The Shepherd

A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room for a split second. The gnarled silhouettes of furniture and other things that resulted from it appeared grotesque to Oliver's young mind and only deepened the fear, to the point where it teetered on the verge of panic. He was so very tired, but the racket from the storm outside—the torrents of rain pounding on the windows, the ghostly howling of the wind, the violent and increasingly loud crashes of thunder—always forced his eyelids back open whenever they drooped down.

Suddenly, he saw the lights upstairs flicker on, and the silhouette of a person thump its way slowly down the steps.

Oliver's imagination ran wild with explanations, most of them involving monsters. His fear-induced theories and worries were put to rest, though, when he felt his mother's arms gently scoop him up from the rocking chair and cradle him in a loving embrace. He, in turn, wrapped his arms around her and rested his head over her shoulder. He bobbed up and down as she walked back up the stairs. "Why aren't you in bed?" she asked tenderly.

It took Oliver a moment to respond, but he finally said, "Too much cake."

"Well then," his mother laughed, "maybe for your eighth birthday we won't give you so much cake."

The storm now seemed insignificant as he lay in his mother's arms. He could relax, and his drowsiness seized the opportunity to take hold. His eyelids became heavy like stones, and Oliver began to let them fall. The world around him was once again enveloped in black when his mother flicked the light switch as she passed by it at the top of the stairs. A few moments later, Oliver was back in the comfort of his own bedroom. The storm became more prominent again as he heard the rain and wind against his window, but his mother's presence soothed him. She kissed him on the cheek. He felt the remnants of her lipstick cling to his skin. "Good night," she whispered. And then, as quickly and quietly as a ghost, she slipped out and closed his door. That was the last time he saw his mother.

                                                                                    ***  

"Well, Mr. Owens, everything here seems to be in order," said the man behind the desk. Among other things, he had a nameplate on his grand oak desk that read: JAMES WALLEN. Oliver hadn't seen him before. He must be new, he thought. That explained why he was so cheery; the place hadn't broken him yet, like it had so many others.

Mr. Wallen was leaning back in his office chair casually, his legs up on the desk. A toothpick was hanging lazily out of his mouth, and it bobbed up and down as he spoke. Oliver guessed it was in place of a cigarette. He wore a blue button-down shirt with slacks and some loose suspenders.  His cowboy boots that he had on seemed too big for his feet, but Oliver couldn't tell if that was intentional or not. He had never found the country culture appealing, and Mr. Wallen's appearance and demeanor certainly wasn't making him feel otherwise. Wallen also had an insufferable southern accent that made Oliver hate him even more than he originally would have.

"Do you have any questions for me?" Mr. Wallen asked. He picked up one of the many trinkets on his desk with extreme interest and began to play with it, like a toddler playing with a newly-discovered object of the world.

Oliver rolled his shoulders and gave Mr. Wallen a weird glance. He had never encountered such a strange man. Throughout the meeting between them, he had become very disconcerted with a long string of almost child-like outbursts of behavior. To be honest, it was more awkward than anything else for Oliver, but his longing to end the meeting never wavered. And so, he gave only the answers that Mr. Wallen wanted to hear. In answer to his question, though, he put on a pleasant face and said, "No, sir."

Wallen either ignored or didn't hear Oliver's response, because he chuckled and said, "You know, I don't even remember putting half of these things on here!"