How the Killer Got in Here

The sneaky bastard. Smothered as he was in invisibility, he pushed on the screen door with his left foot, and climbed the stairs in his mismatched dirty socks. His reversible hat had not fully absorbed the invisible paint so only the brim of his sweat-stained cap tiptoed into the margins of my mind. Had I seen his socks, I would see holes on two stinky toes. The smell tried to warn me but not soon enough to save us. Our Irish Setter Sophie whose ears and nose knew the nature of the Unseen One silently shepherded our two sons to a hiding place away. They trusted her implicitly. This was not the first time, you see.

Sophie returned to the house where she tore apart the smelly slayer sending his piecemeal soul to the River Styx for a one-way eternity in hell. She’s trained with the best. We owe our lives to her several times over.

As for the moral of this story, I ask this: Are we letting invisible, sneaky bastards into our psyches? Would we let them kill our younger selves? Will we have a Sophie to save our youthful personas from an adulthood that sucks?

What is the narrative that keeps us adults in our beds not acting on the warnings padding up our stairs? We need better glasses to see through the invisible layers. We’re working on an app for it. Or are we late to the party?

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