Dead Inside
By: Abhay K
Tags: Domestic Violence, Horror, Unpaid Labor, Haunted House, Flash Fiction

when i came home from school today, i noticed that some of the furniture was missing. missing along with it were the scooter, a few kitchen appliances and dishes, and my mother’s jewellery and clothes. she herself was nowhere to be seen.

she had gotten out. she had finally left. left this godforsaken house that she hated so much. left the cycle of abuse and manipulation that her life had become over the years. and had finally left her drunk of a husband who wouldn't know that she was gone until she was far away and safe.

with half the stuff gone, the house felt extremely hollow. bare bones. like a husk of its former self. or a skin - shed and left to rot. the house is really old but what was homely hours ago looked haunted now. time is etched into the walls of the house forming cracks and damp spots.

i didn't know what to do. i stood there numb until father arrived from work. he took in the scene, nodded once and left again. he didn't come back until late into the night. while he was gone, i called my mother, and asked her where she was. she told me that she was okay, that she had rented a single room on the other side of the city and that she would come to take me with her soon.

….

it’s hard not to take it as a personal betrayal. it has been three days since my mother left. she hasn’t come back for me yet. and she is not responding to any of my phone calls. a volcano of bitterness rises in my gut but i push it down. i understand how hard it must have been for her too. i don’t blame my mother, not really, i know she had to get out, she would have died otherwise. i wish she would have taken me with her but it’s not like i’m in any immediate danger. my father never shouts at me or hits me like he did her. i don’t ever remember him being violent with me. except for that one time years ago when i had thrown a tantrum over a toy in the supermarket and he had slapped me so hard that i fell on the ground from the sheer force. but he had apologised extensively for it after we had reached home.

….

it’s the fourth day my mother is not here. the house is the same as she left it. only there’s a layer of dust coating the floors. i take a broom and sweep out my bedroom, the kitchen and living room and leave the rest be. there’s entirely too many rooms in this house. it is awfully quiet now that one less person lives here. there’s no sounds, in the air, of the fighting and bickering that went on and on. it is upsetting to think that it hadn’t always been like this. i believe once my parents possibly even loved each other. they would laugh and travel and shop together. once i even saw father kissing my mother on the cheek in the kitchen. i had tried to step out quietly then but father noticed me there and laughingly told me that there was nothing embarrassing about a man kissing his wife. he planted another kiss on my mother’s cheek and then one on mine. ten years later, that memory is clear as day in my head.

….

the fifth day, we order a pizza. my father doesn’t usually like when we eat outside food but today he says he’s tired and doesn’t feel like cooking something. the last four days is the longest period of time in all history that he has had to cook for himself. somehow he is still a pretty good cook and his curries are to die for.

it's a sunday so i spend my day lazing around. i asked father if i could go to my friend's house but he denied permission. except that, i haven't seen much of him. he doesn't come out of his room much. he stays in there, brooding and drinking. he had picked up alcohol after he came back from the army. he had taken an early retirement. still the military service had changed him drastically. after coming back, he couldn't find a job for a while. he started to drown himself in alcohol. he really couldn't stand my mother being the sole breadwinner of the family. he didn't say anything about it but he slowly grew contentious. and what had started with small fights had led to this day.

….

day six is the same. we eat pizza in silence and then lock ourselves in our separate rooms. there’s still no news from my mother. frustration gnaws at me and i feel something like resentment for her. she left me, alone, with this pathetic excuse of a father. i suddenly hear a small crash and i leave my room to inspect what made the sound. there’s a slab of concrete and plaster that fell off a wall in the living room. red of the bricks and grey of cement stares back at me from the wall. i pick up the broom and the dust pan and start cleaning the mess.

….

day seven sees me standing in the kitchen, trying to cook a meal out of a week old potatoes. small tubers have grow out of them. father tells me that i am a man now and have to learn how to cook in case one day my wife leaves me too. so i stand before the stove. black and brown mold covers the burners. no one has cleaned it in a long time. i wish i had told father off for that jibe at my mother. in my head i say to him now - that i would never treat my wife like he did my mother in the first place. the cooking is really hard though. i nearly burn the food that i am supposed to be making. i wish now that i had learnt how to cook in my seventeen years of life that i had spent with my mother.

….

six months pass. my parents are legally divorced now. my mother had my uncle take me to her new home after about two weeks of her first leaving. i asked and asked but she had given me no reason or explanation as to why she had completely forgotten about me. i stopped pushing for any answers after some time. i was just happy that she was back.

what happened to father you ask, well, he's getting married again.