This House is not a Home

This House is not a Home

 

We arrive home.

 

No one utters a word as the door

clicks open,

and shoes are kicked off

onto the scraggly rug.

It's been there forever.

Maybe it's time for a change.

So many things,

afterall,

are changing.

Whether

we

like

it

or

not.

 

The silence is too thick,

and it feels as if

I am choking on it.

 

Words dance around us,

coil around our necks,

press against our lips.

But we pretend,

they aren't there.

Me

because

if I spoke,

no one

would

listen.

 

They are cowards,

and cannot accept

to face the truth.

T y l e r    i s    g o n e.

　

　

Mom asks me later

do I want a grilled cheese;

she is

starved.

I can't fathom

how she can eat.

 

"No thank you," I croak.

Where is my voice?

It seems wrong to use it.

 

"Well, I'm going to have one."

Her voice is loud,

and it makes me angry

for some reason.

 

Suddenly, the house seems

so empty.

Not full.

Cold.

Not warm.

Dead.

Not alive.

Not even breathing.

 

I gasp out,

aching for oxygen.

Was I holding my breath?

I didn't know.

 

Mom looks over to me

with concern brimming in her eyes.

And I am grateful

that she is at least showing

some emotion.

I don't much like

her oblivious mask.

It's fake,

and icey,

andbothersme

because

nothingisreal

andIwantsomething

tobe.

 

"Honey, are you okay?" She asks cautiously,

ignoring the butter as it sizzles furiously

in the skillet pan.

 

Am I okay?

 

No,

I am not  

not  

okay.

Is she okay?

It scares me to think she is.

What type of woman internally survives

after her

son's

death?

 

I will say it

without fear.

Because I have learned to swallow my venom

and become imune to

weakening emotions

such as

fear.

 

I glare at her, unbelieving

she is so indifferent about this.

We got back shortly ago

from her son's

god damn

funeral.

And all I see is indifference.

 

I can't help but think right then that I am quite capable

of hating her.

Hating.

 

She glides over to me,

feet silent on the hardwood.

"Hun--" She reaches out a hand.

 

"Don't," I say,

getting up from the barstool so fast

it topples over onto the floor

noisily.

The sound shatters something,

something.

It seems so odd a noise

in a place

that is so uncomfortably

s t i l l.

 

I stomp up the stairs,

uncaring of the loud sound.

I already broke the mood,

right?

 

I don't look back in time

to see Mom's hurt expression.

She can shove it

far,

far,

far,

up her wrinkly a*s.

Or,

up to the stars.

I don't wish on them anymore.

They don't work like they are supposed to.

They didn't keep Tyler from dying.

 

I pass Dad

on my way

to my room.

He's coming from the study

with a dusty box

resting lightly in his calloused hands.

He stares at me,

and I him.

I wait,

and wait,

and wait

for him to say something.

Something, anything, nothing.

I just,

wait.

 

Finally

I scoff quietly,

my disgust clear.

He apparently has no sympathy

to offer up.

He is as cold as the Ice B***h downstairs,

making a sandwhich

as Tyler rots

in the ground.

Alone.

Alone.

 

My back turns,

and I begin to walk away.

 

"Bena, I--" He begins a moment too late.

Like with Mom, I cut him off.

Only this time it's not my voice that does so,

but the sharp thud of my door

slamming shut.

Author's Note

Chapter 4. Okay, so the verse isn't really that great, but it's my first time attempting it. So thoughts on that?

Reviews

[Cassie316]

I like the verse. But I have only read 1 book written like this, and it was like 7 years ago.
I especially like the repeating words. So Bena is the sister? You should make that a bit more clear in the earlier chapter, but the story is really starting to form now =)