'Nostalgia is such a selfish emotion..'
A line once recited to me by my darling author of a husband, John, during one of his numerous evening brain writing sessions.
He was smart, funny, loving and indescribably lazy when it came to meagre errands.
Since he was the prime example of a loving husband, I tried my best to help him with his shortcomings.
As such I found myself going through his mail and forcing him to reply to some letters on the spot.
Most times, the mail is filled with different ads and coupons which we never use so he gets to just lie down lazily and watch me sort them out, replying "Aye'' or "Nay'' to coupons he thinks he'll use, so I'll keep them aside in another pile. I call that pile the 'Discard later pile' because I know the coupons in there would never be used.
It was another Saturday afternoon, time for our monthly mail sorting and today I noticed that John was a lot more active.
For one, he wasn't lying on the couch but sitting, looking at me curiously.
"Am I hallucinating? Its already one in the afternoon and you don't even seem half ready for you mid afternoon nap." I asked him, amused at the sudden change in sleeping schedule.
"It's just a very cool temperature now, not hot enough nor cold enough to be drowsy... It's just right." He answered oblivious of the amusement I got from his abnormal sleeping habits .
I laughed as he crossed his leg, eyes open and a wide smile on his face.
I faced the mail for some minutes and then looked back at him, to no surprise his legs were uncrossed and he was already leaning sideways on the couch, ready to curl up and sleep off like an old Tom cat
I paid him no mind, as I looked through the mail, I saw no coupons nor private messages that needed his sleep be disturbed. As he slept,I continued the work quietly, looking through the bills and ads, making a note of the ones that needed to be paid and the ones that would go into the fireplace.
There was one letter that was different though, a private letter in a black envelope.
"What's that?" My husband asked drowsily from the couch. Seemed he woke up while trying to switch positions and get more comfortable.
"I don't know. I just noticed it." I answered back, curious at the envelope color and texture.
"Well open it." He said eagerly, eyes sparkling with curiosity as though he was a kid who found a chest buried in the backyard.
I opened the envelope and came to sit down beside him on the couch.
Inside was a piece of paper and a small satchel bag.
Dear Mrs Macdoff
Sorry for sending you this letter during your year of grieving, but with the death of your mother and disappearance of your father leaves a great responsibility for you, child.
Previously her house, currently your house, the Macdoff Manor, is in a very sorry state.
We understand your unwillingness to visit due to you roast experiences here, but alas if there's no response to this message in the next three weeks, we the Triplore building disposal team, by the order and with the authority of the Mayor of Triplore would be forced to tear down the house and any previous rights of ownership for the house and land would be revoked.
In the satchel, you'll see a single key which opens the front door of the house.
Again we're sorry for your loss.
"You have to go!"
"No.. I.. don't." I replied to John, waving the envelope in tune with each word for emphasis.
"It's your mother's house, your inheritance, your family heirloom and you're just going to throw it away?" He argued.
"A heirloom I don't want, an inheritance I don't need all from a woman who I never saw as my mother."
"You're going." He concluded, awfully stubborn about this.
"I don't want to." I replied back.
"You must. It's your duty to do it."
He managed to collect the envelope before I could toss it into the heart and light it on fire.
"Duty is quite a far-fetched word."
"Why are you so afraid of going there? Your mother is dead, there's nothing to be afraid of." He walked into the bedroom, making a lot of noise as he brought out our boxes for the trip.
I looked at my hand, my eyes drifting to the scar near my thumb, I felt a shiver that drove me to the chair.
Hugging myself and shaking, I asked myself the same question John asked me.
"What are you so afraid of? Your mom's dead"*
She may be dead, but the trauma is very much alive. And there's nothing I'm more afraid of than the memories who are living in the house in her wake.
"It's not opening." John tried opening the door. Fiddling the key inside the lock, twisting, turning and probing, trying as hard as he could to get us away from the storm.
With the harsh winds, stormy skies and just a hint of the moonlight, the huge house looked like something out of a horror story.
"Seems I'll have to break it." He announced getting ready to ram into the door.
For some reason, breaking the door didn't sit right with me so I asked if I could try.
He gave me the key, a key I have pointedly ignored and denied it's existence ever since reading the letter.
