"Long May You Wander" - Second in the four-part series 'Hoof' - Mixed media on plywood. My 181st painting.

The chair creaks beneath shifting weight - rapid, irregular breathing from the occupant tightly secured to its wooden frame. The room cuts through him with icy precision and unbending silence. Henry tears the blood-stained hood from his head, revealing the night.

“What in the world?” the man exclaims.

He’s met head-on with a butchered corpse seated at arm’s length in front of him.

“Oh lord what is this?”

Henry’s first victim keeping a keen eye on present company.
“And why are you undressed?”

The mask and boots being Henry’s only attire.
“I guess this is a reunion of sorts?” Henry announces.

The older man wriggles on the seat.
“Who are you? What am I doing here?”
“First, an introduction.” Henry offers.

The man takes quick stock of his surroundings.
“A former pupil. Hazard a guess?”
“I’ve utterly no clue! Is this your handiwork?”

Henry circles his old classmate then moves to a standing position behind his former teacher.

“Kenneth Anders.”
“I remember that name! Bit of a rounder he was, but all boys are at that age.”

Henry steps to the front of his guest.
“You facilitated his terrible behavior.”

The elder man looks up at Henry.
“I’m sure I’ve done no such thing!”
“Liar!” he screams.

The man flinches.
“And who are you then?”

“Every day - in class, the halls, the playground - I would be on the receiving end of his scornful abuse. You did nothing! As though he had your blessing. Like I deserved it.”

Henry’s impediment in speech becoming more pronounced as emotions heighten.
“Not only that but you never declined an opportunity to ridicule me either - especially in front of the other students.”

A once enlivened face now drains of conviction. The former educator sinking into the sins of his past.

“It’s you - the Saffles boy.” he mumbles in faint confession.

Henry pushes Kenneth’s chair closer to his guest. Near enough to taste the rot.

“I did nothing untoward! T’was merely a case of boys being boys! The folly of youth! We all take our lumps!”

Henry strolls across the uninviting room to the old wooden tool box where a claw hammer catches his fancy. He turns to face the man.
“This is a vile overreaction! Nothing worthy of such heinous measures!”

Unhurried, calculated, each step - one foot, then another. Henry dissolves the distance between himself and the quarry.

“You cannot put this right with such dreadful acts of violence! What’s done is done!”

Henry stands hulking over the desperate, self-righteous individual.
“You’re an abomination! No better than a rabid beast!”

 
Henry removes his mask and glares into the man’s eyes.
“You do not have to do - “

Interrupted by the crushing force of steel to his kneecaps. Three to the left, three to the right. The older man shrieks, receiving nine strikes of the hammer on each leg. Then, a show of his weak bladder.

Henry steps back to allow the man breathing room. He can only manage grunts and whimpers.

Back to the tool box to exchange the hammer for something more surgical and befitting the occasion.
“You are a sick, murderous wretch. Your day will come.”

Henry situates himself behind the chair, a knife with razor-sharp serrations placed against the old man’s throat.

 
“May you forever wallow in your own cruelty.” Henry says in parting.

The blade rips into an artery, working from side to side, penetrating front to back. Short work was made of removing the man’s head, which Henry gently places upon his blood-drenched lap.

“Dismissed.”


Now, an audience of two.