The house is too quiet. Not the good kind of quiet, like when the world is asleep and the dark feels soft. This quiet feels like something is holding its breath. I'm still sitting on the couch. My legs dangle off the edge, toes barely brushing the rug. The juice cup is on the table in front of me. Half-full now. It was full before. I don't remember drinking it. Mother is near the kitchen doorway. Her arms are crossed tight against her chest, fingers digging into the fabric of her blouse. She hasn't looked at me since we got home. Not really. She looks near me, past me, but never at me. Father is by the window. He hasn't taken off his shoes. He keeps walking back and forth, from one end of the rug to the other, his steps sharp and uneven. Every time he turns, the floor creaks under him. Sometimes he stops mid-step, like he's about to say something. Then he doesn't. I watch them both. Not their faces—I don't like faces. They move too much. Instead, I watch the shapes they make: Mother's arms, locked around herself like a shield; Father's hands, balled into fists, then opening again, over and over.
The room smells faintly like orange juice and the dust that floats in sunlight. The fridge hums in the kitchen, low and constant. Somewhere outside, a car passes, tires hissing over wet pavement. I count the seconds between Father's turns. One, two, three, pivot. One, two, three, pivot. On the fourth turn, his shoes squeak slightly against the rug. I blink. Mother shifts her weight. Her arms tighten around herself. She whispers something, but it's too soft for me to hear. Father stops moving. His back is to me, to both of us. His head drops forward slightly, like it's too heavy to hold up. For a moment, nothing happens. Then his shoulders rise with a sharp breath. "You're just… letting this happen," he says. His voice is low, rough—like a door creaking open after being shut too long.
The words float in the room for a moment. They don't land anywhere. They just hang there, like dust in sunlight, spinning slowly in air that doesn't move. Mother doesn't answer right away. She's very still. Only her fingers move—digging into her arms where she's holding herself. She presses so hard I can see the tips of her nails whiten. I look at Father's back. His shirt has a wrinkle near the collar that wasn't there this morning. It curves down like a little river. His shoes are still wet from outside; a thin trail of mud marks where he's been walking. I wonder if the mud will stain the rug.
Mother finally breathes out, long and shaky. "What are you talking about?" Her voice sounds different. It's tight, like a string pulled too hard. Father turns around slowly. He looks at her, not at me. His eyes are red, like he hasn't slept. "You're letting this happen," he says again, clearer this time. Mother's eyebrows pull together. She blinks once. Twice. Then: "Letting what happen?" I keep my eyes on the juice cup. A bubble has formed on the surface. It wobbles, almost pops, but doesn't. Father's hands come out of his pockets. They hang at his sides, fingers twitching. "This," he says, and gestures toward me without looking. I glance at his hand as it points. The fingers aren't steady—they shake, just a little. Then they disappear back to his sides. Mother's head turns toward me for a second. Not a full look, just a flicker. Then back to him. Something moves in her face—quick and small, like a flash of lightning in a storm you can't quite hear yet. I still don't feel anything.
Mother's arms drop from around her chest. They fall to her sides like she's too tired to hold them up anymore. "Don't you dare," she says quietly. Father's head jerks back a little, like her words stung. "Don't I dare what?" "Don't you dare blame me for this," she replies, louder this time, but still shaking. "I'm not blaming you," he snaps, though his voice is sharp enough to cut. "I'm just saying you've been acting like this is—like this is fine." Mother takes a step toward him. The floor creaks beneath her bare feet. "Fine?" she repeats, incredulous. "Nothing about this is fine!" Her voice cracks on the last word. I watch her throat move when she swallows after. Father gestures toward me again, more forceful this time. "You treat him like—like he's… normal. Like there's nothing wrong with him!" My eyes follow his hand again. This time he holds it there, pointing, and I notice his fingernails—uneven, one of them bitten down too far. Mother shakes her head, quick, jerky. "Because he is normal! He's our son, Dorian!" "Normal kids don't sit through appointments like statues!" His voice climbs. "Normal kids don't stare at walls for hours, or—" He cuts himself off, glancing at me briefly, just a flicker, then back to her. "He doesn't even look at me. Ever. It's like I'm not even here." I blink once. Slowly.
Mother's face hardens. "Maybe if you were here more, he would." The words land heavier than anything else they've said. They hit the room like a rock thrown into still water. Father flinches. Then his jaw tightens. "Don't you start with that." "Why not? It's true!" Her voice is rising now, shaky but loud. "You bury yourself in work so you don't have to deal with any of this, with him, with me—" "Because someone has to keep this house standing!" he roars suddenly, so loud it makes the juice cup tremble on the table. The bubble on its surface finally pops. I glance at the tiny ripple it leaves behind. Mother steps closer again, almost chest to chest with him now. "This isn't a house anymore," she spits. "It's a prison."
The word prison hangs in the air. I don't know what a prison feels like. I've never been in one. But I picture metal bars—cold, gray, lined up like teeth. I imagine the sound they'd make if you dragged something across them: a shriek, high and scraping. The room feels like that sound right now, even though no one's moving. Mother's chest is rising and falling fast, like she's run somewhere but never left the spot she's standing on. Dorian's hands are clenched so tightly his knuckles have gone pale. I watch a tiny drop of sweat roll from his temple, down to his jaw, and then disappear into the collar of his shirt. No one speaks. Not yet. The refrigerator hums again, louder this time, or maybe the silence makes it seem that way. I count its rhythm in my head—one, two, three, four—until I lose track because Mother shifts her weight, and the floor creaks beneath her foot. Dorian's eyes flash to her movement. His jaw works, like he's chewing on words he doesn't want to swallow. I glance at the juice cup again. There's a faint ring of condensation around its base, bleeding slowly into the wood of the table. It might leave a mark. That bothers me more than the shouting did.
