On the Origin of Shadows

Submitted for Contest #92 in response to: Set your story in a countryside house
that’s filled with shadows.... view prompt

Nina Chyll
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332 likes 243 comments

May 05, 2021

DRAMA ROMANCE FICTION

There are two things I have always wanted you to know about the house. Ever since
you picked it out, in the middle of a recession, at a heavy discount, as you put
it. As if it was a carton of milk about to go out of date. For us, you said,
finally away from the hustle. And there are two things I have wanted to tell you.
But I didn’t know how.

1. I hate the glass door to the back garden. It’s like a wound barely held by
shaggy stitches. One measly screwdriver stuck into the lock would suffice to split
it open, exposing the house’s organs viable to sell on the black market. The hall
like intestines, dark and humid, slapped with some nonsensical paintings you were
certain would triple in value sometime. The bathroom like a liver, maroon and old-
fashioned, an old bonsai fig ruling over the windowsill. You always prayed it
wouldn’t just drop dead, except trees don’t do that, you know, they die standing.
‘It will be worth a fortune one day.’ At night, it cast a shadow like a mad broom
that developed an evil mind of its own and wanted to sweep us under the rug when we
came in for a midnight pee.

I wonder what our bedroom would be if it were a body part. The spleen comes to
mind, an organ so forgotten nobody can remember what it does. I looked it up and
the spleen filters bad blood as it turns out. That’s about right, more often than
not, we argued in bed instead of, and then you bought the big TV. ‘Who puts a
screen in their bedroom?’ I asked you. ‘Couples with,’ you replied, ‘You know.’ Or
couples without. Prepositions were often missing their nouns in our relationship.

So many people turned up for the housewarming party, old neighbours and new, and
your colleagues from work, remember? You were a popular man, the best of. I was
carrying a big pitcher of margaritas to the back garden. I wonder if anyone
actually likes those, the snot-like mixture that smells vaguely of poison, acidic
dreams and delirium.

Through the glass door, I saw the backyard, plated gold by the setting sun, and
your long shadow. ‘Oh, really?’ you said and it sounded so seductive I thought you
had to be talking to me. How did you know I was there? Was it that smell of
tequila?