The Bright Blue Baseball Cap.

 

She stares, from across the room, at that stupid worn out bright blue baseball cap she gave you for your tenth birthday. You’re facing the opposite direction, but she knows it’s pressed tightly over your eyes the way it always is when you’re upset. She knows it’s your special place to hide, and Mrs. Hopkins silently wishes she had a place to hide too sometimes.

            But immediately she takes the wish back. The wish is stupid, she decides, just like your blue baseball cap. Mrs. Hopkins counts the dark spots on the ceiling, longing for you to speak but not finding it in herself to make you. She can’t remember what she did to make you stop talking. She can’t remember so she doesn’t know what she’s being punished for.

            The room Mrs. Hopkins and you are sitting in is a dark shade of maroon, with expensive and meaningless painting every few feet of wall. She always seemed to like the paintings, but now they mock her, just like your baseball cap with the cursive ‘L’ on the front a little above the bill. You were so happy the day she gave you that baseball cap. Your blue eyes had lit up so bright it put the baseball cap to shame.

            The chair in which Mrs. Hopkins is sitting is maroon, to match the walls. And it does. It matches the walls perfectly because everything in Mrs. Hopkins life had to be perfect.

            She sighs and uses all the effort she has to lean forward a little, just in case you are talking and she just can’t hear. She knows she’s getting old. That’s one thing she isn’t ashamed of. But it’s all in vain because you are not talking. You’re not talking because of a fight that Mrs. Hopkins can’t remember.

            All she wanted, she decides, was an average life because she believed average was perfect. She only wanted a big yellow house with a white picket fence, a husband to love and be faithful to and 2.5 children who eat her apple pies everyday and never gain a pound overweight. She wanted a golden retriever and two gold fish. Only two. Because three would be too many. Mrs. Hopkins wanted to go to a church with a little cross hanging on the door. She wanted everyone to smile as she walked past and think ‘how lucky she must be’. She wanted to wear a sun dress and have a sprinkler with a plastic tractor on top to water her lawn every Sunday.

            And as she grazes at you from across the room she wonders if she wanted too much.

            She yawns, she’s exhausted and she doesn’t know why. Her eye lids give her an itchy, uncomfortable feeling to stay open, but she can’t close them. She can’t sleep because the noise of your silence is deafening. It’s just like a scream, an awful scream.

            Mrs. Hopkins could call her husband…if she really wanted. But she doesn’t. She barely even considers it. She doesn’t know when her love for him faded out, into the background; but after all the concerns, worries, pressure, it just seemed to be missing. Now it’s just a memory, just like the day she gave you the bright blue baseball cap and saw a glimpse of your smile. Your real smile. The smile you used before it was all just make believe. Now part of her doubts that moment even happened, just like part of her doubts she and her husband ever did truly like each other.

            She hears a bird chirp outside. She has to strain to hear over your silence, but she’s sure it’s there. She’s even a little surprised that other things actually exist in the world anymore. To her it’s only you and her in the maroon room with the matching chair and mocking paintings.

            Mrs. Hopkins wants the words ‘I’m sorry’ to come out. She has to make them. She concentrates real hard. She thinks if she can do that you will love her again. She needs someone to love her. She tries to make the words form. Her mouth opens, but nothing happens. Why is she so tried? Why can’t she remember?

            She knows she did something really bad because the feeling like poison starts to seep over her. The feeling is not a stranger. The feeling is self-loathing. Her memory wants to cooperate. Her brain wants to tell her something, something important…but it’s too late. She’s too damn tried and your silence is too damn loud.

            Mrs. Hopkins then hears sirens. They are from a distance at first, so soft and harmless. Then, they get louder, nearer. Mrs. Hopkins would normally be annoyed by the sirens because they would interrupt her conversation with the minister’s wife who came over for tea. Or they would ruin her favorite soap opera. Or they would come in the middle of her exercising video. But this time is different.

            Her brain is saying she should feel something else. She should do something else. But she doesn’t know what. She doesn’t understand what her mind wants her to do. So Mrs. Hopkins sits in the maroon chair matching the maroon walls and let’s them come. She is a prisoner in her own body, in her own not-so-perfect life.

           

            She can hear them talking. They are talking about her, but she only catches a few words at a time. The police officers all look concerned, shaken. She doesn’t understand but doesn’t ask questions.

            “…temporary insanity…” Mrs. Hopkins hears from across the room, as they take away the cap and the shirt and the blue jeans. You’re not there at all. You weren’t there the whole time.