Now that I felt the cold metal in my hand, wet with rain or sweat or maybe both, I knew that opening this door was simultaneous to opening my chamber of fears and memories. Memories I had long locked up.
"You okay?" John asked, breaking me out of my thoughts. I walked forward, inserting the key into the keyhole.
The grooves and feel felt familiar, and almost immediately I realized that I had to pull the door towards me and then towards the key hole itself before turning.
It was rusted, the key hole filled with moisture and baked in the sunlight due to numerous months of neglect, yet it still opened.
The door creaked open and we were rushed inside by a cold wet wind.
First thing we did was turn on our torch lights, being the first people in the house in 6 years, the least we could do is know if we had walked into a den of wild beasts.
The house looked the same. The same as I had ever known it, the same chair my step father had loved sitting on while smoking his pipe or drinking his alcohol.
The same floor I scrubbed till it sparkled after he had vomited from smoking too much pipe or drinking too much alcohol.
In a daze I walked forward, looking at different objects that held different memories, none of them good.
I looked at the corridor I knelt on for hours because I had a D in maths, and the scratches on the paint on the walls, scratches made by my nails where I was forced to hold unto, as I was flogged for lying or stealing or lying about stealing.
"Hey"
"Hey Lila"
"Lila!!"
"Lila!!"
I opened my eyes, saw John kneeling down, looking at me with concern on his face.
The surroundings had changed. There seemed to be power as the lights were on and it felt a little bit warmer.
"Are you okay?" He asked. I heard him but I couldn't answer.
My eyes were fixed on just one object, the knife on the counter, a knife I would never forget. The knife that gave me my one scar which wouldn't heal.
The night was an awkward one, I couldn't eat, so John managed to put me in bed in mother's room after cleaning it. He then went downstairs to lock up and sleep there.
He gave me my space and I loved him for that.
I couldn't sleep though, and I still shivered and shook, although not from the cold.
I looked around my mom's room. A room I didn't have much memory of since I didn't spend much time here.
My mom was a sickler and at such I was left in the loving care of my alcoholic stepfather.
Since I didn't spend much time here, I didn't have any bad memories here and I could at least try to rest.
I stretched my legs, trying to get at least a bit more comfortable till my feet bumped a book.
I picked it up curiously, wondering what it could be.
Its cover has gathered up some dust and it seemed well worn.
Not until I started reading the first page did I know that this was a diary, a diary of my mother.
I was conflicted. My curiosity for the thoughts of the woman who left me under the care of an abusive lover clashed with my utmost revulsion of her and all of her belongings.
I flung the book to the floor, deciding to just ignore it.
Yet after a few minutes of boredom and sleeplessness my curiosity won me over and I began reading.
The book was light, but with every page felt heavier in my arms. As I read further and got dragged deeper into her thoughts, I realized just how pained she must have felt as she was faced with her own weakness when I was growing up.
How she fought with her husband everyday because he was too harsh on me.
How she wished she could comfort me but couldn't because her ailments were particularly fatal to children of my age.
One particular entry pushed me to tears.
April 19th, 1698.
Gabe barged into my room, eyes wide. He had never looked like this before, not even after he found Lily stealing money from his wallet for her ice cream and then lying about the threat. He promised he would have given her the icecream if she had asked too, he claimed that's what pained him the most.
This look was different. It was a look of fear, a look I had never seen on this face before, a look he didn't look good with.
He rushed to my drawers, looking for something.
After a few seconds of haphazard searching, flinging bottles and pills off, he ran back down with the emergency first aid kit.
He didn't look injured, and then I worried about the one other person who might need emergency first aid, Lily.
I tried getting up, a feat I hadn't accomplished in recent months, yet the urge to confirm the well-being of my daughter and possibly kill my husband if he had hurt her again was strong enough to pull me to my feet. Before I managed to reach downstairs though, Gabe and Lily were both gone, the car was gone, the door was wide open, and I was left alone in the sitting room with a bloodied knife, a red stained floor and a crazed mind.
After a few hours, Gabe came back, without Lily.
As he saw me, his before thoughtful face turned into a fake nervous smile.
"Why are you up, you should be resting." He asked as he lifted me up and began carrying me to my bed.
