Lucas ✔️

Twenty-Seven

Lucas' eyes flickered around the house curiously as he followed me into the living area and I was positive he was noticing the cracks near the ceiling, the peeling paint in the corner, the dust on the floor where I didn't walk.

All the little things that showed how much I didn't care for the house any more. Letters were piled on the counter, dozens of them addressed to Dad that I couldn't bear to open. Dozens addressed to me that I simply didn't bother to open. The cryptic messages typed on the outside or the soft stamp of a cross told me all I needed to know: the local Catholic church was sending their sympathies and offering a place where I could 'repent my sins' and 'cleanse my soul'. Whatever that meant.

Does my soul need to be cleansed because of your actions, Dad?

I stopped in the kitchen and dumped my bag on the counter, throwing my keys somewhere between the unopened letters and the unwashed dishes. Lucas moved silently through the room and eyed a few photos on the walls. They were completely outdated, photos of Dad and I back when we were both younger and happier. Before we moved here. Before I was targeted by men in alleys.

"Uh, would you like something to eat or drink?" I asked uncomfortably, moving to the kitchen window and looking out, trying to spy the men on the street. I saw the head of one still there, all of them looking at the house intently, so I pulled the cord and dropped the blinds before turning to eye Lucas again.

"No, I'm fine, thanks," Lucas said softly as he turned away from one photo and moved to the next.

The only photo of Dad, Mum, and I together. Before she died, with me in her arms. Unsurprisingly, Dad didn't look that happy in the picture. How could you? Knowing your wife was bleeding to death on the hospital bed where she gave birth. Dad had said Mum demanded a picture, knowing it would be the only one she would get with me. Dad obliged, even if his face was contorted into large tears as he watched his wife hug a daughter she was leaving behind. A daughter he was now stuck with.

Is that why you left, Dad?

I shook the thought from my head and turned away from Lucas and the pictures, moving to inspect the pantry. Lucas' voice echoed towards me through the hollow room as I opened the pantry, the large squeak reverberating through my bones and into my mind.

"So, your father?" It was a question, an open-ended, loaded one.

"Yes, my father," I replied bitterly, looking at the empty shelves. My grocery shopping was not helpful. A can of baked beans that had probably been there since before Dad died glared at me unhelpfully. I hated baked beans.

"Mmmm," Lucas hummed, moving slightly to make his way toward the counter. I moved my head and eyed him warily from behind the pantry door, my knuckles whitening as I tightened my grip on the door.

I stuck my head back in the pantry and grabbed a box of cereal as I spoke, "Dead," I said in answer to the question he hadn't voiced.

"I see."

Leaving the pantry open, I moved to the counter across from him and placed the box of Cheerio's on the counter, feeling oddly annoyed at the happy-themed food I chose.

"You can sit, if you want," I commented, not meeting his eyes as I gestured to the chairs at the counter. He nodded and slipped into a chair, looking out-of-place in the small seat.

Our house wasn't a small house, nor was it what people would consider dingy. At least, it hadn't been when Dad was alive. When he was alive, this house was my home, filled with soft music, good food, and happy memories. The garden was clean, the house was tidy, and the rooms were always bathed in fresh sunlight. Now, in heavy contrast to the home Dad had built us, the garden was a mess, the house was dusty and messy, and the curtains were barely opened.