The hall is coated in shadow, light pressing into the curtains drawn to keep out the uninvited. Murmurs of the sea cling to the house outside, never possible to be silenced; more present than his own heartbeat, like a piece of his life more consistent than day or night.
Everything is as it should be, yet not: the furnishings where and what he remembers, but somehow distant and detached; lower even, than he’s ever viewed the room.
This is his home, but barely. He climbs the stairs with nothing but trepidation in the space where his heart should be, a tight knot of desperation. A pain in his throat as he approaches his bedroom door, knowing what awaits, but trying to be brave.
Except: The hand that reaches for the handle is small, the arm thin and young. The door opens anyway, sighing as it reveals the interior of the room as he knows it. The dream doesn't wait for questions.
“Mom…”
His voice is a blur, like the edges of the dream. He steps into the room to the sight of his wife in their bed, her head turned away.
Her head is always turned. She never looks at him anymore. She doesn’t care to know. Why won’t Mom look at me? We don’t need dad.
“Mom…”
He walks over to her, tears already threatening his eyes. But he’s been working at that, to be better. Dad called him a crybaby, but Dad’s the one who left them, who’s never coming back. So now he has to be strong, to let Mom know she doesn’t have to worry. She doesn’t have to go too.
But it doesn’t matter where he goes by her bedside, where he stands, how quickly he moves. Her back is all he sees, body shifting without motion. He never sees her face anymore. He doesn’t remember her voice.
Still, he hears their conversation all the same.
Not today, dear…
“But when, Mom?”
...
“Mom…”
...
“If you don’t get up…”
Not today, dear…
Desperation turns to anger. It’s because he’s gone, and if she would just forget about him, then everything would be better. Everything would be okay. So he starts about the room, doing all he can think to: opening up closets, pulling out drawers, knocking down photographs. Suits torn off their hooks and ties and piled together, just for some kind of reaction. Some way to make Mom wake up.
Because Dad isn’t coming back. He’s gone, he’s dead, and he can stay dead! I don’t care! I don’t want him! I don’t want this! I don’t want this!
Tiny hands try to tear into the fabrics, the bundle much larger than him, his raging having grown larger still. He knocks over trinkets and takes out drawers entirely, screams because he can, because he doesn't know what else to do.
And when Will looks over to his mother again--but he doesn't. He can't. She’s not anywhere now, just like Dad.
grasshopper 12
The hall is coated in shadow, light pressing into the curtains drawn to keep out the uninvited. Murmurs of the sea cling to the house outside, never possible to be silenced; more present than his own heartbeat, like a piece of his life more consistent than day or night.
Everything is as it should be, yet not: the furnishings where and what he remembers, but somehow distant and detached; lower even, than he’s ever viewed the room.
This is his home, but barely. He climbs the stairs with nothing but trepidation in the space where his heart should be, a tight knot of desperation. A pain in his throat as he approaches his bedroom door, knowing what awaits, but trying to be brave.
Except: The hand that reaches for the handle is small, the arm thin and young. The door opens anyway, sighing as it reveals the interior of the room as he knows it. The dream doesn't wait for questions.
“Mom…”
His voice is a blur, like the edges of the dream. He steps into the room to the sight of his wife in their bed, her head turned away.
Her head is always turned. She never looks at him anymore. She doesn’t care to know. Why won’t Mom look at me? We don’t need dad.
“Mom…”
He walks over to her, tears already threatening his eyes. But he’s been working at that, to be better. Dad called him a crybaby, but Dad’s the one who left them, who’s never coming back. So now he has to be strong, to let Mom know she doesn’t have to worry. She doesn’t have to go too.
But it doesn’t matter where he goes by her bedside, where he stands, how quickly he moves. Her back is all he sees, body shifting without motion. He never sees her face anymore. He doesn’t remember her voice.
Still, he hears their conversation all the same.
Not today, dear…
“But when, Mom?”
...
“Mom…”
...
“If you don’t get up…”
Not today, dear…
Desperation turns to anger. It’s because he’s gone, and if she would just forget about him, then everything would be better. Everything would be okay. So he starts about the room, doing all he can think to: opening up closets, pulling out drawers, knocking down photographs. Suits torn off their hooks and ties and piled together, just for some kind of reaction. Some way to make Mom wake up.
Because Dad isn’t coming back. He’s gone, he’s dead, and he can stay dead! I don’t care! I don’t want him! I don’t want this! I don’t want this!
Tiny hands try to tear into the fabrics, the bundle much larger than him, his raging having grown larger still. He knocks over trinkets and takes out drawers entirely, screams because he can, because he doesn't know what else to do.
And when Will looks over to his mother again--but he doesn't. He can't. She’s not anywhere now, just like Dad.
She’s gone. Just like Dad.
She left him. Just like Dad.
She won't come back. Just like Dad.
Gone. Just like Dad...