The Sound of Snow

Chapter Eight: "Lurk in the Dark"

Tick...Tick...Tick...

Silence. Total emptiness. Nearly but never bursting tension. The weight of endless unspoken thoughts cramming the mind. These were all The Boy had known the past months. He could probably count on one hand the amount of words his father had spoken to him this past week. They were surviving together under the same roof, but that was about it. The man seemed to have forgotten The Boy existed. The child couldn't remember having done anything to offend his father so deeply – hell, he couldn't remember anytime Dad ever gave a silent treatment this long. He tried for a long time to lie to himself, hoping his next letter would get a response. But he was smarter than to believe it forever.

"I miss you."

The words weighed on his heart sitting in his room one October evening. A few sorry drops rolled down his nose into his lap. He missed their words, their presence, their love... He missed being naïve enough to think this could have kept going on and that Dad would never find out. He missed not having nightmares of what torturous punishment his parent was planning in the silence. Most of all he missed knowing that Mom and Big Sis were somewhere safe without wondering if they had met some untimely end and that was the reason behind all this.

Honestly he didn't know which explanation to dread more. Mom and Big Sis's death could definitely be something to make Dad close up like this; maybe he didn't know how to tell The Boy the news. Maybe he never would. That would mean a death sentence to his beloved family along with his hopes of a better life he had clung to the past six years. But the alternative, that Dad had discovered his secret and was plotting vengeance, could be a death sentence period.

For now he could do nothing but wait and listen while the clock on the wall ticked away the moments of agonizing ignorance before the bomb would finally implode and the truth rear its ugly head.

Tick...Tick...

His numb wonderings were interrupted by Dad throwing open his bedroom door.

"We're going out." He said. "Maintenance duty. Cleaning up around the neighborhood."

The Boy wiped hisnose with his sleeve, "What? Since when...?"

"New job."

With that the forty-year-old father turned and left the room. The Boy gazed out the balcony doors at the lavender-gray sunset. It would be dark soon.

But there was no arguing, so The Boy pulled to his feet and moved to the door where hung his ripped rain jacket he had retrieved from the cellar a couple days after that storm. Next to it was his black coat vest which he grabbed and put over his long-sleeve – he avoided wearing the rain jacket as much as possible in hopes Dad wouldn't ask how it got ripped.

The Boy pulled on cheap pleather boots at the front door and his father donned his brown jacket. They each carried a trash bag. Neither said a word. The man stepped out first and locked the door behind them. Down the creaky steps and out the lobby the tween hurried after the long strides of his parent, still not speaking and making no attempt to explain their job. It was odd, The Boy thought. The past few weeks Dad was getting drunk around this time of night, but he couldn't smell any alcohol on him whose brisk step was direct and flawlessly sober.

Across the street and onto the sidewalk Dad lead with his son following at a distance. Passing the red post box on the other side of the rails, The Boy sadly noted it still didn't hold any new mail in their slot behind the glass. Further down the side-walk, along the cement wall was a brown paper bag and some other ripped tissues the stray dogs had probably dragged from the dumpster. When The Boy stooped to pick it up, however, Dad whistled sharply and ordered him to keep following.