Father and Son

A peculiar short story about a father living with his dead son. Created to explore uncomfortable characters.

I felt terribly sad for what had happened to Lucy Moore. It really was a terrible, terrible shame for four years of family life to come to such an abrupt end, but there was no way I could last another winter. With the orange leaves now fallen and rotting in the puddles, the winter was promised to be a long and cold one. The everlasting nights from which I just sat staring at the last of the burning embers in the lounge. Sitting there and thinking of her heavy and warm body lying in the bed upstairs, presuming I was next to her while she slept. But the thought of lying in the silence listening to the blood pump through her veins, her heavy breathing, her sudden twitches as if something had startled her in her dreams, made me sick.

The only sweetness out of all her faults was the thing she pushed out four years ago, my dear boy. I could stare at his face for hours on end when he was just a baby. The way he looked at me with fascination and how his hands would brush my face. He was more than just a child. Lucas was every parents dream child. His blonde hair, blue eyes, his perfectly shaped face always lead me to saying to others, ‘how wonderful is he?’ or ‘look at how he looks at me’. The other parents were jealous, I could tell. They would then look at their children with disappointment and wish they had the same traits of Lucas. But they never did. It fills my eyes with tears when I think of how he looked at me on that night. The knife in one hand, dripping with his mother’s blood, the clump of her hair in the other, he simply asked ‘where’s mummy?’, I laughed at his ignorance and simply replied ‘gone’.

‘Gone where?’, he asked.

‘Just gone.’

*

This house is incredibly wonderful for my needs. Its unloved nature appealed to me instantly and I found myself loving the derelict house in the country. The bareness of its walls and the damp stale air made it seem half house half nature. Every time I wandered around the building I would see a new plant beginning to grow within the floor or the walls. It was beautiful. Now I sit looking at the weeds growing between the floorboards and feel the warmth of sunshine through the frosty glass. I say that I listen to the silence but still hear the screams. The sound it made when her hair ripped from the roots. The f*****g begs for me stop. The pathetic pleads ‘to think of Lucas’. What does she know of that boy? That boy who was unlucky enough to have half of his traits from her. To have had to be in contact with her for so many years. That’s what ruined him.

When the screams stopped the last of the light was melting away.

‘Hungry Lucas?’

Silence.

The candle light made the kitchen scene seem rather romantic. The shadows flickered off the walls and gave me some much needed company. Lucas was sat upright in the corner of the kitchen in silence, his gaping mouth looking hungry.

‘Not long son.’

We are all guilty of some faults and I am no exception. I have done wrong in the past but never out of ill heart. I once stole a chocolate bar from a shop just so I could give it to my mum as a gift. She beat me for it whilst exclaiming how awful I was. I have always tried to keep people happy.  Every time I tried it either went unnoticed or was ‘not a correct thing to do Mr Moore’.  The only person who had some gratitude for my love was Lucas. Everything I did for that angel was received with such delight. He smiled at me in such a way that I only ever saw it. Lucy claimed, ‘He looks like that to everyone’ but she was just jealous that she didn’t have the same bond as we did. We were more like best friends than father and son, it was magical and unique.

After eating I wandered to the lounge and sat in the darkness, listening to the silence. It must have been an hour before my fingers began to feel like rocks. This is always the time to stop and go to bed. I cannot deal with numb fingers, feels like I’m not in control. I try to bend them but they don’t move like they usually do. I spit on them with warm saliva but it doesn’t make a difference so I am forced to accept defeat and go to bed.

The bed creaked as I moved in it. Its frame was old and the mattress was lumpy. By rocking side to side I made a wonderful rhythm in the creaking and it felt rather therapeutic. The rest of the house was dead silent. If there was any other sound I quickly attended to it to stop it. I once spent an entire night cutting a tree down because the branches brushed the windows once. Was incredibly satisfying sleeping that night. I remember grinning massively as I drifted off. It is only when I am satisfied with the quiet and my legs are completely under the covers that I can sleep.

‘Goodnight son!’

Silence. He never calls back. He’s always asleep before me with his mind drifting along in his dreams like the clouds of breath on top of me. The clouds that are visible in the cool light of the moon. They are truly wonderful to watch die in this light. Puffing out in brilliance to only become invisible like the previous breaths before.

