"Don't Go Breaking my Eggs" A Short Story by Osnar Chávez

 

"What happened to your sister?"

Not interrogate me about that. Same thing every time someone accesses my home. The photo is meaningful to me, but I dislike others seeing it.

"An accidental fire," I lie.

***

Easter. 1989. A warm spring for the rainy season we are used to. Stereotypical: Sun, flowers, animals and children playing.

Every year, Mom would hide in the park the Easter eggs that we decorated during the previous month and filled with confetti. My little sister and I tracked them down to use as projectiles. It was the version of violence and confrontation allowed in a single day of annual catharsis.

At the bottom of my basket, I came across a peculiar egg. Extremely ornamented. Not the one embellished by elementary school kids with cheap watercolors. I felt the texture of the design in my fingertips. Vivid colors and intricate drawings mesmerized me.

My older sister approached. I presented her my souvenir. Without noticing, she cracked it in my head. No confetti.

Blood. Viscera. Amniotic fluid. A fetus that did not resemble any animal that appeared in our natural science books. More horrifying and unnatural than fish from the deep. Such content in industrial quantities. The egg mocked the laws of matter. It should not had held that much. However, I was bathed in it. The stench was a mixture of excrement and death, which scented my person for several days.

Paralyzed, it dripped. My little sister backed away flabbergasted. Mom cleaned me in the house.

We do not decipher where the egg came from. Eventually, we choose to disregard the answer.

Did know what happened to the embryo, kind of. My little sister, reproaching herself, washed it. Decorated a small box. Prayed a funeral speech for the abortion of an unknown kind. We return it to nature. We hoped that to be the end.

It was not.

 

Problems began that night. My little sister and I were trying to shuteye in the bedroom, free from danger thanks to a night lamp. We didn't look at each other, even with our little parallel beds. Our eyes pierced the ceiling.

A hit. On the roof. Something exorbitant over us. Felt like a sledgehammer rhythmically assaulting our shelter. I turned to my little sister. The strikes were accentuated. She turned to me. Faster. Without words we told each other what we both did not know at the time. The blows drowned the night.

We did not sleep. School reported me. Mom punished us for playing instead of sleeping. We failed to convince her otherwise.

Three days later, returning from school, Mom entered denial. Our yard was embellished with monumental footprints. Human size, rodent physiognomy. The pristine grass that Mother watered religiously, and the little flowers that received more fondly compliments than me, were just remainders. The clues led to the fetus's resting place.

A hole. Broken box. No trace of the embryo. Defeating logic, this turned out to be my sister's and my doing. We appealed for dialogue, but Mom gave up on diplomacy.

Worst happened a couple weeks later. Punishment had been fulfilled and the incident forgotten. However, a mother, regardless of her species or level of existence, does not do it so easily.

The main door, wooden and little over 6-foot high, exhibited a bite on the top. Non-human. Erosion accomplished through repeated dental scratches. Only way we could have pulled that off was by climbing on top of my little sister, and developing monastic patience and seven extra sets of baby teeth. Mom adjudicated us as innocent.

 

A roar assaulted the silent night. We left our room. Again, the front door. Not only was there the top angle "patched" with a garbage bag to "avoid” dust and cold, but the now-fragmented door rested on the floor.

The light from outside flooded the hall. My little sister and I turned to Mom, expecting an action plan. We did not receive such. Gazed at the outside. The sawdust prevented enlightenment beyond the threshold.

An Easter egg rolled towards us. Emitted smoke. Mom propelled us as she jumped. Explosion. Contained, but giant by our standards built over Disney movies.

A silhouette approached the entrance. Large, corpulent and only scarcely human in appearance. Two vertical protrusions stuck out from the head. Got close enough to decipher it. A bunny. A nightmare rodent. From this having been Frank's appearance, Donnie Darko would have sent him straight to the end of the world (I can't see that movie).

The creature halted. Little sister and I hurried to Mom. We picked her up as best we could and together climbed the stairs. The bunny's stare did not abandon its prey.

Locked ourselves in our room. Turned the bolt (credulously we thought this would make a difference). Mom tried to calm us, she failed. Also failed to calm herself. The bedroom, full of posters and stuffed animals that a couple of minutes ago was our safe place, had become a cage with only one exit: the window.

It shattered. Easter Egg thrown from outside. Cracked and a small toy was born, a mouth with feet laughing at us. Why?

The macabre mockery was obfuscated by the approaching beast. Not one foot at a time, jumping on both legs. Step after step. Boom. Boom. Boom! BOOM!

Moonlight forced a decision on Mom. Kicked the little toy. Opened the window. Looked back. That was the exact moment she lost her mind.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Without alternative, we did the same. I was terrified, so my little sister went first. She was at the opening when I noticed the tranquility disrupted by the door’s creaking. And the lock?

The creature held an Easter-egg-Swiss-Army-knife-lock-picker on its paw. The bunny was skilled.

Little sister hurried, but she had little experience with alternative ways of leaving the house.

The supposedly cute animal repeatedly slammed its left paw against the floor. Accelerated. We three paralyzed, almost in a trance beholding the face of this violation of what we considered possible. Blows dictated our heart rate.

The bare thing produced another Easter egg. A lighter. Dropped it. Great quality of lighter, the brick house caught fire without delay.

The rabbit leaped.

Mom and I crouched down.

My little sister did not.

The beast captured her and pulverized what was left of the glass.

A cry.

We peeked out.

We escaped through the gap that, until then, could only be traversed by light.

We lost everything to the flames’ claws. The memories of my little sister vanished. Child services harassed Mom for years. Psychologists and psychiatrists did what they could.

Irrelevant. Not even by piercing my eardrums can I get rid of that sharp scream getting lost in the distance, only to then being exchanged for the crickets of a peaceful night. Not even by burning my irises will I be able to disappear that colossal humanoid shadow straying away, being engulfed by darkness, leaping with its prize.