The House Stays Silent by Nithishti Sriram

Through bleary eyes the house watches, a careful eye darting between its three levels and gently monitoring the front lawns of the house. It watches as the night sky begins to pale, a calm blue taking over as the moon fades from view, the blazing sun blotted at the edges, merging into the pale blue of the sky. Birds chirped from the trees surrounding the house, a late wake-up call as the house began to bustle with noise.

The first inhabitant slinks down the stairs, rubbing a chubby hand over her eyes as she extends into a yawn, gently tripping on the stairs. Stumbling onto the cold tile floor, she sighs, her shoulders dropping as she slowly, ever-so-slowly, drags herself through the tiled pathway and onto the couch, curling up and managing to fit herself fully onto the small corduroy couch, small bits of stuffing peeling from the stitches on the sides. 

The house winces as it takes note of the gentle stirrings from the room upstairs, the first signs of the storms beginning. Soft mumbles of blurry sleep rose from the two lain bodies, thick mosaics of blankets laying in jagged puzzle pieces between the two. The house begins to brace itself as the ringing of an alarm begins to rise up from the room, a blaring alarm for safety and shelter to be found. It lets out a sigh in relief as the man bangs his hand down on the alarm, sending it crashing down the nightstand and onto the floor, upon which it twitches soundlessly. 

The morning passes by, a simple blur of fear and dodged questions, whispered secrets and careful lies, the twists and turns of holding one's tongue evident in every corner, every wall, every room. Half hearted, muttered goodbyes following yells and screams, I-love-you's that everyone can tell are disingenuine, but simply do not have the heart, time, or concern to wonder about. Slowly, one by one, the inhabitants of the house began to evict themselves, always somewhere to go and someone to see, someone more worth it than their own. The girl must go to school. The man must go to work. The woman must go run her errands. For that is the way it has always been. 

The house does not mutter a sound as it watches the man and woman exit the house together, her holding a black lunchbox in her arms and a water bottle. Hastily, she shoves them in his arms. She moves to go back in, but at the sight of the look upon his cold face, she cowers. Slinking back from the doorway, she shrinks herself in his presence, looking both ways before pressing a chaste, unmeaning kiss to the side of his cheek. Evidently, it wasn't satisfactory, but she does not remain to try again. She rushes through the doorway, leaving him simply standing at the doorway, scowling at both her antics and the house together, before muttering and turning back to his car. 

The house aches to comfort. The house wishes to recall the times of happiness, where nothing but laughter and love had filled the hallways curled about the house. It holds onto every moment it can, every soft glance in between a fight, every tear shed for the other, every I-love-you's that rings true, even just a small amount. It holds onto them all, praying that it will all fade away. The house wants to hold them all, tell them to go back, tell them to return, tell time to stop moving them apart from one another. It aches for them to comfort it, tell the house that their love is true and constant, never fading. But the house says nothing. The house stays, a permanent fixture of cowardice and fear upon the neighbourhood, marring the streets and the town, a place nobody else dares to venture too close to for fear the house may pass on its misfortune upon them. 

I take apart and recycle electronics, in addition to other electronic work using new parts. It's been something I've been interested in since younger, specifically the taking apart and putting back together aspect. It may seem like tinkering for learning just to make waster, but things like a iPad screen hold enough potential for 10+ different project, the light cylinders is an example of such.

About This Piece

It is a short excerpt from a novel I am working on, in which a collection of families with deeper wounds they try to hide slowly learn how to heal and navigate through life. Something that specifically inspired this piece was when I moved from the home I grew up in to a different one. As I left my house, I couldn't help but miss the furniture and the lights and all the inanimate objects that had watched me grow up, watched me cry, watched me fight, watched me on both my good days and bad, which is what inspired this piece and the perspective.

Credits

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