Young Writers Society

As he paces softly towards the open doorway to the living room he hears his daughter. It is silent in the house, and the child’s quiet breaths do not pierce the silence but merely permeate it. He, too, breathes along with her, but in a controlled, synchronised fashion – reserved, discreet, as if he wants to remain undetected for the moment. And that is just his intention. He is hesitant.

When he reaches the doorway and she comes into view he swallows hard in anticipation before freezing. His breath catches in his throat and his eyes open wide in a momentary fear – perhaps she has heard him swallowing. But then something outside the window catches her attention and he allows himself to relax – exhaling, shoulders drooping – if only for this moment.

His awareness of the context resurfaces not in flashing images or fleeting recollections, but in the simple re-acknowledgement of recent events. The child is hurt – frightened and confused. The back of her head and the soft brown curls covering it try desperately to portray a nondescript façade of serenity – of status quo – but he knows the truth. He knows what she feels, and not simply through the inexplicable emotional bond a father and child shares. He knows what she feels, and not simply through the little nuances in her behaviour that betray her emotions – forceful upright posture, hands clasped and squirming. He knows what she feels because he has caused her to feel them.

He is hurt – frightened and confused. His body language offers an indication that is without purpose, for he already knows. His awareness is its justification, his actions its result – and not simply the furtive movements of the present but the very opposite: the angry outburst of before. He does not remember what he has said earlier – rather, he does not care to remember – for he too is victim to an uncanny series of events, one that both sensitises his heart to the slightest touch and numbs it with pain. The shouting, the raised fist – they are merely impulses, the unfinished and unrefined byproducts of his thought process. Inadvertent – but he knows that is not a word he can simply hide behind. It is own fault for being so easily overwhelmed with anguish. And it is perhaps because of this very nature of his that the events have occurred. It is perhaps because of it that she has left.

And as the thought of it – not the recollection but the simple awareness – returns, he is faced with an inadvertent realisation:

Mother won’t come back.

Mother won’t come back. These four words are all he needs to tell his daughter, but he hesitates. Through the five syllables and eighteen letters she will understand everything – understand, and likely even forgive him – but he hesitates, for those are the most difficult four words he will utter, the most agonising five syllables and eighteen letters he will enunciate. It is simply because they are so important that he hesitates to say them. And it is simply because they are so important that he knows he cannot hesitate any longer.

The child shifts again in her seat on the sofa, and he knows he is running out of time. Within the next few seconds her inquisitive inspection of the living room – or perhaps, her acute sensing of the indicators of his presence – will draw her eyes to his figure in the doorway, and he will be stuck in limbo – a thief caught in the act, a murderer caught red-handed. He wishes she would simply freeze – that time would simply freeze and that he would remain in this stasis forever, gazing at her affectionately – but that is wistful thinking. It is wistful and at the same time cowardly.

And still, he makes no attempt to shrug off this cowardliness. His hand brushes against the oak of the door frame, a fingernail gingerly scraping over the surface. He exhales, a little louder this time. He shifts his weight ever so slightly, and his pant legs rub against each other. He lifts a foot and drags it through the doorway, purposefully keeping it low so that his soles may inadvertently rub against the floor and make a slight noise. It is as if he wants to catch her attention, but at the same time it is as if he wants to remain undetected for the moment. And that is just his intention. It is wistful. It is cowardly. But what wistfulness – what cowardice – is there is delaying an inevitable outcome? There is only that which is known solely to him and him only – and he is content with that. He will continue to be wistful, he will continue to be cowardly – just so that it might delay his speaking for one more second, just so that it might delay her knowing for one more second.

Just so that she might remain innocent for one more second.

Author's Note: A short piece I wrote yesterday. I'm generally most at home with this style of writing - dilating the few seconds of a single event into an entire short story. It's been a while since I've written a short story, and an even longer while since I've written a short story in this style, so apologies if it comes across as lacking.