‘Morning son!’

Same old silence as before. It is as if ever since that night his mum left, he has become completely mute. Never do I get that wonderful expression from his face or the wonderful ‘love you’ from his pink and fresh lips. His eyes have become cold and empty. His skin pale and plain. I missed his radiance. I wanted him back as before so I can feel his warmth and hear his laugh.

*

I had a rather small, but suitable, allotment outside. Carrots, potatoes, tomatoes… you name it. I rarely went hungry and for some reason hadn’t the same craving for meat as I had done before. Every morning I go out and pick whatever I can for dinner and lunch. I skip breakfast though. I have never felt hungry in the mornings. Lucas never ate now, I beg him to but he just gives me the same expression. Maybe I’m being harsh on him. Must be hard on him losing his mum. He just doesn’t understand what she was. She had an element of cleverly hating me.  Never did she show her hatred but I knew it was there. With every smile her eyes opened a little more than they should so I did the exact same thing back. Every minute of every day was the same f*****g thing. The same fake treatment. The same fake love. The same manipulation of me. The mocking of my character.

*

It was Lucas’ birthday today, his first since being here. I understood the troubles he had in not being close to home but I was adamant on making up for it. He had always loved my tomato soup so I felt it was the best thing for his birthday dinner.

The tomatoes were huge and fresh as I plucked them off the plant, looking incredible in the sunlight.

‘These are for your tea’, I said.

A blank expression was all he gave.

‘Ahh never mind’.

Everything had to be absolutely perfect today. I had all the ingredients in front of me, distanced to perfection so they would be easy to grab. The knife had been sharpened especially. Its blade seemed to cut the sunlight when I waved it around, reflecting light through the dusty air.

 I cut into the biggest tomato first and the juice exploded from it like a mini bomb.

‘You see that!’ my eyes wide with joy as I stared at the birthday boy. He did not seem impressed.

My hand was covered in the red liquid, it oozing in between my fingers. It still had some of the warmth of the sunlight within it and was strangely satisfying feeling it being passed onto me. I picked up my hands and looked at them. They say you can tell a lot by someone’s hands but no one’s hand had done as much as mine for happiness. The stealing of chocolate all the way to slashing of throats. They had grown in power as I grew taller.

‘What hands are these Lukey? What instruments are they? Great ones, that’s what.’ I said to Lucas, him looking at me in the same way.

‘You’ve never truly understood what they have done for you. But that’s ok. Isn’t it?’

Lucas’ silence was starting to trouble me. I have enjoyed his solitude nature since we have been here but now, in this very moment, I was beginning to feel like he wasn’t appreciating me. As if he wasn’t quite aware of who I truly was.

The cooking was going incredibly well. A wonderful aroma filled the kitchen, mixing with the smell of burning wood. It truly smelt like a home. I had finally done what I planned to do. Create a new home with him. Yes, it was far from anything else but we got by.

‘Soup Lukey?’

He still had nothing to say. Not even a sign of gratitude for the effort I was making.

‘C-c-come on Lukey, you love soup’, and still he looked the same.

The sun was beginning to set and the orange light was hot on my face. The heat usually was welcomed but not now. It sunk deep into my head, cooking it from the inside out. I turned my head but still the heat built and built. It made everything unbearable. The silence. The lack of thanks from Lucas. The way his head cocked to the right as if he was mocking me.

‘Say something! Just anything!’ I shouted, placing my face directly in front of his, our noses touching.

‘Nothing?’ I asked quietly.

‘Of course nothing.’

My heart was racing but I crouched still in front of him. My eyes alternating between his left and right. I felt a droplet of sweat trickle down my face, my long hair wet with it now. My breathing was hard but slow. I tried calming myself, showing a good example in how to deal with frustration.

‘Ok son’, and I stood up looking ahead at the wall behind him. ‘Ok’.

And with that I clenched my fist and sent it flying into the side of his skull, my knuckles breaking as they cracked his head wide open. His body shifted to the side of the chair but the ropes around his abdomen kept him on it. There was no blood from his wound but the skin was clearly broken.

‘Just! Just, think about me!’ I shouted, spit flying into his face.

‘Just think sometimes’, I whispered, now kissing his dipped head, ‘Just think’.