Page 17

Malakar

PAST: AGED 13

The light of the sun was falling away. My mother was unraveling, and the terror of my father was raining down harder.

I watched the walls change color as dusk pressed its face up against the dirty windows, the thin yellow light slipping off the edges of the furniture.

Shadows spread higher, hungrier, eating the corners first, then the floor, then the ceiling above my head. The house was always hungrier at night. It creaked and groaned, like it was shifting its bones, getting ready for something bad.

My mother was already shaking by the time the sun hit the fields behind the house. I could see her hands fluttering over the countertop, bruises blooming under the thin skin, old and new, stacked in lines like tally marks she could never erase. Her lips moved, whispering to things I couldn't see, and her eyes darted to the corners, glassy and wild.

She kept glancing at the clock, as if the time would save her. Her hair was tangled, knots sticking out where she’d pulled it too hard. She muttered to herself, mouthing words I only caught pieces of—“he’s coming, don’t look, don’t breathe, don’t let him in, don’t let him in, don’t let him in.”

The kitchen stank of vinegar and bleach. She always tried to erase the day before he came home, tried to wipe away every stray crumb, every fingerprint, every speck of dust. If she missed even one, he’d notice. He always noticed.

I didn’t make a sound. Bare feet on tile, my back pressed up against the fridge so he wouldn’t yell at me for standing in the way. My mother hummed a song, low and trembling, voice cracking on every note. She was singing to herself, or maybe to the ghosts she saw lining the walls. She paused, finger pressed to her lips, staring at the ceiling like she heard footsteps, even though the house was still.

My father would come home soon. I knew what that meant. The whole house knew. The air got heavier, like something was pushing against my chest, squeezing the breath right out of me.

The clock on the microwave beeped. Six-oh-one. Late. My mother flinched, eyes widening, mouth twisting. She spun in quick circles, checking the stove, the floor, the sink.

She muttered, “he’s late, he’s late, he’s late, what if he’s dead, what if he’s here, what if he’s watching, what if he’s behind the door, what if⁠—”

I heard the engine before I saw the headlights sweep across the window. His truck grumbled to a stop, coughing out smoke.

My mother’s voice pitched up, a whimper stuck in her throat. She started pacing, clutching her hands against her chest, fingers digging red marks into her skin.

The door slammed. Heavy boots thumped on the porch. The screen door shrieked. I held my breath. I tried to shrink into nothing, to become invisible, but he always saw me. He saw everything.

The doorknob rattled, and then he was inside, filling the doorway with his broad shoulders and sharp eyes. His face was carved from stone, mouth pinched tight, jaw shadowed with stubble.

My mother froze, caught in his stare like a deer on ice.

“Where’s my dinner, Marianne?” His voice scraped over the quiet. He dropped his keys on the counter and peeled off his jacket, tossing it at my mother’s feet. She scrambled to pick it up, fingers tripping over the fabric, head bowed low.

“It’s almost ready, I—” Her voice was too fluttery. She spoke to the floor, never looking him in the eye.

He crossed the kitchen in three strides, looming over her. “Almost? Almost isn’t good enough. Every goddamn day, you make me wait. What the fuck do you do in this house all day? You sit here and talk to yourself? You talk to the voices in your head while this place falls apart?”

She hunched her shoulders, trembling. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it won’t happen again, I⁠—”

He grabbed her by the back of the neck, squeezing until her breath hitched. “It better not. I work all fucking day and this is what I come home to? A crazy bitch and a useless boy?”

I stared at the floor, counting the dead flies clustered along the windowsill. I didn’t move. If I moved, he’d notice.

He shoved her towards the stove. “Cook, Marianne. Don’t stand there shaking like a goddamn leaf.” His hand lingered on her neck for a second longer, fingers digging in, then let go.

She sagged, shoulders drooping, but didn’t cry. Not yet.

He turned to me, eyes narrow. “You, Milo. Set the table. And don’t drop anything. If you make a mess, you’ll clean it with your tongue.”

I nodded and slid to the cabinet, careful not to clatter the plates. My hands shook, but I pressed them together tight, biting my lip until I tasted blood. He watched me, waiting for a mistake.

My mother dumped potatoes in a pot. Water sloshed over the edge, splattering the stove. She whimpered, grabbed a towel, mopped it up as fast as she could. My father’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist, making her drop the towel.

“Stupid. Always making a mess.” He squeezed her wrist until her skin turned white. She tried not to cry out, but a tiny gasp escaped. He twisted harder, then let go, shoving her away. “Finish dinner. And don’t burn it this time.”

The air in the kitchen thickened. My mother’s lips moved, silent prayers slipping out, eyes darting to the corners. I heard her mutter, “don’t look, don’t look, don’t look,” over and over.