✓ | The Crown of the Dead

Epilogue

The woman threw down the sponge in defeat, sighing and wiping her hands off on a towel. The sink was still running, a steady stream of water rushing from the tap, resulting in a repetitive melodic sound. She pulled a hair tie off her wrist and gathered her hair up, swiftly tying it back. The texture of it was rough and bordering on dead. She regretted dying it so much as a teenager.

The woman picked up the sponge and the pan again, scrubbing at the sides so hard she was afraid the sponge may break in half.

The floorboards creaked behind her. There was the sound of rustling papers.

"I hope you're here to say sorry," she said gently, placing the pan into the drying rack. She didn't turn around—just picked up a spoon sitting in the sink and went to work on it.

The person behind her did not reply. The floorboards moaned once more, indicating his movement.

"Silent treatment, huh?" She commented, throwing down the spoon and tilting her head over her shoulder.

The boy's face was painted with disgust, his mouth in a strictly straight line. His ears were twitching ever so slightly. It was something that happened whenever he was mad.

"Don't look at me like that," the woman said. She turned back to the sink. "I don't know why this bothers you so much all of a sudden. This has never happened before..." her voice trailed off as she blinked back tears, trying to keep her emotions at bay.

What if she wasn't enough for him? What if he really did need someone there to talk to about stuff she didn't understand?

"Look. Dinner's in the oven. If you want to take it up to your room and sulk, I'm fine with that. Okay?"

No response. She sighed, shutting off the water and turning around for good this time, leaning up against the sink.

"C'mon. How long is this going to go on for?"

His ears twitched again, and his eyebrows furrowed.

"Hello? Are you at least going to tell me that?"

The boy turned towards the oven, clutching the handle and pulling it open.

"Okay then..." the woman muttered. She made her way past him and into the dining room, where she laid out two plates, two napkins, and two sets of silverware.

When she looked up from her task, the boy was standing in the doorway, his eyes large and a plate piled with food in his hands.

"I'm sorry, mom."

The woman let out a sigh of relief. He didn't mean it. It was just heat-of-the moment anger. You are enough.

"It's okay. I understand why you might... think about that often," she managed. It hurt to say. No— not say— force out. It hurt to force out those words.

The boy set down his plate in front of his usual seat. He pulled it out from under the table and sat. His face held no emotion. Just a blank canvas.

The woman left the room to get her own dinner. When she returned, she seated herself directly across from him.

"Should we wait for her?" The boy asked.

The woman was startled by his voice at first. She was surprised he wanted to talk to her at all. Then, she looked to the empty seat next to her, staring at it intently. After a moment of deliberation, she spoke. "It doesn't matter."

She probably won't be home.

The boy picked up his fork and began shoveling food into his mouth. His ears relaxed, and he brushed his curls behind them. The shirt he wore was purple and faded, his overalls dirty.

The woman picked up her fork as well, but didn't make any moves for her plate. Instead, she stared at the boy, tilting her head to the side, her dark hair falling out of the loose hair tie and onto her shoulder.

"Why are you staring at me?"

She blinked. "Sorry."

For the next few minutes, the only sounds were the scraping of forks across plates and quiet chewing.

"Did you mean it?"

The boy dropped his fork, and it landed on his plate with a clatter. He looked up and swallowed. "What?"

The woman played with her fingers under the table to keep herself from doing something irrational. She cracked her knuckles. "What you said earlier. Did you mean it?"

The boy froze. His ears twitched again, and the woman immediately knew she had made a mistake. She shouldn't have asked. She should've let it be, she should've—

"Which thing?"

Oh. Okay.

The woman took a deep breath in. "About... running away? You won't, right?"

The room was silent enough to hear the clicking of the grandfather clock in the other room. It'd been a long time since she'd been enveloped in this kind of quiet.

And then, the boy's shoulders relaxed, and his ears tilted downwards, fluttering slightly. A smile curled across his lips. The woman couldn't tell if it was real or not.

"Of course not, mom."

The woman let a smile of her own form on her face. She turned her attention back to her plate, a weight easing off her chest.

It's okay. Everything is okay.

The boy's fingers were crossed behind his back.

{WC: 859}

...the greek tragedies will continue