Short story by Pascale Malenfant.
Upon returning to her with him, we took a moment to look upon his sleeping face. I gently pushed a lock of stringy hair back from his heavily-lidded eyes, admiring the flush of his cheeks now patterned with the glossy remnants of tear tracks.
We listened as his regular breathing became strained, waking him with a start. He looked up at both of us, and we returned his wide-eyed gaze with warm introductions.
Despite our best efforts, the child was nothing less than a menace from the moment he regained consciousness. Violent and unruly, he refused to acknowledge us as caretakers, instead thrashing and battering himself in rebellion against our affections. I had no other option but to keep him in constant restraint, strapping him to the bed as she kept a watchful eye over him. The wails rarely subsided, ceasing only during Richard’s meals or restless bouts of sleep.
I never failed to remind him how much easier he could have made the entire situation if he cooperated, but every day my patience ebbed. Every task I performed in order to rid myself of the stress of parenthood was foiled by the child’s insufferable mewls.
Richard’s aggression towards me never came as a surprise, as I suppose it has always been a son’s duty and instinct to harbour disdain for his father. It is likely I could have continued to endure his abuse had he not taken it too far, had he not… hurt her.
I’m not proud of what I did, of course, but what was I to do? How he managed to free himself from the restraints I still do not know, but her lacerations were all too evident, visible even from a distance in the room’s musty light.
I approached her cautiously before she allowed me to trace each of her wounds. I dug my fingers into her exposed layers, craning my neck to glance at Richard, now huddled a distance from me, hugging his knees to his chest and crying as he rocked back and forth.
I advanced towards him as he attempted to cower further away from me, fueling my anger. I reached forward and forced his arm away from his chest, inspecting his hands and picking bits of varnish from underneath his fingernails. In blind fury, I struck him across the face, the force of the blow knocking him to his side.
The sight of his blood splattered across her oaken planks urged me to continue, picking Richard up by the neck and tightening my hands around his throat until I heard the crack of his spine.
Silence.
As I dragged the boy’s body through her corridors and down her stairs, his wounds trailed a sickeningly vibrant streak of red, soaking itself deep into her carpets and hardwood. I murmured heartfelt apologies as I brought him out through her side door, tracing my hand along the doorhenge and whispering sweet nothings against the moulding.
I dug up the garden with remorse, uprooting the snapdragons and hydrangeas and eventually replanting them above his grave. Perhaps the boy would serve us a beneficial purpose yet, the decay of his corpse nourishing the flowers she so loved to watch me prune.
But please, you mustn’t blame her! She never wanted me to hurt him, and it was simply her sweet passivity that prevented her from stopping me. She is a gentle creature by nature, fragile when left unkempt for too long. Whatever happened here is my doing, the work of a man driven by love and a duty to protect.
Do you know what happens to women like her when they’re associated with acts such as these? They are pillaged, burned, butchered by reason of reputation and stigma! I have spent years building her up to be the woman she is today, and I will not let that progress dissipate because of my primitive impulses. You must charge me, and only me, with the shame for what occurred within her walls. Cuff me, jail me, execute me if you must, but please do not hurt her. Let her be, let her rest.
Please, do not blame the house.
Graphic by Sara Mizannojehdehi.
