Parcel for collection:
“Every year we visit and every year the children get bored and you or I get offended. Perhaps we could go on boxing day or the day after. At least have a nice uninterrupted Christmas together.”
“Darling we’re all she has, you know that. I know it’s awful, but what can we do. It’s not as if we chose her to be our relative…and I doubt she looks forward to our visits any more than we do. Still duty is duty.”
“But dad it’s such a waste of time,” chipped in one of the children, deciding it was time to add her point of view to the argument, “and every year we have to take ‘the family photo’ and you know I hate photos. It’s not like we’ve changed much in a year.”
And so the conversation continued…and in time it was decided that this year the family would probably visit Aunt Zena on the day after boxing day.
At around the same time the family were debating whether it was really necessary to visit Aunt Zena, the postman was voicing his annoyance as he collected a very large parcel. The last round of post before Christmas was always a back-breaking affair, and this latest addition did nothing to lighten either the postman’s mood or load.
That same parcel was delivered to the doorstep of the family on the morning of Christmas eve, just as the sun was breaking through the early morning mist and painting the sky a strange shade of red. The family found the parcel some hours later as they headed out to join the last-day-before-Christmas-shopping rush that has become as traditional to many of us as a primary school nativity play.
Neither the father nor the mother recognised the hand-writing on the address label that instructed in bold red letters ‘NOT TO BE OPENED UNTIL DEC 25th’. Not having time to waste if they were to get a good parking space in the town centre, the parcel was placed hastily in the hall way as the family hurried out of the door.
By Christmas morning, however, fascination with the mysterious parcel was rapidly increasing. The parcel itself was approximately 5ft high and 4ft wide and appeared to be flat, but for the illusion of lumpiness given by outer covering of bubble-wrap packaging. Speculation was rife as to what could be hidden inside. The son thought it might be a giant mirror so the sister could see how ugly she was. The sister thought the same except that the mirror’s purpose would be for the son to squeeze his now numerous spots all over it. The mother and father were casually running through their Christmas card list to see if any of the names would trigger a memory about the owner of the handwriting, thus divulging clues about the possible contents of the parcel.
By the time the turkey was placed in the oven to begin cooking, curiosity had got the best of them and the family decided unanimously that the right thing to do would be to open the parcel. The bubble-wrap was swiftly sheared and each family member confirmed that whatever was within certainly had a frame around it, as this could be felt through the layers of brown manilla paper that still covered the mysterious object.
It took a number of minutes for the family to realise what they were staring at. As the final coverings of paper had fallen away, the parcel revealed itself to be a painting. The scene was a family portrait…a portrait each member of the family instinctively knew was familiar, yet which none could immediately place.
Slowly it dawned on them. ‘Isn’t that us?’ asked the son. ‘Is that Aunt Zena?’ queried the mother tentatively. ‘It’s the photo we took last year isn’t it?” confirmed the daughter tentatively. And so it was. The family realised they were staring at a painted enlargement of last year’s family photo with Aunt Zena. “But why are we all wearing red? I remember I was wearing my turquoise skirt,” said the daughter, pleased with her ever keen eye for fashion. I was true. Aunt Zena’s skill as a painter was modest, but she had certainly captured the family’s likeness, and had indeed dressed them all in red.
“Who’d have thought old Zena had it in her?” quipped the father, “of course this means we’ll definitely have to go and see her.” A groan of acknowledgement from the children confirmed they reluctantly agreed with their father’s statement.
“But where shall we put this?” asked the mother, indicating toward the painting, “it’s far to big and ugly to actually go in any of the rooms.”
“For now we’ll leave it under the stairs until we figure out something more suitable,” replied the father, whose thoughts and stomach were turning toward food and wine. So it was that Aunt Zena’s masterpiece was left under the stairs, where it might have indefinitely were it not for a rather unexpected turn of events.
With the painting having made ‘probably visit’ into ‘definitely have to visit’, the family dutifully arrived outside Aunt Zena’s house at 10.45am on the day after boxing day. They were due at 11am, but had convinced themselves that if they arrived early they could concoct a suitable excuse for leaving early, stating another vital engagement they had to attend, and they hoped Aunt Zena would understand.
Aunt Zena’s car was in the driveway and the lights were on in the kitchen, so the father thought it strange that the family were still waiting on the doorstep a minute after ringing the doorbell. He also wondered if the sign taped to the door that read ‘parcel for collection’ had referred at one time to the painting they had received.
Another minute and another ringing of the doorbell passed. And now, with each passing second, a silent, creeping concern began to tickle the parents. The mother was the first to give it voice, “you don’t think she’s collapsed do you, or had a fall?”
“I was thinking the same,” admitted the father, “I’ll check the back door, you wait here to see if she comes to the door.” The father moved round the side of the house to the back door calling out, “ZENA…AUNT ZENA…” as he went.
Another five minutes passed and the father reported that though the back door was locked, he could hear the sound of the radio from the living room, but as the blinds were down could not confirm whether Aunt Zena was inside. They had by now shouted and banged loudly enough that even if she had been sleeping, Aunt Zena would certainly have woken by now.
With adverts on the television constantly advising citizens to be vigilant of strokes, it was decided that they ought to force the door.
The relented with a swift kick from the son. The picture that greeted the father as he burst into the living room soon had its very own soundtrack, with the mother and daughter added their disturbed screams to the scene before them. On the coffee table sat last year’s family photo. Next to the photo was a painter’s mixing palette. The paint had begun to harden and flake. Next to the palette was a half empty glass, filled with a thick browny-black liquid.
Though shocking, it was not just the sight of the glass of old, drying blood that made the family recoil, for certainly the macabre, half-finished blood self-portrait caused their stomachs to turn. But what the family could not ignore was the sight of Aunt Zena slumped stiffly at the foot of the easel, a paintbrush still clutched in her right hand and a large vertical laceration on her left wrist that seemed to smile at the family as they stood and stared
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