"Where's Lily?" I asked simply.
He stopped on the steps, emotions flashing through his face; fear, hatred, anger and regret, all blinking and flashing through like a lightshow.
"She's safe." He replied simply, biting his lips to avoid saying more.
He dropped me on the bed and began cleaning up the mess he had made.
"What happened?" I asked again.
He kept on picking the pills and gathering the bottles quietly. Concentrating on the simple task as though him missing a pill meant he had missed them all.
"What happened?!!" I asked again, raising my voice so I couldn't.. so I wouldn't be ignored.
He looked at me, his eyes red and swollen. His nose was already leaking.
With a raw voice, with his eyes on the floor, he spoke five words that gave me a chill no cold has ever given me before.
"She tried to kill herself."
After saying that, he broke down, crying like a baby who had been beaten. I sat in silence, trying to understand what had happened in my own home.
About thirty minutes later, Gabe had managed to compose himself, he had forgotten all about the pill now, he just sat down on the floor, his back on the wall and his head in his arms.
"Tell me what happened." I said slowly.
"I don't want to remember it." He said, apparently still crying.
"I want to know. I don't want you to ever forget." I replied sternly, feeling nothing but pity for my loving husband but failed father.
He took a deep breath then began talking;
"She had just come back from school. I asked her to go change and fetch me a new bottle from the fridge. As always she did as she was told. I collected the bottle and dismissed her yet she stayed."
'Anything the matter?' I asked.
She tried speaking, looking as though she wanted to say something.
'Speak girl!' I shouted at her, her stammering was getting on my nerves so I shouted at her like I always did.
He cried for a few more minutes before continuing his story.
As I shouted she seemed like a doll who had a switch turned off or something, all emotion gone as she walked back to her room. It was scary, it didn't seem right to me y'know.
He shivered visibly as he recounted the scenario.
Her eyes seemed darkened, as though there was no light in them.
I had a bad feeling in my gut, I was sorry for shouting at her for such a minor reason, so I stood up and went to check up on her, hopefully ask what she wanted to say and apologize.
I opened her room door and then.. then.. I saw her about to slash her wrist like a psychopath, our own Lily, drove to suicide because of me.
He started crying again, unable to contain himself.
I felt cold, way colder than I had ever felt.
I shook after reading the last line of the entry. It was the first time I was reading or hearing about that side of my stepdad.
I remember that day, I did slash my wrist, missing the vein because of the shock I had when he opened the door.
It was the first time he came to look for me after shouting at me. The knife still did cut me and the blood loss was enough to make me lose consciousness, but not fatal.
The discovery of this new side of my stepdad was really something.
I turned the page to the next entry.
April 27th, 1698
It is terrible, I have been diagnosed with a terminal illness and would soon be taken to the hospital.
Lilly has recovered fairly well but the mental wounds are even worse on Gave, he can't look at a wine bottle, a cigar nor at a mirror again.
It makes me wonder which version I preferred, the dominant male who was harsh on the outside but loved his family on the inside or this version, a timid lad who just seems broken all through.
Everyday, he stays in my room with me, unwilling to talk to Lilly, but always has something to talk about with me.
The companionship is endearing but disheartening, he seemed thinner, and weaker, as though he was now sick.
After a few days I voiced my concerns.
"You're sorely mistaken." He debunked them with a playful laugh.
"I've always been fit." He claimed.
I was worried though, I didn't know enough about Lilly because I couldn't see her without hurting her, Gabe could talk to Lilly because of his fear of what he might say might harm her.
I'm afraid I won't be able to see her grow up and even more scared that if I do go, Gabe would be unable to watch, correct and guide you.
I asked him once last week.
"What would you do if I died?"
"I wouldn't know, I can't say." He said thoughtfully.
"What would happen to Lilly?" I asked next.
To that he answered immediately.
"She would grow up to be a beautiful woman, one who would be able to uphold justice and one who would be able to truly feel your love."
My heart broke at that, the fact that he had already assumed that Lilly didn't love him hurt me more than the illness that was slowly eating my heart at that moment.
The entry had stopped and it remained just one more page.
I was scared of what I may find at the end of my mother's memories.
Scared of what more I may uncover about the love of my parents.
