The Edifice

3. Borderline Burglary

I wake to a restless energy, pacing tracks in the linoleum of my kitchen as my espresso maker splutters out a coffee that I definitely don't need. I could barely sleep last night, still strung out on the tension from Robert's funeral.

Sunrise is still an hour away by the time I pull on my sneakers and force myself out into the blistering cold of the morning air. Ice and gravel crunch under my feet as I jog through the empty streets, away from the center of town. What began as a steady pace rapidly turns into a sprint as I fight to burn my anxiety out through my calves.

The thought of selling Robert's home hurts as much as the idea of keeping it. He knew I was short on money. I can't imagine that he wanted me to live there myself, left alone the chilling loneliness of occupying the space in which a friend died. Nevertheless, that home is the origin of our friendship, where he'd had the best years of his married life. Hell, he'd even told me Lee had been a homebirth in that very bathtub.

Perhaps I should try and track Lee down and force the deed upon him. Or surely there'd be someone else in the tiny town of Hersely who could use the accommodation.

My listless energy keeps me running long beyond where I would normally be brought to my knees and it's only as I breach the woodland that skirts the town that I realize where my subconscious has been leading me this entire time.

13 Mulroy Street hunkers along a sparsely occupied lane that follows the fringe of the dark woods beyond. A winding driveway through a veritable forest of hedging leads to the diminutive cottage itself.

The sudden appearance of the sun over the horizon does little to make my path up the drive less petrifying. Though it's physically no different from any other visit, the knowledge that someone's deathbed is all that awaits me sends the prickle of goosebumps along my arms.

I dodge my way through the web of wind-chimes hanging from the front porch and retrieve the spare key from its place atop the door frame. After some light jiggling in the lock, I'm inside.

My breath fogs in the air as I creep into the hallway. Photos and dream-catchers line the peeling walls, pale faces staring out at me from their frames. My heart skips a beat as I see the door to Robert's bedroom eerily ajar at the end of the hall. Fighting against the memories that flush before my eyes, I force myself to make for the kitchen instead.

The smell of Bob's sage incense is overpowering in here, as though freshly burnt. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but it's not long before I notice something is different about the kitchen.

Not known for his cleanliness, Bob's counter is usually coated in grime and soiled plates. This morning though, the washing up sits drying in the rack. The only mess on the counter is a scattering of thick rock salt, glittering in the dark like shards of glass. Frowning, I run my fingers through the grains when my gaze settles on something else entirely.

The dawn light catches on something resting on the kitchen table. The polished blade of a long, many pronged object, tucked beneath a bundle of clothes like a carelessly discarded toy. My approach brings sight of the minuscule curves and creases of the brown not-skin, rudimentary nails gleaming dully in the gloom.

A dented prosthetic forearm and hand.

"How the hell did you get here...?" I murmur, reaching out to inspect it. For a ludicrous moment I expect it to come to life as something hums within the faux flesh, as though a hundred tiny gears are whirring at speed. "Are you-?"

The wooden floorboards behind me creak all of a sudden, breaking the spell of tranquillity and my stomach drops with horror. I'm not alone in here.

I thrust myself away from the sound, colliding painfully with the kitchen counter. Spinning around just in time to see a large, hulking figure step through the doorway, a large bat raised to strike me.

"Jesus-fucking-Christ!"

A piercing wail follows Lee's roar, his furious exclamation shocking me even more than his sudden appearance. It takes me a moment to realize the shrill, warbling sound is coming from me. My legs jelly beneath me, I clutch at the counter to keep myself upright as Robert's son stumbles into the kitchen. Blood pounds in my ears to the point of agony.

"What the fuck?" Lee demands, dropping the baseball bat to the floor with a clatter and clutching his chest. We stare at each other breathlessly across the kitchen. "You scared the shit out of me!"

"I-I.. Uh..."

To add insult to injury I feel hot tears pouring down my cheek from fright. He does nothing to relieve the sensation by retrieving the bat from the kitchen floor and brandishing it. With Lee blocking the doorway, my eyes glance to the kitchen window over the sink, noting the drop to the rosebush below.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Lee repeats.

"W-What are you doing here?" I stammer in reply, still gasping for breath.

Lee blinks at me. "This is my house."

"Our house."

He swears again, rubbing his temples. To my relief he tosses away the baseball bat, which now in my fading adrenaline I recognize as being that of a child's toy. Dark eyes dart between the arm on the table and across at me as though suddenly drawing a connection. I pretend not to have even noticed it.

"I can go. I- I'm sorry." I'll say anything if it gets me out of this room with him. With his messy curls almost brushing the low ceiling, I finally recognize just how tall he is. Just one of his hands looks big enough wrap around my throat and then some.

He doesn't move to let me pass. "What are you doing here anyway? I thought I was getting robbed."

"I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about Bob... and the funeral yesterday."

Lee's relaxed enough that his signature look of derision returns at the mention of his father. He glances back at me again and the sneer on his lips slowly drops into a frown as he sees the tears on my face. A box of tissues sits on the counter to my right and he awkwardly reaches for a handful, tossing them over to me.

"I, uh... Sorry."

"It's ok- I'm sorry," I sniffle in mortification. I quit trying to mop my eyes with my sleeve and use the tissues instead, cheeks hot with embarrassment. I know for a fact what a hideous crier I am.

"I uh, couldn't sleep either," Lee admits. "I've been clearing up all of his junk. Since technically the furniture's mine I have to find some way to toss it out."

We stand in awkwardly opposite one another as the silence of the early morning floods back into the room. It's too early to try and argue with the man who just threatened me with a baseball bat. I ignore the trembling in my hands and take in the stacks of dishes and laundry cloths on the countertop.

"Do you need a hand with that?"

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