Trials of Love

Home, Sweet Home

It took a long time for the boy to wake me.

Years, in fact.

Years of love, of that warm cocooning feeling of safety when he returned from outside, of casual deep-seated affection that he never knew he was feeling.

Still, that did not wake me. It stirred me. Eased the stiffness of my build, softened my edges.

I woke the night his parents died. He was still young but not young and his cries of anguish shuddered me down to my foundations, shook off decades of stillness and dragged me to awareness.

He was hurt and still loved me and I would protect him.

He has stayed, since. He has few friends, mostly remains inside. He cares for me, fixes me, and I keep him safe and warm and loved.

And now... Now, something rumbles down the street outside, pulls up to the house next door. Voices carry. He goes to a window, presses his face almost to the glass. I cannot see what lays beyond but he breathes in sharply, does not move for a while.

Whatever is outside, it interests him.

It interests him for the next few days and I am careful not to slam doors too harshly, not to let the floorboards squeak.

A week later, he brings the man inside.

He has brought friends back to me, before. They are acquaintances, do not stay long, are careful where they step and what they touch.

This man... he sits on the sofa and they are touching, too close. When he is left alone, he wanders around the room, peering and poking and making me bristle. My boy returns and they laugh and talk and the man leaves well after nightfall.

I brood on it. He returns often and they get closer and I develop a plan.

When my boy leaves the room, I move. A door swings open. A window slams against the frame. The furniture is easy to herd; chairs skitter backwards and drawers slide open when he walks by.

At first, it merely unsettles him. He jumps at a sound, laughs. Tells my boy that this old house is kind of creepy—and in response, I shiver with anger, the walls creak in surprise. My boy looks surprised at that, too, apologises and soothes the man.

He spends more time outside, after that. Away from me. With him. I hate it. The days turn colder and I keep the windows tightly shut, keep everything as warm and inviting as possible. He spends a night. Two. A week.

It occurs to me, one day, that he might leave entirely. Might leave me here, cold and alone, to be occupied by some other family who will never love me quite so much, and that is the one thing I cannot allow.

I scrap my first plan—useless, pointless—and come up with another.

My boy stays away for two weeks this time, returning to collect some clothes. I wait, after he has left, until I hear the door open next door.

I swing the front door open. It is a gamble—I can see little beyond my own boundaries—but I'm in luck; the man approaches slowly, expression guarded.

"Hello?" he shouts into my empty hallway. He grumbles to himself, steps inside before he takes out his phone.

I slam the door behind him.

He turns, pulls at the handle. I do not budge; the door is firm. Still, he seems startled but not yet scared, not yet suspicious.

He goes to the back door. I allow him this because I want him to know, to understand. The living room doors are shut tight—every door upstairs, too, with the exception of the bathroom.

I do not allow the back door to open, either, and when he turns with the phone still in his hand, the knives on the side squirm in their block. No, no. I will not have my boy see that much blood.

Upstairs, the bath taps turn on. Water rushes out and he tilts his head, frowns. He reaches for one of the knives and I let him have it. It cannot hurt me.

He climbs the stairs slowly, holding the knife before him. There is no one in the bathroom and he stares at the taps for a moment before reaching out to turn them off.

They do not move. He curses, pulls and pushes, but the water still comes and the plug is in—the water is rising and he scrabbles to try to, at least, pull that out.

The bath groans and clenches, holding everything in place. The bathroom door slams shut. He curses again, dropping the knife to the ground as he tugs and tugs at the bath plug. He's leaning over the water now so I give the floor tiles a little nudge; he doesn't fall in, but his phone does, and he falls back onto the floor, cursing again.

I could fill the room with water but that will require more effort than I wish to expend on him. The shower curtain flutters and a towel on the radiator twitches. I want him to know it was me.

He will know.

He crosses to the door, pounds on it, kicks it, and water trickles over the sides of the bath, spills onto the floor.

I stop the taps.

He turns, slower this time, and his shoulders are tense, fear bright in his eyes. He glances around. Takes one step, another.

When he reaches the bath, his fingers skim the surface of the water.

The shower curtain strikes. Twists. Before he can scream, it wraps itself around his neck and drags him down towards the water, then under. The towel swiftly joins in, wrapping around his head and it is all over in minutes.

He is deposited on the damp floor, eyes empty, silent.

I open the doors. Water drains from the bathtub.

And I wait.

My boy will return home soon.