The Life Of Michael Afton

{11} Lacking

The car ride back to their home is dark and quiet. The sky is covered in thick, heavy clouds, obscuring it entirely. Rain patters down the car window as William drives away from his wife and child.

Michael sits in the back, strapped into his car seat. Despite it being nearly ten o' clock at night, he seems wide awake. He stares out the window silently and doesn't say a word the whole way home.

When they arrive at their small house, Michael follows him to the door. He watches him so quietly and intensely that the simple act of unlocking the door is slightly daunting. William has never been a coward, but Michael, always a loud and expressive child, being so still and quiet...it's unnerving.

The house is dark and devoid of sound, making every shuffle of fabric echo through the barren rooms. Logically, he knows that most of the furniture and things are still here, and the house hasn't gotten larger. But now that Kathy and Imira are gone, the once-joyful home feels empty and sad. He'd never realized how much he enjoyed listening to the twins chatter until Michael had no one to chatter to. William had never realized how comforting the sound of Kathy humming was until she'd already left for a different country.

Funny how you never notice things until they're gone.

Michael doesn't speak a word, moving as silently as a ghost. He walks to the twins' shared—no, just his room now. William follows him, not knowing what to do.

Michael climbs up the ladder of the bunk bed and wraps himself in a black blanket with stars and moons scattered across it. William recognizes it as the one he'd always find the twins cuddled up inside, during the common occurrence one would decide to join the other in their bed. Michael sits quietly, not speaking and not showing any emotion. Just an empty, blank face. And an empty, blank person.

William leaves the room quietly, and every step he makes sounds too loud.

343 words
8/3/23