            “…twelve year old son of Mrs. Sarah and Tim Hopkins, Lenny Hopkins…”

            They kneel over something in the kitchen floor. Mrs. Hopkins is so confused. She wonders where they took you. She wonders why you weren’t in the chair across the room wearing your bright blue baseball cap.

            “…stabbed twice…”

            A police officer walks over to Mrs. Hopkins, who is still watching and listening. She’s too tired to stand. She’s too tired to question.

            “Mrs. Hopkins?” She’s too tried to nod, “I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us.”

The police officer puts the hand cuffs around her wrists and helps her up. Two men carry her out.

            She passes you on the way out of the house. You’re on the floor, dead. The report card you brought home sitting on the ground beside you. Your blue eyes still open.

            It’s not till she’s in the police car that it dawns on her. You were a disappointment. You weren’t popular or good looking or even smart.

But it’s not till she sees the bright blue baseball cap in a bag marked ‘evidence’, stained with your blood she understands. She then remembers why she laid the clothes out in make believe. She then remembers why you wouldn’t talk, why you couldn’t talk. It was all pretend anyway because she was never really happy and you weren’t either.

But it’s not till then she remembers that she stabbed her only son.

Reviews

[Tessa]

Great twist at the end, I'm very impressed. It's difficult to handle second-person p.o.v but you've used it well to add to the surreal atmosphere. Good length, just short enough to keep the reader engaged. It is a chilling write, thanks for the share :)

[Benarsi]

I wasn't expecting that ending at all! Horrendous and yet incredibly, incredibly jaw-dropping, shock-building INCREDIBLE. :) This is new for you, and yet you've done it insanely well :). Your short stories are always very captivating--so much with so little! I loved how you built up Mrs. Hopkin's character little by little, making us think she wasn't the villian she turns out to be. I really enjoyed the paragraph in which you detailed Mrs. Hopkin's wishes in life: a good husband, a nice house, 2.5 kids (haha :))...The blue baseball cap really added a nice element to the whole story...very, very good, October, excellent story you've got here. :)

Thanks for sharing :)

B.

[O!]

A new style and YOU've done it very well........with a very good story.......as always.....you take the reader in (even in a new style)..........and the description is very good......

You really are very good with short stories........I love reading you.........THis was dark.......Maroon was a good colour used for the room, which makes it even MORE dark!!>.....and the blue cap......it really clashes with the maroon...just like Mrs. Hopkins and the sweet, perfect description of her.......'til the end of course!....

Sad story.....children a disappointment........Sad Sad Sad.........it really ruins a child....in this case it took the child's life.......but normally its the child who does......in a situation like this!....Horrible!! and SAD!!!

grazes (gazes) at you

THank you.
O! :-)

[Raef C. Boylan]

This style is interesting; i like how the narrative voice addresses "You" throughout - directed at the dead son, and in a way putting the reader in his place.
The concept is also good: an examination of how desire for perfection can lead to very bad consequences for all involved - "You were a disappointment. You weren�t popular or good looking or even smart."
One bad report card. Ouch.
Or maybe years of bad report cards. Still, ouch.
Maybe not even 'bad'...just not the perfect/average that she hoped for. You cleverly leave the contents of the report card vague, up to the reader's imagination.

�as she grazes at you� (gazes?)
"But it�s not till" (until or 'til)
"with your blood she understands" (might work better as 'that she understands')
"let�s them come" (not sure, but think it should be 'lets' - 'let's' is 'let us', when something is being proposed, like 'let's go to the park' - get a second opinion though)

"But it�s not till she sees the bright blue baseball cap in a bag marked �evidence�, stained with your blood she understands. She then remembers why she laid the clothes out in make believe. She then remembers why you wouldn�t talk, why you couldn�t talk. It was all pretend anyway because she was never really happy and you weren�t either.
But it�s not till then she remembers that she stabbed her only son." - might want to think about re-ordering this passage; all the "then remembers" take away from the impact of the final sentence. I'd suggest having some action in that last sentence,
e.g. 'However, it's not until the door of the police car is slammed shut that she remembers stabbing her only son.'

It's dark, and absorbing. A pretty good write.
Nice one.
Thanks for posting it.

[Bhumi]

A very interesting story. I really liked the flow of the story .

[Marie]

Not bad.

[James Watts]

Interesting read. Didn't understand the part about the 2.5 children though...1 fully formed child and one a dwarf? Other than that it read pretty good. Of course, and it may be just cause I am up past my bedtime...but read kind of like a poem to me. Sort of like a new aged Poe. Then I am up late. But I liked it...good work. Remember that writing is your way to express your thoughts and is an extremely valuable asset to have. Keep up the good work.