PARACIDE

Chapter 8: The Closet

Sam stood in the guest room, his eyes locked on the closet door. It was a plain, unremarkable thing, painted the same soft beige as the rest of the walls. But something about it gnawed at him, pulling him closer, like it held a piece of the past he wasn’t ready to face.

His hand hovered over the knob before he finally opened the door. The smell of cedar drifted out, filling the small space. The closet was neat and organized, with a few spare blankets stacked on the top shelf and hangers clinking softly against the wooden rod. Nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary.

But as Sam stood there, staring at the empty space, his mind was already somewhere else—back home, in his parents’ bedroom.

It had been a day like any other, but for some reason, that particular day had been the breaking point for his mother. Sam remembered it vividly. He was standing in the hallway, hearing the sound of drawers being yanked open, the unmistakable rustle of fabric being pulled from hangers, and then the sharp, angry thud of clothes hitting the floor.

She was in one of her fits.

The door to her room was cracked open just enough for him to see inside. His mother was standing in front of the closet, ripping shirts and dresses off their hangers and tossing them haphazardly onto the bed, the floor—wherever they landed. Her face was twisted in anger, her lips pulled into a tight, thin line as she muttered to herself, barely coherent.

Sam had seen this before. Too many times. She would get like this sometimes—when something small set her off, or when she felt overwhelmed by things she wouldn’t talk about. And then she’d start tearing through the house, throwing things, slamming doors, screaming at no one in particular.

His father always stayed out of it. He’d disappear when she got like that, retreating into his office or leaving the house entirely. But Sam never knew what to do. He’d just stand there, watching, feeling helpless, wondering if there was anything he could say to make it stop.

But on that day, something snapped.

His mother picked up one of his father’s suits and hurled it onto the bed, a strangled cry of frustration tearing from her throat. And that’s when it happened.

Without thinking, without planning, the words exploded out of Sam like a gunshot.

“Enough!”

The sound of his own voice startled him. It was loud, booming, filled with a rage he didn’t even know he had. His mother froze, mid-motion, the sleeve of a shirt still clutched in her hand as she turned to look at him.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The room felt like it was vibrating with the weight of his outburst. His heart pounded in his chest, the anger swirling in his veins like wildfire.

His mother’s eyes widened in shock, her face drained of all color. She stared at him as if he were a stranger, someone she didn’t recognize. Sam could see her hands shaking slightly, her knuckles white as she gripped the fabric.

And then she did something that cut deeper than any yelling ever had.

She dropped the shirt onto the floor, turned her back to him, and walked out of the room, her face as blank as a doll’s.

No shouting. No tears. Nothing.

Just silence.

The weight of it crushed Sam in that moment. The anger, the fear, the guilt—it all tangled together in his chest, a knot that wouldn’t unravel. He stood there in the doorway, his breath heavy, his heart pounding, wondering what the hell had just happened.

He never spoke to her about it afterward. Neither did she. It was like it had never happened at all.

But Sam couldn’t forget the way she’d looked at him, like he was something broken—something dangerous.

Standing there in the guest room closet now, Sam’s chest tightened at the memory. His fingers curled around the edge of the doorframe, his knuckles pale. He could almost hear the faint echo of his voice from that day, the rage that had bubbled up from somewhere deep inside him, uncontrolled.

Was that still inside him? That same anger, waiting to lash out again?

The closet here was neat, calm. But all he could see was the mess—the chaos his mother had left in her wake.

He let out a long breath, feeling his heartbeat slowly return to normal. It was over now. That was then. This is now, he reminded himself, trying to ground his thoughts.

But as much as he tried, the memory of that outburst—the look on his mother’s face—stayed with him. Maybe it always would.