Watch Your Step

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The last box is sitting on the spot where the couch was placed before. From there, the boy can almost see the bullet hole in the wall. Just by entering the room, it makes his skin crawl and his body tingle. As he picks up the brown box, he wonders if the bullet is still in there. Together with his broken right arm in a sling, he kicks the box with his knee to lift it higher and embrace it against his chest. Now he carries it with one hand and manages to neglect a glance at the hole for the last time.

With all the furniture gone, the smell of old dust sprays all over the house. What's only left there are the halls where he used to run around as a child, the stairs he used to climb, and the lines on the wall next to it, where inscriptions of feet and inches measured his height. He swerves through his old room where rooted carpets now lie on top of each other on his bed. He looks around his room and sees something square and red on top of the old dresser. He drops the box on the floor and stretches his good arm to the red object. Instantly, he knew he had to fix it from the tingling nerve endings on his face. He knew he had to take it with him, even if it's something he should leave behind.

It was a tiny red puzzle in which you could move the tiles to solve a jumbled image. The spare space that enables the pieces to move always irritated him, making his mouth twitch. It was easy for him to solve it when he was younger but now it rather seems impossible.

He picked it up and felt a heavy void in his chest. Before he can even move one tile, his mom, Celia, calls to him. "Hurry up, Rod!"

Quickly, Rod lifts the box once more and pockets the puzzle before he rushes through the door. Celia's head is sprouting through the driver's window, "Come on honey, we're losing daylight," she says.

Rod rolls his eyes and slides the box inside the backseat of the car. He hesitates to take the front seat and decides to sit next to the box. Silently, his mother watches him through the rear-view mirror as he fishes his tile puzzle from his pocket.

Celia knows no conversation is going to happen between them. But still, she says, "It's for our own good."

Rod glares back at her eyes through the mirror as if passing by a blatant sight. Celia eyes Rod thoughtfully while Rod is just thankful he doesn't see his reflection. Instead, only the white house at the back, the dying garden, and the empty porch. The heavy load pumps harder in his chest as he averts his gaze outside the window. Rod, holding his tears, tightens his grip on the tile puzzle that his father gave to him many years back.

Celia turns the key and steps on the pedal. Squeezing her hands on the steering wheel as well as her lips together. The car rolls on the sign that reads, "Fletcher's residence." Then it starts whirring, away from the house where she spent most of her life, and where she killed her husband.