Yet I was confused about how I felt, how I should feel, and for that I needed every bit of information I could get, so I pressed on.
May 31st, 1699.
It's been exactly 1 year since your mother died, my wife Anne who had this diary, a book you and I picked for her in the book fair your kindergarten school had once held.
Those were simpler times, a time we were all happy.
It seems like your mother began writing in here to express her thoughts to you, later on, she started to include my thoughts, thoughts which I was afraid to share with you.
She's gone now but after reading this it felt as though I was talking to my love for some time again, and I hope it feels that way too whenever you get to read it.
I know it's almost disrespectful for it to be my handwriting you get to read as the closing chapter but she forced me to do it as her dying wish and so I'm compelled to keep my promise.
Firstly I would like to apologize. Apologize for the long years of pain and suffering I have inflicted on you.
Apologize for the pain and suffering I may have caused you to inflict on yourself.
Writing this now I still get nightmares if seeing you slump, blood gushing out of your wrist like a geyser on a mountain.
I apologize for shouting at you, I don't even remember why I shouted back then, nor the numerous times I did.
I grew up with an abusive father, yet I didn't learn my lesson.
I just want you to know this Lilly.
I loved you, I really did, I still do.
I loved you as much as I did from the time when I married your mother and you were just turning one.
Till now as you're about to wed this writer lad.
I did have a small talk with him though, seems like a really nice boy. I pray he grows up to be nothing like was.
I hope he is a better father.
By the time you're reading this, I'm probably gone and the house would be yours.
They may ask you to decide what to do with it, renovate or dismantle.
Your decision is yours to make, but before you do I hope you know this.
This house may have been a house of pain, torture and suffering for you because of me, but just know this.
This room, the room where you're reading this right now, your mother's room where you saw this book, is a room of love, a room of unrivaled love for you.
We both loved you, even if you may have not felt any of the love when you were a child and we were alive, I hope you feel the love as you're with your partner, I hope you feel our love in the room reading this book.
With tears in my eyes I closed the book. Just then I noticed John at the doorway looking at me.
"Seems like it was a hell of a story."
"You met my father?" I asked him, shocked at the revelation.
"More like he met me." He replied laughing.
"Just after I had proposed he cornered me into a bar and made me spill out all of my intentions."
"He was a huge guy, looked quite healthy for a man of his age, and looked like one who could clearly hold his drink, but he took only water."
"He wrote his number on a napkin and passed it to me and that's when I confirmed that he was your father. You both had the same handwriting."
"Down to the unnecessary slash across the middle of your figure seven." He said laughing.
"'So what're you going to do about the house?" He asked.
"For the first time in my life I'm finally feeling a bit of parental love. There's no way I'm demolishing that. No way at all." I announced calmly.
John did a woot and jumped mistakenly putting his hand through the low ceiling.
"You'll fix that." I reminded him.
"They'll change the ceiling anyway," he said laughing.u
"Nooo."
"They'll renovate the house, changing the paint, windows and bulbs, but this room would be left untouched." I explained.
"No one would change nor alter the love filled in these four walls."
- Story made in response to @theinkwell's prompt My Mother's House
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You are really a great writer, I enjoyed reading your post
Thanks✨
@seki1,
The story is sophisticated and subtle. It moves us. Unfortunately, it deals rather graphically with child abuse, which we do not allow in the Inkwell. Please refer to our guideline post about violence.
We love your writing and regret not being able to curate this very thoughtful piece.
I somewhat expected that 😂😂😞
It's a pity though.
Thanks anyways for your comment, just wanted to write what I felt about that prompt.
!BBH
@theinkwell! Your Content Is Awesome so I just sent 1 $BBH (Bitcoin Backed Hive) to your account on behalf of @seki1. (4/5)
You are a great writer. Sometimes we write because we want to. I often don't write fiction for Hive (not just the Inkwell) because I can get a bit dark and I don't want to go there in the community :)
😂😂😂
Well, i thought it would be somehow odd to post a story made from an inkwell post in scholars and scribe or free writers 😂😂😂
Plus there was still the slight, minimal chance that I would get curated 😂😂
Of course I didn't write for that...
But that big upvote still does brings a smile to my face😂😂