Everything was a different color than it should be when the world began to exist without Miranda. In the filthy mouth of his blighted room, which he had torn apart with rage, he was like a chewed piece of gum. He’d wadded himself in rancid blankets despite the heat to torment himself into comprehending what she had gone through; a pathetic fantasy of her last moments.
He’d gazed without blinking for so long at the water stains spreading in the sepia pits of his room from the leaking A/C, inexpertly self-installed, that he was convinced he’d seen the powdery green fingers of the spotty mildew unfurl in slow millimeters.
And then, all of a sudden he knew what had happened. The realization made the sweat covering his body freeze.
He’d flung his door open with a snarl and the wood whimpered. MOTHER, he’d bellowed, what’d you do to her?
Mother was making potato salad and chain-smoking, sending ashes into an old disney world tray, where Mickey mouse’s eyes had cateracted with age. She’d gasped and dropped the mixing spoon, mayonnaise on the blemished kitchen floor.
I didn’t do anything to her, she’d shouted back.
Then where’d she go? Why’d she end up dead?
It was them, she’d said with her head low, her voice grave.
Them? He’d asked.
The night was alive with howling outside. The moon full and white.
to be continued …