Carnal

Chapter One - Mourning the Missing

Zak came in behind me, his suitcase and backpack hitting the doorway as he squeezed his way inside. In that moment, he looked more like an eight-year-old boy than a twenty-six-year-old man. 

"Would you mind turning on some lights?" My mom asked as she came in.

I stood up and walked into the den and turned on a few lamps.

Taking a deep breath and fighting tears as I looked around the room, I made my way upstairs to the guest bedroom that I normally stayed in.

Everything was the same as it always had been.

The green walls hadn't been painted in decades and the dusty, floral curtains were in serious need of being replaced. The wooden floor squeaked under the pressure of my footsteps as I made my way across the room to turn on the lamp.

The lightbulb blew as I did so and I sighed, my mind continuing to turn over every worry and sad thought in darkness.

I sat my suitcase down on the floor and laid down over the duvet.

Soon, the jet lag caught up to me and I drifted off into a restless sleep.

The next day was no better than the last, except for the first few moments when I woke up and had forgotten where I was and why I was there.

That blissful ignorance soon disappeared as I heard my mother's voice floating up the stairs.

I got out of bed and went downstairs.

My mother and father were both sitting at the old, oak dinner table clutching steaming cups of coffee.

"Good morning," she said.

It sounded more obligatory than it did loving.

"Good morning," I returned, stopping short from asking her how she was. I knew how she was.

"We're going to the mortuary in a while to make arrangements," she informed me. "You're more than welcome to come."

I fought back tears as I poured myself a cup of coffee.

"I'll pass."

The kitchen was quiet as I poured cream into the coffee and stirred it.

I picked the mug up from the counter and held it tightly. The warmth from the ceramic cup was a stark contrast to the cool air in the house.

"I want to have the funeral here," she said softly.

Looking up from my drink, I saw my dad reach across the table and take her hand in his as he nodded reassuringly.

"It sounds like a good idea," he said, giving her a grim smile.

I looked around small cottage with apprehension. It was far too small to hold a funeral, but I wasn't going to argue with my mom about it. It was her decision to make.

"Stop it," she said.

I snapped out of a trance to find myself looking at her as she returned the stare.

"What?"

"Stop looking at me like that," she said defensively.

I fumbled over my words.

"Like what?" I asked, my eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

"Like you're assessing which stage of grief I'm entering," she snapped.

My mother stood from the table quickly, the chair sliding loudly against the wooden floor as she did so. I watched in disbelief as she stomped up the stairs.