What Sleeps – Extrait 5
me, wet and restless. I want to run, but there’s nowhere to go. I want to forget, but there’s nothing but memory. The cold bites at my cheeks, and I shiver, pulling my coat tighter. I walk without knowing where, just trying to outrun something I can’t name. A tram rattles by, the pale yellow lights catching on the wet cobblestones. I watch it fade into the fog, swallowed by shadows. And in the distance, I see a balcony—another one, high above the street, light spilling out, a figure leaning against the railing. Just a shadow, but for a moment, I imagine it’s him. Watching. Waiting. But I don’t stop. I don’t call out. I just walk, letting the rain soak through, letting the cold chase me down. Chapter 5: Quiet Like Boiling Milk The kitchen is too small for two people. It always has been. But I remember a time when it didn’t feel that way. When it was crowded, yes, but warm. When the steam was just steam, and not something that crawled against my skin. I was twelve the first time I saw him lose his patience. Really lose it. It was raining, thick, heavy sheets of rain that beat against the windows, turning the sky to a dull, choking grey. My mother was gone—shopping, she said. But she never came back that night. And the phone rang and rang, her voice always going to that cold, empty click. I stood by the window, counting the drops as they traced their way down the glass, trying to follow them, trying to forget the knot in my stomach. Trying not to hear the sound of the cabinets slamming in the kitchen. “She’s late, that’s all,” he said, his voice low, rough. “Just late.” But he kept looking at the clock. Kept glancing at the door. His fingers drummed against the counter, a quiet, restless rhythm. And then, without warning, he grabbed the pot, the one she always used for soup, and hurled it against the wall. I jumped, the sound splitting the air, the metal ringing like a scream. I turned, saw him standing there, his shoulders heaving, his fists tight at his sides. And then he looked at me. His face twisted, something like anger, something like shame. He looked at the dent in the wall, at the pot crumpled on the floor. And then he whispered something, so faint I almost didn’t hear it. “I can’t… I can’t do this.” I didn’t understand then. I thought he meant the waiting, the rain, the silence. But now, standing in this quiet kitchen, the cold pressing against me, I think I understand. It wasn’t just the waiting. It was the not knowing. It was the silence that crept in, the questions that pressed against you like cold hands. It was the feeling of standing in a room too small, a room that couldn’t hold everything you felt. I close my eyes, the memory twisting around me, and I see him again—leaning against the counter, his face pale, his fingers tight around nothing. I wanted to go to him, to reach out, to say something. But I didn’t. I just stood there, watching, waiting for the silence to break. And then the door opened. My mother, dripping wet, her hair clinging to her face, her shoes squelching against the tiles. She smiled, a thin, tired smile. “Sorry, sorry. The tram—there was a delay.” But he didn’t answer. He just turned, his shoulders stiff, his steps heavy, the bedroom door slamming shut behind him. She looked at me, and I saw it—the confusion, the guilt, the ache she didn’t know how to name. And I smiled, because that’s what I did. Because that was easier. “It’s okay, Mom,” I said. “It’s okay.” But it wasn’t. Not really. The steam has faded now, the milk gone cold. I stand there, staring at the window, at the thin, jagged lines that cut across the glass. Scratch marks. Not just scratches. Marks that weren’t there before. A faint creak in the hallway. The slow, heavy sound of something moving. I take a step back, my fingers tightening around the edge of the counter. The silence
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