The Deathly Nothing

Chapter 4

Cold. The house had always been cold, with all it's cracks and holes, drafts had welcomed themselves in. It's stone walls were infested with cracks, as the white paint flaked away with each passing day. Those evenings when we were cursed with howling winds, the house would groan and screech in it's effort to remain upon it's unstable foundations. As well as intrusion from the wind, nature had chosen to intrude everywhere possible. Vines navigated their way through parts of the ceiling, like twisted hands grabbing for us. Mother had always liked the plants though, she found comfort in filling each empty space with them. To fill the space of what had been stolen from us and to return life to the house.

I sat at the wooden table, towards the right as the legs on the opposite end were struggling these days. Distant calls from the forest filled the bleak night, as I stared out of the kitchen window. The hairs on my arms bristled as the nightime breeze kissed my skin, small gusts pouring in from the open window and settling within the walls of the home. The darkness had always interested me with it's ability to cloak all that moved through it's mystery. I tore my eyes from the window and returned to the abundance of objects scattered across the table: bolts, screws, string and other building materials.

I brought a hand to my forehead, I knew there weren't enough parts to replace the machine from the forest. Across the room Mother's chair remained empty- she was late. I rubbed my eyes, releasing a yawn as I listened to the crackling of the fire. Amongst the gloom of the house the orange blaze comforted me. A ray of hope was offered from it's flames as it roared long into the night, never giving up on us as it offered it's warmth.

Zarek had locked himself in his room exactly where I'd expected him to be when I opened the front door. Most nights it was a miracle if he dragged himself from his cave to dwell in our company for dinner. After the words over the bridge, I suspected this evening nothing would gift him with ability to open the bedroom door.

The sudden knock of boots from the front door as it screeched open slowly, my Mother eventually emerging from behind it, as she shut it quietly behind her. Mother had been silent for a long time, moping around the house lifelessly, the disappearance of my sister had sucked the joy from her. Grief had removed the warm smile she regularly wore and instead stained her face with a hollow emptiness- how I wished to return the happiness that was stolen from her so cruelly. The Underneath had taken Mireille from us but I knew I'd lost her too. My real mother had vanished along with my sister.

Dark circles lay beneath those tired eyes as she glanced towards me from where she stood silently. Her long hair tucked behind her ears, it's locks were no longer a warm shade of fawn but faded and brittle. Whatever source of life she lived on made me question what time I could have left with her. A ghostly demeanor was all that anyone could see, as she drifted to the kitchen side, sliding her brown scarf from her slumped and bony shoulders. Silence was cast upon us as usual as I stood up and began to clear the table and Mother began reaching for potatoes for the usual vegetable soup.

"The windows should stay shut Fabien, this house is cold enough," she croaked, as the window was pulled shut softly. I only looked at her from behind my chair before nodding and walking to her side to help prepare dinner. She scraped a knife along the skin of a potato her wrist shaking slightly, her eyes were only small slits overcome with exhaustion as she struggled to peel the vegetables. My lips parted and my face dropped sadly at the sight, everything felt impossible these days.

"Here, let me do it you can lay the table."

My mother handed me the knife with a delicate smile, before moving to the cutlery draw and tucking her hair behind her ears. My mother had loved to cook once, despite the grasp poverty held on us, her creative mind had gifted us with flavourful meals. Now she'd been stripped of the ability to find passion in anything as we forced spoonfuls of cold vegetable soup down our throats night after night.