Trigger Warning
Westin Yeled had lived with the Erzens for as long as he could remember. He didn’t know when he had arrived at the towering white palace, but he knew the dazzling manner which sat atop the green countryside was his home. Well, it wasn’t really his home per say, it was the Erzens’, but it was still where Westin worked, ate, and slept, so in way it was all he knew. Day after day, he would take up his little push mower and walk back and forth, back and forth. It was hypnotic in its way, the same pattern always emerging when he was never trying to cut in any specific manner. That and the roses. The roses and petunias which, despite all his resistance, seemed to always come out in the same perfect sphere. It seemed to him as if something was trying to be communicated, like some memory he had forgotten.
With the rise of the sun he would be up slaving away. Then at first sight of stars he would return to the small shack his employers had set up for him on the edge of the colossal property he tended to. It was smelly and cramped, but the work had to be done. With the crying of a rooster the weeds would need to be picked, the fields tended to, the grass cut in that same pattern, and the flowers trimmed in that oddly particular way. While working, he would just look up at the blinding white Victorian-style home and yard which he kept so tidy, wondering what the Erzen family might be up to in their glorious hideaway. And sometimes, though very rarely, Westin would drop his sheers or mower and slink his way up to one of the open windows of the home and open his ears to what the family might be saying.
Well, one summer’s day, he did exactly that, cowering beside the rose bushes which he had just cut in his meticulous pattern, brushing his sweaty mop of black hair out of his eyes, and attempting to hear whatever the family might have to say:
“President Queren said we might be forced to invade Europe,” an old, grizzled voice said with the flick of a paper. Westin’s heart lifted at the sound of his employer.
“I’m not the one who voted for him,” replied the aggravated voice of Mrs. Erzen.
“Yea, yea, I know.”
The woman of the shinning white house said with a strange tremor in her tone, “You don’t think there will be a draft… do you? You don’t think he is that gutsy?”
But Mr. Erzen just mumbled some nonsensical words, flicked the morning paper once more, and taking another sip of his coffee, returned to his leisurely Saturday activities. The gardener trembled at the thought of war. The Erzen’s young man, Jones, was nearing his drafting age, and if war came… the family was the one thing Westin could think of. They made him smile; they made him laugh; they made him love. He never saw them smile back at him when he was tending to their fields; he never saw them listening to his deepest, most innermost dreams like he did, but he knew they loved him just as much… they had to.
And so, Westin quietly and slowly trimmed the grass in his strange pattern and then stumbled back to bed in a silent haze, a lot on his mind, and lot of solemn thoughts to confront. The small shack beside the towering manner with its lights blinding and illuminating the surrounding acres and acres of farmland made the shadows beside his cot dance in a silent world. Yet even without any distractions, the moon rising above the land, Westin could conjure up very little thoughts or ideas. His mind was static, nothing more than a blank slate, and he trembled in the cold black night for no comfort was there. Even the memory of throwing the ball with Jones seemed to slip his mind although it felt as if just yesterday, he had held the child’s hand.
Desperately he wanted to curl up with some loved one, the family he served, the ones he knew had once existed, or even the lawn laid before the mansion which seemed to call out to him like some siren song. Somone needed to tell him why it called him, why he had no memory of mother or father. Yet all he could do was frown at the terrible sight of approaching war.
The next day however, Westin was back at his tireless work, picking the weeds, tending to the crops, and carving the bushes surrounding the Erzen’s establishment like one carves a turkey. Yet amongst the slaving away and the tears which fell for the family, the paper had no happy news to offer. For while cutting away at the same rose bush as the day before, Westin once more overheard the family:
“European Allies Invaded by President Queren!” Mr. Erzen exclaimed as he read that morning’s headline. “My God, he did it! He actually did it!” A lengthy quiet as Westin attempted to stifle the awful, weeping noises.
Young Jones Erzen whispering timidly, “Is th-there a-a-a dr-draft o-o-open?”
“No, of course not, sweety,” Mrs. Erzen said as she rubbed her son’s shoulders and calmed his shaking. “They have enough men, you’ll be safe… we’ll protect you. Now, scurry along and get in the car. The factory is busy today, and you know how much we need you. Your father will meet you out there soon. And please, try not to worry.”
Feet running up title floors and stairs and then the mother dropping her voice down to a whisper as the son left the room. She broke down into tears, crying out, “Oh, God! Peter, tell me he’ll be safe, tell me we won’t lose another!”
