The Accomplice Owl

Watching a young girl dragging a limp body through a thorn filled forest was not the way I anticipated spending the early hour of August 15th. That may be too vague. Let me restart. Hope was the sweetest young girl I had ever met. Not that I met many young girls in my life span. I should clarify that sweet part. She was sweet to me. She had the most inviting hazel eyes and stunning long chestnut hair. She was what every girl wanted to be. Her family was somewhat normal, to the public at least. They were all the same, her family. Hope was the odd one out. They all wore plain clothes, and had plain hair and had overall plain lives. Nobody knew what really went on between those thick brick walls. Stan, Hope’s father, lived a long life of adultery and addiction resulting in extensive hours of arguing as well as purple and blue bruises. Naturally, he made up for it in gifts. When an argument happened, Hope could expect a new phone in 1-2 business days. Her mom, on the other hand, was normal. She stayed at most hours of the day. Her typical day consisted of brunch, spinning class and picking up Heather from school. It’s not everyone's ideal life but it sure was the life for Heather. On Sundays she always attended the 9:30 church service. Mainly to pray for her husband to perish. Hope knew they weren’t in love, but they stayed together so everyone assumed they were happy and normal. At the time nobody expected a girl Hope’s age to be a cold blooded killer. But I knew. I knew before anyone. She told me every night her plan. Hope thought her life would be perfect if her dad were eliminated. She enjoyed the occasional gift but it wasn’t enough to make her not utterly despise her dad. I understood the hatred and I listened to Hope every night. At approximately 11:32 every night I would fly to her bay window and lightly tap the frame. She would open it and welcome me into the warm brick house. “Hey Mr. Owl”, she’d tell me. I responded quietly, making sure not to wake her parents. “Whoooo”, I would say. The night of August 13th was different. She opened the window at 11:33, but she was crying. “Hey Mr. Owl” she said quietly. We talked all night. Or I suppose she talked. Hope told me her final plan. I knew this time she was ready. “We have to get mom out of the house for this”. She talked to me as if she knew I understood. “I’m going to run away after so they won’t find me”. This was a bad idea and I knew it. She would get caught, right? Her plan was to book an 11pm ticket on August 14th for her mother to see the newest movie in her favorite series. That would keep her out long enough to finish the job with just enough time to pack and run away. I would be accompanying her until she found a safe space to live. The 14th rolled around shortly and it had just hit Hope that she was going to murder her own father. She was going to murder half of her DNA. This thought didn’t stop her. I examined Hope closely that day. I watched her gather her supplies. An old rusty ax. A large scythe for cutting grass in case the ax didn’t do the job. Hope didn’t plan on hiding anything. She almost wanted everyone to know she was the cause of her fathers death. She wanted all the townspeople to know how messed up her family truly was. I watched Hope glance at the clock. It was 9:32. Stan had been downing booze all day. Nothing was out of the ordinary. It was now 10:56. Heather would be leaving to watch the movie she had been looking forward to all day. She didn’t know what was coming. Hope watched from the wide bay window in her room. The white Nissan was gone. Her mother was gone. I was watching nearby, moving from window to window hoping to catch a glimpse at what was going on inside the Laquila residence. Hope's father was sitting in his recliner carefully following a baseball on the screen. Hope was ready. She picked up the ax and carefully swung. Hope knew that her father couldn’t react fast after the 13 cans of pale ale he had consumed. I don’t want to get into the details of what happened in the following moments. It was far too gruesome. But now we are back to the very first sentence of this story. I watched Hope drag her 186 pound father into the thorny, dark woods. His lifeless stare was terrifying. After that experience, Hope sat and thought about how her mother would feel. Would she be mad? Worried? Happy? None of that mattered. I flew, and she ran miles and miles and miles. We were far away from her small hometown. Her mother knew by now. She must’ve. Hope would occasionally look up at me for reassurance. But I couldn’t stay with her. I didn’t want to. Who could’ve known murder affects owls as well. The next time hope looked up at me, I wasn’t there. I was long gone. I loved Hope but heaven knows I couldn’t stay with her much longer even if I said I’d stay with her. That was the end of the story. I don’t have any more to tell. All I can say is I wish I had stayed with her long enough to see if she made it. To see if she was safe.