Short Stories || Original

EDEN

Written for - School Assessment
Year written - 2018
Word count - 1078

     It is cold. The dark-blue, hardcover suitcase is sitting full on the messy, unmade queen bed. He has been in this room for two days, it is time to move on. He has left his bag open, not really for any reason, everything he is taking is in there: shirts, pants, spare hoodie, underwear, toothbrush and paste, and the photo. On top is the photo, an A5 family portrait of his family before everything happened, the reflection of the dull, warm-white light casting a circle in the top right-hand corner. He almost laughs as he stands in only the earth-brown towel and thinks about this photo. Almost. The picture shows the then breathing dead, and standing alongside them is himself.

     It had started with his younger brother, Tommy. He was a happy go lucky seven-year-old that had been dragged to the depths of a river swimming hole, swept away from his family and washing away the happy life they had had with him. That day had been a normal day. Tommy and eleven-year-old Eden had been playing happily by the riverside throwing stones and swimming, splashing and laughing, as brothers normally would. Everything had gone so fast, they’d dived from the shore into the river, closing their eyes and keeping their hands in front of them as they became submerged in the icy, flowing water. When Eden broke the surface of the river, feet planted in the stones and large-grained river sand, he was laughing. He stopped laughing very quickly. He was alone.

     He adjusts his towel, making sure it is tight around his waist. To say he doesn’t trust this room is an understatement, dirty hotels like this one are a hub for R-rated activities and it honestly wouldn’t surprise him if there is a camera or two focused on the bed and thus where he is standing beside it. Beside his suitcase lays a smoke-grey t-shirt, simple and artless as all his shirts now are. Jeans and underwear sit beside the shirt, but they would go on later. For now, he picks up the top and pulls it over his rather unimpressive body to cover a barely fading brown-purple mark that is painted on his side and bottom couple of ribs. He throws his arms and head carelessly through the holes and tussles his still damp hair, drawing a deep breath of air stained by the smell of cigarettes from the other patrons of this guest house. He looks down. Once again his eyes wander their way to the image in the simple wooden frame.

     It had continued with his mother, Natasha. She couldn’t live with the fact her youngest son had been ripped away from her and spiraled down and down into a blackness from which she never returned. He remembered standing beside his father at her graveside, the man who was supposed to be his role model kneeling down before him and looking him dead in the eye. It was the first time his father had insulted him to his face. He remembered his father telling then twelve-year-old Eden that he had to stop crying, that his mother was a weak whore and there was no way he would stand to raise a pansy like him, and that was just the beginning of what he would go on to say.

     His hand grabs the red synthetic cotton of his underwear and he awkwardly pulls them on under his towel, only then dropping and kicking the dirt-brown rectangle of fabric away from him. Next comes his Levi’s, a standard thick denim in the usual darkish blue colour. This pair may be a little small, tight around the waistband and constricting on his thighs, but that is just how it has to be. He can’t be picky about these things, not anymore. He has stuff to sell sure, but he does not have the money to splash out on things like new clothes, those are a luxury not only he can’t afford but doesn’t deserve, not after what he had done.

     It had ended with his father, Frank. He had done nothing but hate his remaining son since his wife had taken her life. He drowned his sadness in concoctions of liquors and spirits, any consciousness going to reminding his growing son that he wouldn’t raise a wimp, beating it into his son that he wouldn’t stand for his crap. “I married a pushover, you will never be as weak as your stupid mother!” his father would scream as flat hand, leather belt, wooden plank, or iron stoker came down across his flesh, “Never!” He was a monster who had bled out with shards of one of his bottles deep in his stomach. The last word he had spoken was the name of his living son in a tone of voice laced with physical, mental, and emotional pain, disappointment, and perhaps a little surprise as the eighteen-year-old Eden stood before him with his hand wrapped tightly around the neck of the clear glass planted in his torso. The choking sounds and dull thud as the man fell to the tile floor while Eden stood tall, the way he had felt adrenaline and power rush through his veins as he had stolen the life of the monster that had caused him nothing but harm, they were not things he would ever forget. He caused those sounds. He caused that pain. He caused those memories. Does he regret it?

     The final addition to his ensemble is the ash-grey, zipless hoodie that had been thrown over the back of the chair in the corner of the unkempt room. He grabs it and threads his arms through the sleeves, yanking it over his head and down. With the addition of shoes, he was ready to leave, his suitcase zipping closed and clunking to the ground beside him and a black and white Nike backpack slinging over his shoulders, the backpack that holds the small amount of money and sellable valuables that he has left. He can last maybe a week if he is smart. Then what? Eighteen-year-old Eden leaves the falling-apart hotel room, neglecting to shut off the dull, warm-white light or pick up the shit-brown towel from where it lay in a heap on the floor. Where the hell is he supposed to go now?