“You have nothing to fear. I’m sure the conflict will be resolved soon,” Mr. Erzen whispered into his wife’s ear. “But until then, I suggest we talk privately…”
And then, as if knowing that someone was eavesdropping, Peter Erzen approached the open window and shut it with a thud, throwing out the accursed paper which warned of war. It lay face down in the mud beside Westin, who looked at it like a child stares into the black oblivion of their closet. Not wanting to know if the rumors were true, not wanting to awaken the beast. It called his name, begging the man crouched amongst the flowers to flip it over and reveal the hidden headline. Yet he did not want to. He loathed the mysterious paper that could hold the horrible truth of the outside world he had never seen, the horrible war. Westin closed his eyes, and then, fast as lightning, flipped the newspaper, revealing the headline; America was at war.
Westin burst into tears which fell among the flowers, running back to his small guesthouse and not looking back to see Peter Erzen smirking with a malicious grin as his slave ran home.
Days went by, then weeks, and then months. The winter chill and desperate thoughts that haunted Westin’s mind caused him to shiver in despair. Each night he would say a prayer for his young master on the field of battle, and each morning he would make sure to keep the boy’s small vegetable garden alive before the others; he knew Jones would have done the same… or so he thought.
One frosty day though, Mrs. Erzen appeared on the front lawn while Westin was making his usual, exact rounds of mowing, and walked up to him with her makeup melting and her very face all askew. “Good morning, Mrs. Erzen,” Westin said slowly.
“Good morning, Westin, how are you doing?”
“Good, ma’am.”
“Good,” she replied, her eyes darting back and forth, sweat dripping down her face with the tears. The weather was frigid. “Now, Westin, it’s been um… well… with the loss of Jones and all… the factory has a lot of orders… and…”
“I’ll do anything to help,” Westin said with a sniffle.
“I know, Westin, but it is a big ask. J-Jones did a lot in the factory… and Mr. Erzen is going to have to work more… we might need to… well… cash is going to be spread thin.” Mrs. Erzen was rubbing her hands together now, not for warmth but in a fidgety way, in an anxious way.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll keep working. No need to worry about money, I’ll keep working.”
Then Mrs. Erzen retreated back to her fortress, and Westin allowed himself to sob for just a moment and then get back to work, preparing for the coming days; the work had to be done.
However, amongst the tears and weeping and sniffling, Westin was awoken in the middle of the night by a ferocious storm. Rain came down like tears, and from his shack he could hear the crash of a broken window. Well, knowing he had to serve, Westin braved the weather and set out into chaos. Yet while he was in the howling wind and hail fixing the cracked glass he had once looked through to see the fallen soldier, Westin caught the glint of light and joy from within the manner. And radiating from within the heated home, he could hear from his chilling position, the sound of talk:
The cheers of glasses. “Congratulations,” Mr. Erzen boomed, “Jones, my boy, you truly did good! You have quite the knack for… manipulating people. It is good training, shows you how easy it is and also saves me a couple extra cents! It was about time I started teaching you, you are getting older, soon maybe, I’ll even buy you your own factory!”
The laugh of a dead man; Jones’s laugh which sent chills down Westin’s spine for it was the dead man that was not dead, speaking, “So, may I ask how you did it?”
A light chuckle, then, “Well, son, it was quite simple actually. A man’s emotions, especially a man like Westin, are incredibly easy to control. We needed him, and in a way, he needed us!” The father laughed. “Why do you think he circles our lawn? Why do you think he cuts our roses to be the shape of his parents’ heads? Westin was born here, he served me when I was just about your age, and he has never left or served anyone else. They wanted him to leave though, to do something more, but now they are buried beneath his very feet! That is why he stays, that is why he is ours! And I must applaud you! The ingenious idea to mix the threat of war into his head, to make him think you could get drafted into this fruitless conflict (which could never happen). And now he is truly a slave!”
Another cheer of glasses and then boisterous laughter. And in that moment, in the rain and the hail and the horrible death, Westin felt an uncontrollable rage flow through him, an evil, cruel rage that wanted death. The betrayal! The inhumanity! When he saw the one he had mourned and loved like a brother a swift tide of hate rushed over Westin. Years stolen, lives taken! How had he not known? How had he forgotten? He grabbed his mower, grabbed his sheers, grabbed all his tools he had been forced to use and set out. They would laugh no longer; they would use him no more!
Some say after the family was murdered, that Westin took over their home. Others say he went off to some far-off land. But the most likely answer of course, is that he now resides in the Earth beside his true family; the family he had always circled and had never known because he was always looking up at the glory of the house and never down at those that had loved him.