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Home

by Matt Matlovich, Port Lambton, ON, Canada, Age 17

He was standing in front of the tall, wrought iron gate. Its lock had rusted off many years ago and now lay on the ground, covered in dirt and leaves. His one foot was shoeless. An elegant, brown suede shoe, partially covered by his light tan dress pants, covered his other. The near fatal crash ripped his overcoat, leaving a few frayed strands of cotton to float in the wind.

The man found himself in the middle of nowhere. The sun was setting in the west, dipping into the horizon. The light slowly faded from the sky, as clouds covered the moon. It is hard for him to imagine that he had been walking all day. The crash occurred around mid-morning, when the sun was at its brightest. He could feel the cold wind as it seeped through his clothes then, sending him into a fit of shivers. Now, he was immune to the coldness and simply stood in front of the gate. He never imagined he would find a home along this empty stretch of road.

Thinking back, he realized his journey forced him to do things he would never dream of doing, such as laying his dead wife’s body in a ditch. He could remember that moment perfectly.

The crash had torn apart her beautiful face. Her left arm hung loosely at her side, connected by only a few strands of muscle. Her right cheek flapped gently to the side, exposing her mouth and shattered teeth. It was hard to imagine so much damage could happen to her in a simple crash. He wondered if anyone would ever find her. Not long after he left, large vultures began to circle the air around her body.

He tried to feel sorry for her, but couldn’t. He remembered that she had caused the crash. After all, she did pull the wheel and steer the Mercedes into the soft gravel, causing it to roll over many times before finally resting on its top. He remembered the pain as his body put all its weight onto his head and neck. He hoped that he would never have to go through that feeling again.

A clap of thunder sounded in the distance. He guessed that the storm wouldn’t arrive until the next day. If this was true, he imagined that he might also hear a vehicle’s engine hours before he would see it. The thunder was the only sound.

The house before him looked long deserted. A small car hoisted on jacks sat in front of the garage. The front door was closed, but no boards barred an intruder. Thick wooden boards, however, covered the many windows. The paint on the siding was peeling off, revealing long streaks of weathered wood and small paint chips were scattered on the ground.

He knew that his life would never be the same. He knew that he would never leave that house. After all, he cannot lie to himself his entire life. He did kill his wife. He was the one who jerked the steering wheel to the left. It was his only option. She wouldn’t stop complaining, screaming at the top of her lungs between sobs. He couldn’t blame her. At least she had something to complain about. She found out about his mistress earlier in the morning. He took the drive to explain things to her.

He trudged along the sidewalk. Weeds poked through the cracks and gathered around his ankles. The grass in the front yard grew up along his sides, creating a thick, dead brown wall. His eyes remained on the front door of the house and the darkness that hid behind it.

The front porch creaked underneath him as he moved onto the first step. The railing at the side provided no comfort, for the wood had rotted away. He rested his hand on it and could hear the faint cracking of the wood as it splintered and turned to dust at the joint. A few termites ran near his feet as he pushed on the railing, causing it to tip over and fall into the long grass with a soft thud. A smile spread across his face. This was going to be his home.

Another clap of thunder sounded, this time a little closer. He had better check for leaks, the last thing he wanted to do was catch dripping water into old pots and pans. The steady ping-ping would drive him crazy. He liked that idea.

As he reached for the door with his right hand, the large slash on his forearm began to bleed again. He could feel the warm blood soak into his white dress shirt and cling to the hair on his arm. His palm rested against the thick panel of the door. It seemed unaffected by the rot that claimed the front porch. It was solid and strong, a symbol for all this man stood for.

He gently pushed the door inward, realizing that, like him, it was not as strong as it appeared to be. The hinges creaked and a large boom echoed through the empty halls inside as the door cracked and fell inward. Light from the setting sun entered the house, but a thick white cloud of dust obstructed his view inside.

As the dust began to settle, the man stepped inside. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he began to move forward. He maneuvered through the house as if he had lived there for years. He did not call out to see if anyone was home, he felt that he had no need to.

He moved into the living room. It was bare, except for a single chair covered in a filthy white sheet. A portrait of an old man hung above the fireplace, his eyes watching over the room, seeming to follow the man. He removed the white sheet, revealing an old, ripped recliner. Its seat was torn and its stuffing lay in a pile at its base. Regardless, it would still be more comfortable than sitting on the floor.

The appeal of the living room quickly faded and the man moved onto the next destination, the kitchen. The kitchen was quite standard, with few appliances. Thus, it did not attract his attention. Not long ago, someone removed the fridge, revealing a clean rectangle on the floor where it once stood. An unnecessary amount of dead bolt locks lined the left side of the back door. After examining this room, he exited the kitchen and headed upstairs, to his new bedroom.

His room was small and cozy. A single window hovered on the far side. Thick wooden boards prevented any light from entering, but the man didn’t mind. The last thing he wanted was someone spying on him in the middle of the night. His room, he decided, was quite safe. It would work as his sanctuary.

He moved into the middle of the room, glancing at the bed. A few moth eaten sheets covered it and the four posts appeared gnawed by some animal. It would do, it was all that he needed.

Suddenly, he felt tired, and decided to lie down.

Her body was warm against his. Her lips gracefully kissed his chest and stomach. He embraced her slender body, his hands pressed firmly on her back. He was smiling, never feeling more alive than now. Her hair brushed up against his stomach, tickling his skin. He wished that every moment of his life felt this good.

The door to the bedroom flung open with ferocity. The woman immediately sat up in bed, wiping her mouth. The man simply smiled, uncaring about the new intruder. His wife stood in the doorway, her mouth open in horror. Her eyes glistened with tears; she was about to cry. He tried to hold back his smile.

The woman abruptly got up and left the room, knowing that it was not her place anymore. The man wanted to call her back, but knew that it was no use. His wife was crying now, her body shaking. She fell to her knees on the floor, her right hand pulling at her hair.

He didn’t know what to do at first. He wanted to tell her to get up and quit her crying. He felt no remorse for what he had done, but knew that he had to explain something to her. He felt obliged to do so, especially after spending thirty years of his life with her.

When he mustered up the courage to speak, he spoke with calculated precision.

“Honey, please. I can explain. I’ll get dressed, and then we’ll go for a long ride. Everything will be all right.”