folks. I can remedy that for us easily enough. And trying to find companionship can be hard for kids that are surrounded by others their own age, but it’s considerably more difficult for those that aren’t surrounded by anyone at all. You needn’t worry about any of that anymore. You will always have me to talk to now.

Your Friend,

Simian

Sitting back down at his desk with the notepad, pencil in hand, he writes.

Dear Simian,

What did you mean by a “remedy” for my issues? And it’s easy to say that you will always be my friend but what if I need help? Thank you for writing back to me but you can’t do much besides write me letters.

Sincerely,

Sylas

Standing up so fast from his desk, the chair shoots out from beneath him and bounces off the shelf, causing a few of the dinosaur figurines to topple to the floor. Without thinking, his hand keeps hold of his notepad and pencil as he thrusts the letter into another envelope like before.

Sylas bursts down the stairs and out the door once again. He effortlessly gets on the bike and reaches the mailbox within moments, dropping down the lid and tossing it in and closing it. As before, he raises the flag.

Turning to pick up his bike and climb on it, he hears something akin to metal grinding on metal. Looking back to the mailbox, the flag has fallen down. Feeling the breeze across his exposed skin, he chuckles while letting the bike and notepad fall free to the ground. His hand grips the flag to put it back up when something starts to gnaw at his curiosity. He flips the lid down and looking in, same as the time before, there is a new letter where his once laid. He opens it…

My Friend Sylas,

I understand that this may be alarming to you, but I can assure you that I am capable of much more than merely writing letters, my young friend. As for the remedy I spoke of, you shall learn of it soon enough. The youth of today are always so quick to move and have things in the moment, but you must learn the value of patience. The time isn’t quite right yet.

P.S. I failed to say it in our last exchange, but thank you for the dinosaurs. They will surely lead the charge!

Your Best Friend,

Simian

Sylas mouthing the last part of the letter a few times, barely beyond the sound of a whisper. His brows pinch together as he rereads it another time. Head swiveling to see if he can discern a sign of someone nearby, his gaze falls upon something a bit of a ways up the driveway.  

Absentmindedly he folds the letter up and puts it in his pocket while he moves towards the thing and finds familiarity with the object. Squatting down to get a closer look at it, he gasps as the realization dawns on him as fear creeps its way into his heart. It’s one of the dinosaurs that he had mailed off. Raising his head he notices another item about the same size resting on the front porch. Frantically looking about for any noticeable motion, he darts for the porch, skipping past the toy and enters the home.

The house has taken on the appearance of chaos and destruction. Glass shards line the hallways, the furniture is torn to shreds with stuffing littering the floor and what remains of the few tables. The mainline phone lays off the hook with the only sound being the repetitive, “please hang up and try your call again”. Sylas’ heart is beating so hard he can feel the blood flow pulsating in the veins of his head and extremities. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of blood streaks along the wall as though someone had run a paintbrush in red along the length of it, only to stop at the doorway rounding into the kitchen, right past the stairway. On the floor of the entryway into the room rests yet another toy dinosaur.

He tries to calm himself by taking in a deep breath through his nose and in so doing, is rewarded with the scent and taste of copper for the effort. Carefully easing one step after another he finally comes to the end of the bloody trail. Peering from around the corner, his eyes take in the horror of crimson bathing the whole of the area. He leans out a little more to see a foot, even further and he is greeted with a dress caked in blood, beneath of which are sunflowers.

Forcing himself to fully enter into the kitchen, he sees his mother face down as though she were swimming in a pool of her own making. Sylas’ breath is caught in his throat as he takes in the vision before him, his eyes come to rest on the toy dinosaur sitting atop her back. Walking backwards from the body, the slickness of the floor beneath his feet causes him to fall on his back, hitting his head against the hard linoleum.

His head begins ringing as he rolls over onto his stomach. Then he sees the glint off of something silver through the full glass back door. Straining his blurry eyesight to focus, he squints harder. Audibly stating, “It’s dad’s truck!” He heaves himself up trying to break into a run but his shoes take a few attempts to gain traction. Pushing his way outside, he stops short, his mouth agape. It wasn’t clear from inside, but once outside, Sylas could see the full length of the truck.  

His eyes falling on the dinosaur that lay on the rear bumper. Unflinchingly he moves around to the front of the truck and nearing it, he can make out that his father’s body is crushed beneath the hood.

Tears pour down Sylas’ face as the sound of sirens fill the air, getting louder with each passing moment…

The officer places a cuffed forlorn looking man into the back of his cruiser and shuts the door. His partner comes out of the house green in the face and barely makes it to the grass before he vomits. Wiping his mouth he comes to the cruiser shaking his head, “Hey Brady, you got any word on this?”

“The station got a weird call early this morning but they shrugged it off. Figured I’d stop by to check it out and saw the bike with all these letters laying around. When I went to check the house, it looked like a robbery. Guess this guy just lost it and killed his parents. I’ve already ran his information; Sylas Simian Smith, 26 years old, no priors, no known issues. But check out this particular letter he was holding when I found him.”

Brady holds out the letter and his partner looks at it, his eyes trailing down the whole of it. His partner shrugs, his arms out to his sides. Brady says, “Turn it over.” Turning the page over in his hand, he reads.

P.P.S. I am the remedy.