Time to Write 2013 short story prize
“Goodnight,” she said again. Another “Goodnight” echoed down the hallway. Mother followed it. I heard their bedroom door shut. I cleared the ashtray and the empty bottles from the table. There was still wine in Mother’s glass. Dad never left for bed without his. Shy streaks of moonlight pierced through the trees and into my room. I watched the shadows play on my walls and dance over my bed. Through the thin asbestos walls, I heard my father’s grunts and my mother’s moans. Sleep never came easy on these nights. Sleep never came easy. Not long after the sun stabbed its beams through the windows did I hear Dad pull out of the driveway. I listened to the old Datsun, puff-puff-puff, as it idled while Dad closed the gates behind him. Then, Dad was gone. In the kitchen, the kettle whistled. No sugar. Only a little bit of milk. Strong, the way Mother likes it in the morning. I took the coffee to her room. She held out a bruised arm to take it. “I’ll just put it down,” I said, “and bring a cold cloth for your eye.” She tried to smile, or say “Thank you” but she couldn’t.
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