Nothing is sharp in David’s house. Not the rust-stained scissors, not the neglected razors, not the knife used in the fight with Janine. The house feels empty now, roomy, remote, redundant. In the garden, feral trees blight the sky, squeaking the window in the breeze. And in the darkness of day, David stirs in his bed, listening for voices that never arrive.
Janine has fled, holding her arm. He’d leaned against the window to part the threadbare curtains and watched her go. She’d tripped on the path, mobbed by brambles. She’d looked back just once, her face creased in anguish and fear.
In the kitchen, shards of white plates scatter the floor, the ancient hob glows red and untended. The oven hums, but the chicken waits on the counter, goose-pimpled and pink. Red spots mark an exit across the tiles.
She’d raised the issue — that issue — while chopping the sage. She could look down, avoiding his eyes, knowing he wouldn’t be pleased. Every night, she said, he ignored her whispers and buried his head in the pillows. He’d rolled away when she reached for his hand. He pretended to be asleep, but she’d caught him staring like a corpse into the half-light. Their conversation had spiralled, each response more cutting. She’d compared him to her brothers: real men, she’d said. He’d thrown his red wine across the wall. Its splash is still bleeding on the paintwork.
The blanket’s a shield for David – a barrier against a hostile world. Janine is pretty, in love with life, wasted on him, he’d heard her brothers say. That wimp, they sneered: work-shy and listless.
The house creaks in the wind. The back door groans and thuds open. The brothers would have no trouble finding him here. And what would she tell them? Those big men with tattooed biceps and pectorals stretching their shirts. Those big men with faces as fixed and glum as their thoughts. Perhaps they are already on their way, arms comforting Janine, clasping the knife, the chopping knife she thrust inside him.
But David is drifting, drifting far away across a sea of gentle waves. He watches the sun sink against a butterscotch sky, creating silhouettes of distant isles. He sees its crimson face spill into the ocean. Then it’s night, a starless, empty night that continues onwards forever.
And now David lies dead in the echoing house of pounding doors as branches paw at his window.
*****
Paul Goodwin has published many articles and five books, including Forewarned (Biteback) and Something Doesn’t Add Up (Profile). His short story, The Dog, was recently published by Literally Stories, and his six-word story was selected for inclusion in the book, Six Word Memoirs, edited by Doug Weller.
