Nursery Rhymes

“Baa Baa Black Sheep have you any wool.

Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.

One for the master,

Who died today.”

The message he had received was reverberating through his mind, a dark take on the childhood song. He had tried to clear it from his head, but nothing had followed it, and if it had been one of his friends, they would have cleared it up, especially after his “very funny”, “good one” messages had turned into pleas, “ok, tell me, who is this”, “is this a joke?!!”, “please…” “PLEASE” . If it had been one of his friends, they would have burst out laughing, when he called, instead of just breathing on the phone. He had a very bad feeling about this. Maybe it was the day. Maybe it was his mood. Maybe he was thinking too much into this.

He walked back from his lunch break towards the shop. An eerie feeling crept up his throat. Tears welled in his eyes. He didn’t know why. He spun around, glancing from side to side, all around him. He couldn't see anyone. He hurried towards the shop. Steps becoming faster and faster, more and more frantic.

He pushed the door in, and didnt need to know. The smell was everywhere. Past the rows of clothes he stumbled, the putrid smell ringing in his ears, heart pounding. He knew where. The door was locked. He looked through the keyhole and screamed. The crimson never left his sight.

“Baa Baa Black Sheep have you any wool.

Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.

One for the master

And one for the dame.”

The message buzzed on her phone. Odd, but she thought nothing of it. She had had a fight with her widowed mother who did nothing but cry all day. It had been months since her father had died. She wanted to mourn him too, but life went on. All her mother would do all day was to play with the abacus her father had left behind, the one thing he brought with him from China. She was getting tired of it, she needed help in running the kitchen, she was weary, and couldn't do it herself. Maybe she should hire someone. Most prevalent though, was the anger that was coursing through her veins. A little bit of guilt too. “Why don't you die too? Go join him”, she had shouted at her mother before storming off, needing to cool down. She was coming back now. She couldn't hear the click of the abacus, and there was an odd smell, like something was burning. This wasnt animal flesh. She hurried, frantically into the kitchen. She screamed. The orphaned child died months later, mourning the loss of her father and mother.

“Baa Baa Black Sheep have you any wool.

Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.

One for the master

And one for the dame,

One for the little boy

Who lives down the lane.”

She was waiting anxiously for her son to arrive. His room had been empty, he had probably left for the party with the teenagers. Why he hung out with them, she didnt know. They bullied him, they made him feel terrible. But he said he liked it. Said they made him feel special. Her husband was tapping his fingers on the table, impatiently. He wasnt concerned, just angry, and grumpy. He trusted his son. She did too, but she had a bad feeling. Her phone buzzed. And there was the text. Without understanding why, her eyes welled up with tears. The phone dropped from her hand onto the carpeted floor. She rushed up the stairs two at a time. Tripped and banged her knee. The pain didnt register. Her head was thumping a blinding sound. Her husband was confused, he followed. Her tears dropped on the carpet like rain in a flashstorm. She opened the door. There was a beautiful smile on his face. The last one he would ever make. The skin on his neck around the rope was purple. His feet had stopped dangling hours ago. She would never stop sobbing.

...

Three body bags in front of him. Three different cases. He turned and left.

His phone buzzed.

“Baa Baa Black Sheep have you any wool.

Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.

One for the master

And one for the dame,

One for the little boy

Who lives down the lane.”

On his desk waited a calling card.