TokyoPewPew
N3v3rM0r3
Angelique
Iracebeth
Gurkenkrater
xVampire3go
lustrousfox
Silly
Deadline
DarkStara short writing prompt inspired by maki kashimada
Unmoved
Boxes. They were all empty, once with cans.
She wanted to remove them, but her arm wouldn’t move. It stayed limp by her side.
It wouldn’t be easy removing them. They’d been in there so long. He had put them in there, and now he was gone. He’s been gone a while. Just like the cans.
He had drunk them all. One by one.
She always asked him to remove the cans from the boxes and then place them in the fridge. But, he never listened. No, he did. A few times. But, not the last time.
And now, the boxes would cling to the fridge shelves when she inevitably tried to pull them free.
Her eyes closed momentarily. She could see dirty socks on the kitchen counter. Food crumbs sprinkled all over the counter. The sink littered with midnight snack dishes.
No matter how well she cleaned the kitchen, by the time she woke up in the morning, it was dirty, again. The cycle was endless and broken.
Was she mad for wanting a clean kitchen?
At what point in their marriage had this become the only thing that mattered?
In the beginning, she wanted them to sleep in the same bed. But, he stayed up all night; slept on the couch or in the tub.
She wanted to have meals as a family, but instead, she ate alone. He was always working or sleeping or maybe doing nothing at all.
It all disintegrated into wanting a clean house.
Just like her mother had, when she was still young. Her earliest memories were of watching her mother clean the house. A vacuum in one hand, her baby brother in another.
She was standing on a stepping stool, helping her mother with the dishes, when the soap and water made her hands too slippery. A dish fell from her grasp and broke inside the sink.
Was that why their marriage broke?
She just wanted things to be clean, tidy, orderly.
And, he was all chaos.
When did she start enjoying sleeping alone? When did she start fearing him joining her at the table?
The refrigerator hummed at her. The door had been left open for too long. Her hand shook, unable to close it.
He had surprised her with the fridge. It was hi-tech at the time with a digital screen. They never used it. It was just there. Just like their marriage. Except, it no longer hummed.
It was quiet and broken.
But maybe, if she kept the boxes, he would come back. Maybe, if she closed her eyes, one more time, she would see his dirty socks on the kitchen counter. Maybe, if she didn’t close the fridge, he’d ask her to get him another bottle.
Just maybe, if she didn’t move, they’d have each other again.
But, he’d already left.
He’d taken the kids and left her the house, where she would never have to clean up after them again.
Boxes. They were all empty, once with cans.
She wanted to remove them, but her arm wouldn’t move. It stayed limp by her side.
It wouldn’t be easy removing them. They’d been in there so long. He had put them in there, and now he was gone. He’s been gone a while. Just like the cans.
He had drunk them all. One by one.
She always asked him to remove the cans from the boxes and then place them in the fridge. But, he never listened. No, he did. A few times. But, not the last time.
And now, the boxes would cling to the fridge shelves when she inevitably tried to pull them free.
Her eyes closed momentarily. She could see dirty socks on the kitchen counter. Food crumbs sprinkled all over the counter. The sink littered with midnight snack dishes.
No matter how well she cleaned the kitchen, by the time she woke up in the morning, it was dirty, again. The cycle was endless and broken.
Was she mad for wanting a clean kitchen?
At what point in their marriage had this become the only thing that mattered?
In the beginning, she wanted them to sleep in the same bed. But, he stayed up all night; slept on the couch or in the tub.
She wanted to have meals as a family, but instead, she ate alone. He was always working or sleeping or maybe doing nothing at all.
It all disintegrated into wanting a clean house.
Just like her mother had, when she was still young. Her earliest memories were of watching her mother clean the house. A vacuum in one hand, her baby brother in another.
She was standing on a stepping stool, helping her mother with the dishes, when the soap and water made her hands too slippery. A dish fell from her grasp and broke inside the sink.
Was that why their marriage broke?
She just wanted things to be clean, tidy, orderly.
And, he was all chaos.
When did she start enjoying sleeping alone? When did she start fearing him joining her at the table?
The refrigerator hummed at her. The door had been left open for too long. Her hand shook, unable to close it.
He had surprised her with the fridge. It was hi-tech at the time with a digital screen. They never used it. It was just there. Just like their marriage. Except, it no longer hummed.
It was quiet and broken.
But maybe, if she kept the boxes, he would come back. Maybe, if she closed her eyes, one more time, she would see his dirty socks on the kitchen counter. Maybe, if she didn’t close the fridge, he’d ask her to get him another bottle.
Just maybe, if she didn’t move, they’d have each other again.
But, he’d already left.
He’d taken the kids and left her the house, where she would never have to clean up after them again.
