Horror Stories from Horrified - Volume One (2)

I don?t know. I?ve never lost someone I loved befor e now. I don?t know how to
adapt. I want ther e to be a book, w ith r ules and r egulations, facts and figur es and
exams that w ill help me pass this stage of my life. This empty miser y that clings like
w et sheets to my numb body. I fling a fr ozen pizza in the oven and watch the
minutes pass on the kitchen clock until the smell of bur ning dough and gr easy,
plastic cheese fills the r oom. I am not hungr y. But I must eat.
I wash a plate. I fill a glass w ith w ine fr om a bottle that has been sitting uncor ked
since the funer al. It tastes bitter and sw eet, just like tear s.
I sit at the kitchen table, eating my loneliness away. I look at the mar ks on the wall
beside the fr idge, w her e Dad measur ed our childhood heights fr om year to year. I
see stubby, dar k gr aphite scar s cut deep into the wallpaper , w ith our names above
them. Summer, ?96: Five feet 1 inch. Winter ?99: Five feet 4 inches. I want to tear away
the wallpaper , upr oot this shade of memor ies past and fling it into the oven w her e
it w ill smoke and bur n, w ith all the accumulated gr ease of a thousand family meals.
Instead, I dr ink mor e stale w ine and toss my plate in the sink.
I r emember Mum?s cooking, mor e than I r emember anything else about my
childhood. The smell of ginger br ead on Sundays, fish on Fr idays and the bubbling,
r oiling stockpot that was always on the stove. Funny, as I am utter ly useless at
cooking. You could set fire to cereal, my sister likes to say. Our Mum left us a legacy
of r ecipes, and w e have squander ed it all on r eady meals and oven dinner s. I look
out at the back gar den fr om the kitchen w indow , w her e the sun has begun to set
behind the lar ge eucalyptus tr ee, the last of its pur ple leaves lit w ith amber
br illiance. This house is full of memor ies, so many that they spill out into the
gar den and over the hedges. I cannot stay her e too long, or I w ill dr ow n in them.
I go to bed, up the cr eaking stair s. I do not know w hat time it is, and I don?t
par ticular ly car e. Dad is pr obably clear ing dead leaves away fr om our Mother ?s
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