"Say it," Dorian says finally, his voice low and dangerous. "Go on. Say what you really think." Mother's lips press into a thin line. For a second, I think she won't. Then she does. "I think you're a coward." The word lands like a slap. I watch it hit him even though it's invisible. His whole body stiffens, like someone pulled a wire through his spine and yanked it tight. He moves faster than I expect. His hand shoots out, grabs her arm. She gasps—loud, sharp. I watch his fingers dig into her skin, leaving little white marks where the blood is pushed away. "Don't," she hisses, trying to pull back. "Don't what?" he growls. His voice sounds different now. Rougher. "Don't tell the truth?" She jerks free and shoves him. Harder than I thought she could. He stumbles back a step, then surges forward again, and this time his hand swings. The sound is strange. Not what I imagined. Softer, almost—a dull thwack as his palm connects with her cheek.
She staggers sideways, hits the edge of the table, knocks my juice cup over. It rolls once, twice, and falls to the floor. Orange liquid spreads out in a thin, uneven puddle. I look at the spill. The color is bright against the dull rug, like a slice of sunlight fell and broke open. Mother straightens slowly. Her face is red where he hit her, a bright, angry mark. Her eyes are wide, not with tears, but something else—harder. "You son of a—" she starts, but he grabs her again, this time by both arms, shaking her. The table rattles. A picture frame tips over and lands face-down with a clatter. I watch the photo inside slide slightly under the glass. It's one of the three of us at the beach. I remember that day. I didn't like the sand. It got in my shoes. Mother wrenches free again, but not completely—he's still holding her when she swings at him, nails catching his cheek. There's a flash of red—tiny at first, then a thin line of blood opens under his skin. A drop falls from it, lands on the rug. I stare at that drop. Perfectly round, dark in the center with lighter edges where it thins out. It soaks in fast. That will leave a stain.
Dorian doesn't let go of her this time. His grip tightens, knuckles whitening against her skin. She tries to pull back again, but he yanks her forward instead—hard enough that she stumbles into his chest. "Stop fighting me," he growls, low, almost a whisper, but I hear it anyway. Mother freezes for a second, like the sound of his voice has turned her to stone. "Let me go," she says, her voice trembling but firm. He doesn't. Instead, he leans down, his mouth close to her ear. "You think you can run this house without me? You think you can take care of him without me?" His free hand slides up her arm, over her shoulder, down her side in a way that makes her flinch violently. "Stop," she spits, twisting away, but he only grips tighter. I watch his thumb press hard against her hipbone. There will be a bruise there later.
She pushes at his chest, but he's stronger, pinning her back against the edge of the table. The wood groans under the weight. "Don't touch me like that," she says, louder now, but he just smirks—an ugly, twisted thing—and presses closer. "Maybe if you acted like a wife," he mutters, "instead of a martyr—" The slap she gives him this time isn't timid. It cracks across his face, loud, sharp, breaking through everything. He stumbles back half a step, stunned more by the audacity than the force. For a moment, the room is utterly still. Then his face changes. Something dark floods into it, erasing whatever part of him she might have once known. "You're going to regret that," he says, and his voice doesn't sound like Dorian's anymore. He lunges. Mother screams—not loud, but raw. He grabs her shoulders, shoves her so hard she hits the wall. A picture crashes to the floor and shatters, glass skittering across the tile. I watch a shard land near my foot. It's shaped like a tiny triangle. I wonder if it's sharp enough to cut. Mother is trying to shove him away, her nails scraping against his shirt, but he pins her wrists above her head. She's breathing fast, ragged, and keeps saying, "Stop, stop, stop," but quieter each time, like the word is losing its power. His face is inches from hers, twisted, almost unrecognizable. "Say you need me," he hisses. She spits in his face. That does it. He throws her aside like she weighs nothing. She crashes to the floor, hitting her shoulder with a dull thud. The sound of her pain fills the room for a second, but I'm looking at the broken glass again, at how it catches the kitchen light like tiny stars scattered on the floor.
Dorian stands over her, chest heaving, a dark line of blood still trickling down his cheek where she scratched him. For a moment, I think he's going to hit her again. Instead, he crouches low, right beside her on the floor. She tries to scoot back, but the wall stops her. He leans in close, his voice soft, too soft. "You'll remember this," he says. "Next time you think about defying me." Then—almost casually—he reaches out and wipes the spit she left on his face with the sleeve of her shirt. A mocking little act, like claiming her even in this moment. He stands, straightens his jacket like nothing happened, and looks at me. Just a glance, flat and unreadable, before he turns and walks to the door. The slam when it shuts shakes the walls. Mother stays on the floor, knees drawn up, one arm cradling her shoulder. Her breath comes in quick, shallow bursts. She doesn't cry. Not yet. I look at the blood on the rug again. The juice stain has started to mix with it, orange bleeding into red, making a murky, ugly color.
That will be harder to clean.