The Gate Page #3

A short thriller, inspired by Roald Dahl’s short stories.

• Short story
• Fiction

								

I quietly pulled out a chair and sat, prickling with agonizing anticipation. Could this really be happening? I heard a click, and the music stopped abruptly. I watched as she warrily dried her hands before turning to me— Someone slept in. Her words almost startled me, they weren't contemptuous or acerbic, just devoid of anything at all. Her eyes were a deep blue, but right now they looked almost black– clueing at nothing. I cleared my throat. 
“I didn't know you were making breakfast.” I sounded more defensive than I had meant to and quickly added, “sorry,” before returning my gaze to the peeling bit of paint on the leg of the table. She pulled the pan of blistering bacon off the burner, set it aside, and covered it. She silently set down a heaping plate of buttermilk pancakes, pale and steaming in the morning light. Then she pulled out a chair, and straightened her dress before sitting down. It was so quiet I could hear the clock tick and a dripping from the mound of dishes. The sun pooled in through the lace curtained windows and swallowed the kitchen in bright glittering yellow light. She had showered and done her hair, I noticed a sheen of lipstick and she looked brighter. The house had been cleaned, decluttered and scrubbed. I wondered how long she'd been up, if she slept at all. She stared blankly at me through the veil of steam spiraling above the pancakes. I opened my mouth to speak, unsure of what I was actually going to say, when she chimed casually, “Just waiting for your sister. I wonder what has her so caught up.” 
My throat fogged up and my body tensed–something was very wrong. Her eyes darted about as she straightened her napkin and for the first time I noticed the third place mat that had been set out. She glanced at me expectantly, seemingly perplexed by my lack of reciprocation in the small talk. I licked my lips, ungluing them from each other. 
“Mom…” I whispered, “What are you talking about? Lizzie’s…gone.” I sounded frightened, like a timid disturbed child. Something flickered in her eyes. She froze, and stared through me. Her face and body contracted as she sucked in a tight breath. Her lips tightened and her eyes suddenly bore into me resentful and fiery, itching to inflict hurt. And then she said it. And I knew when she said it that she had always meant it. 
“You.” She heaved. “It should have been you.”

And I believed her. When she finally said it, I felt nothing. But slowly nothing morphed into something, and I was overcome by relief. Everything seemed much clearer now. Simple even. It was as though an unspoken secret, so vile it couldn't be uttered, had finally been revealed. There was no more speculating or hoping or wondering. I knew, and she knew and there was only one thing to do. It was suddenly glaringly obvious. A glimmering solution, finite and deliberate. It would cleanse everything, everything I've done would be erased. My recent obsession with penance had familiarized me with the prospect, but until today I couldn't bring myself to do it. I was waiting, holding out hope. Hope that I would wake up one morning, and she would really be back, that things would be ok again. But now that hope was gone, demolished and shattered. It had to be me. So many hours combing through that memory, only seconds long. The moments that changed, and ended my life. The latch. The blood from my finger, almost hinting at what was to come. Foreshadowing a grim end to a trivial mistake. I could've sworn I closed it. I was so certain. But that didn't matter now.  
I thought about writing a note, but that felt convoluted and attention seeking. That wasn't what I was doing. This wasn't a cry for help. This was absolution, atonement. I decided on the belt my mother bought me for the first day of seventh grade because it was the longest. Then I secured it to the ceiling fan, dragged over my desk chair, and looped it. I sat on the edge of my bed and watched it swing back and forth lazily. It was a dreadfully morbid scene and yet, I felt nothing. I was completely barren of any inkling of emotion. That felt like confirmation enough for me. And as I climbed onto the chair I thought one last time of my mother, and what she said. Maybe this will be enough for her. Perhaps in my absence she will grieve, cherish, and love me once again. The evening breeze was cool and mournful, animating the curtain dancing in the dying sun. The air smells of earth and rain. I look around my bedroom at everything that once meant so much to me. My bedroom now feels like a shrine of myself, shelves of figurines and books, walls plastered in posters and bulletins. I could hear the distant rumble of a lawn mower, when my gaze fell on a certain action figure. I felt a pang in my chest at the sudden memory, and hated myself for taking it from her. Why didn't I just play with her? Why couldn't I have been nicer? Why did I care about a stupid toy and not my baby sister? I stood barefoot, tightened the leather around my throat, and took a step. My mother was right. It should have been me. 




“Awful weather today.”

“Yes. Terribly cold.”

“Well, I've finished up with the inspection, and the house looks pretty much good to go, ma'am. Minimal repairs, good bones; should sell real quick.”
	
“Thank you, I should have the rest of the furniture out soon as the van gets here. Hopefully I can be out by noon…You said repairs? Anything I should know about before I leave?”

“ Just some loose paneling, and the gutters are all mucked up–nothin’ I can't take care of by this evenin’. Oh, and the front gate needs fixing up. Won't be a problem. “

“The gate? What do you mean? There's nothing wrong with the gate.”

“Well it doesn't stay locked ma’am…the latch is broke.”
	
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