Chapter Text
“Martha, would you wash the dishes?” Her voice passed through my ears like an apparition through the rickety walls of our shared dwelling. The disruption of our sacred routine, of ruminating in silence, of me looking right through that disparaging gaze and out towards the belittling outdoors fraught with formidable vegetation and a promise of isolation for no less than several miles. Whenever the floors creaked under her weight, I once figured to try and listen for an explanation. Why had it only ever been just us? How come proposing the mere question of why this deluded cabin hadn’t housed three triggered a deluge of anger worse than that which ripped through the ceiling once Winter waned away and the clouds grew heavier? I had stopped listening after a while, knowing the ambiance was about as informative as those cracked lips; regardless of her attempts at keeping appearances for an invisible audience, the cold air never offered its condolences.
Despite any and all attempt at getting lost in my own downpour of thoughts, her stature in the chair across mine pierced through them all, eyes cutting through into the depths of my mind as though aware of what I was trying to accomplish. According to our wayward tradition, she would have retreated back to the comforts of her den, whittling away in her room to finish off the remnants of her meal. As per her request, I’d have followed soon after she was done to clean the mess left behind. That’s how it always was and, as far as she was concerned, how it was always to be. But here she remained, watching me with that ever so judgemental pupil. A few nights ago, I took the liberty of putting dinner together while she escaped into her crossword puzzles, pencil in her hand, skewers in mine.
“Martha, check to see if the ham’s spoiled.” Her voice still rang in my ear, nonchalant—but perhaps irritated, looking back now? At least from the tone that seemed to reverberate in the room at the current moment. Her back had been turned to me as she tapped her foot back then, her horrid gaze zeroed in on the blank squares, envisioning the answers to the puzzle and knowing them to be correct, whether the parchment agreed or not. I took a quiet whiff of the meat that had been there in the fridge—fresh enough. It was easy enough for me to decipher whether meat had spoiled or not, the early rot usually being far too pungent on my nose to dismiss. The evening had edged on, and she eventually completed her puzzle. I had set the butcher knife down on the counter near the exact moment she dropped her pencil on the tabletop.
“Martha, would you wash the dishes?” came the question not even after I took my seat at the table, facing her the way I could swear I was doing tonight. My eyes followed her figure, floorboards creaking in accompaniment to her and her dish to the bedroom. Why they continued to do so when the subject of their focus couldn’t be bothered to eat with me, I didn’t know. To satisfy my contempt, I prioritized the dishes in the sink as well as my own, telling myself I’d approach her for the last dish later. Whatever drive I had to ask anything of her, however, was low as it could possibly be, I thought. I could still remember thinking to myself, thoughts jumbling together to where I’d wanted to scream, as the water ran off the sides of the knife’s blade. Would she be angry that I’d waited so long to fetch the dishes in her room? Or would she yell and kick about the smell permeating her dinky shelter?
“Martha—” It was day once more, sunlight peeking through the pines; accomplices to all that had unfolded within these walls throughout the course of my existence. Were they looking away that night? Or were they all glaring down at me with that same face she wore when I figured I’d heard her voice calling out again in my newfound solitude? No matter the hurricane of grievances, thoughts, and memories that have plagued this past week, the air seemed to carry her extinguished fury all the while, bringing with it the smell of rotten meat from under her bedroom door.