The Empty Home
Trigger Warning — Suicide, Terminal Illness
Nathan could feel a stinging pain in his back and temples as he stared at the collection of well-sorted boxes. The process had taken all day, despite the affair being a two-hour job. The man could still fondly remember the smell of honeysuckle and morning dew as he tiredly trudged toward the end of his driveway to meet the school bus.
He could still feel the puff of wonder and excitement bubble up in his chest as he looked out the window of his childhood home, thinking of everything he would be.
It felt as if Nathan had grown old in a matter of minutes.
The boxes of tools, trinkets, and miscellaneous mess that his father swore he would one day need all sat snug under the rope of a ratchet strap, seated side-by-side in the back of his truck. His mother’s belongings sat before him with more mystery than resolution.
His father was a delightfully simple man, handy, humble, and often reserved. His mother was kind and uniquely charming, though her belongings spoke to an underlying depth Nathan failed to perceive.
The violet hue of the fading day peaked curiously through the slats of the window blinds, a dying man searching for purpose in a dusty past.
Nathan did not want the house and would not keep it. The items he kept would be picked through, saving anything he could not bear to part with. Outside of these sentimental selections, everything else had to go.
A few items were hidden underneath a false bottom in his mother’s chest of drawers that contained a picture of an unfamiliar man, three sketches, and one very old letter. Nathan knew his mother had been engaged before meeting his father, though she never spoke of the man.
The picture showed a man with large brown eyes that held a melancholic intelligence. His auburn hair was parted on the right side and held down by some old pomade. There were deep, darkened circles under his world-weary gaze and a good bit of stubble. His smile betrayed his expression; the stranger seemed desperate to appear content.
His mother was younger than Nathan had ever seen, with dark black hair that fell in effortless rings across diminutive shoulders. Her face was glowing with a joy that he had not seen in her since he was a child.
A thin sheet of dust blurred the image as the corners started to discolor under the heavy burden of age. The picture made Nathan feel a great deal of sorrow.
The sketches were exceptional recreations of his mother, an unfamiliar cabin, and fir trees in darkened graphite shavings. The work was ominous, realistic, and wholly personal. Nathan felt uncomfortable looking through the pages - as if someone would pop through the door and scold him for snooping at any moment.
The paper had soured to an antiquated yellow hue, though the internal weight of the drawings only deepened with age.
The note was a hesitant farewell that spoke to a deep sadness and frustration for a world that Nathan never existed in. The letters were indented into the paper, with notable smudges around the heavier portions. Nathan took a deep breath as he prepared to read the final sentence and exhaled hard enough to lighten the pressure in his stomach.
Our hearts and minds will live and die in the fog of a loved one’s memory.
Yours until you wise up,
William
Nathan would confirm what he already knew a few weeks later; William Moore was found by his fiance’ suspended from a fir tree behind his home.
The empathy Nathan felt for his sorely missed mother was palpable.
Nathan’s wife collapsed thirteen years ago after her frequent headaches had become an inoperable brain tumor. Despite a good bit of therapy and self-reflection, he could still hear glass shattering on linoleum.
He was forty-six when she passed, and despite some consideration into getting himself out there again — Nathan had decided that he had found enough love for one lifetime.
Caring acquaintances would make up excuses to check in on him periodically, which Nathan considered incredibly kind. Despite this, he found it hard to express his thoughts on her absence with any real lucidity. At times he would feel the emptiness of his home far too well; other times, it was as if she was right next to him.
Only the bereaved can hear the whispers, and they know better than to speak on it.
He worried that the passing of time would worsen his recollection. Age would wear on him until he couldn’t remember the smell of her hair, the sound of her laugh, or the weight of her body on his. While he never gave the realization any thought, those passing anxieties never came true.
The particle-filled rays of the waning sun retreated as dusk began to darken his parent’s room.
He groaned as he got back up, feeling a painful reluctance from his lower back. Nathan didn’t know if he was becoming more sentimental in his later years or if this was the natural progression of his character. Still, it was making the process of moving everything an arduous affair.
He pushed out his chest to feel an ominous crack in his spine and began to collect the final boxes.
He placed them carefully into the bed of his truck until he had to make room in the passenger seat of the cabin. He fastened another ratchet strap across the back and brushed his hands against his jeans. Echoes of dust and dirt left light impressions on his pants.
He walked back into his house once more, staring at the empty home in a way he never did before. He tried to play back childhood memories, though the years had tucked those away in favor of more recent events.
Nathan thought it was somewhat cruel that other people would inhabit the house. They would never know about the man who built it or the woman that kept it together as his father’s health faded.
He shook off his momentary frustration and turned away from the living room. You could live in nostalgia forever, but Nathan wanted to enjoy the years he had left. He locked the front door, making sure not to look back as he got into his truck.
Beside him sat two boxes containing his mother’s hidden cache and his father’s childhood pictures. Long-dead memories that he could only observe but never recall.
They now lived with him and would cease to exist the moment he did.
End
My profile has all the links you need for my work, which is mostly focused on history, true crime, and the paranormal. Maybe I’ll post more creative stuff in the future if work allows me a few minutes to be self-indulgent.
Thanks for reading,
Jack
