Ben was 5 and I was 9. Most days, we played around with anything in the house - from cello tape to the portable speakers, from a broken frying pan to mom's makeup. Mom would initially yell, then sigh, and clean up all the mess. I had not yet learned what to say at such moments. She was tired.
Ben was 8 and I was 12. Our games had changed, but we still were making a mess around the house everyday - a glass we broke while we played cricket, a bucket full of water we tripped over as we ran across the rooms, and sometimes, bruises all over us as we had our own boxing tournaments in the living room which also, once, caused the television screen to break. Mom would initially yell, then sigh, and demand that Ben cleaned it all up in the blink of an eye. I knew how to convince her that Ben was to be blamed for any mess. She was tired of us both.
Today, I am 18. The games have long stopped. But, every now and then, Mom finds a pickle jar smashed against the kitchen floor or her new dress all torn up or milk spilled all over the bed. She finds it very unsettling, when I blame it all on Ben, now that he has been dead for a year.
YOU ARE READING
Srushti's Short Stories (Completed)
NovellerA lot of confusion, unpredictability, and, most of all, deaths. But it's all worth it! Dive in!
