Page 33 of The Last Feast
The pathto the large cabin has a cleaned path, and I can see my father sitting in the armchair by the window as I walk down it. He turns at the sound of my steps, almost disappointed when he notices it’s his son at the door, despite me calling him earlier.
It took me longer to get here, since I kept looking for Hana, and I look at the man who gave me his DNA as he slowly walks to the door. He’s aged considerably since I last saw him, his cheeks rough from the years of shaving, but when he opens the door, he still sounds the same.
“Welcome home, son.”
He hugs me, patting me on the back to add more masculinity to the embrace. Then, he pulls me inside. The warmth hits me first, followed by the smell of lemons. My mother always said lemons were a welcoming scent that made everyone feel at home. They’ve redecorated too, with large rugs covering the deep mahogany wood flooring. But there’s no dull spots to show where people have walked—that’s too homely. Everything has its place, and everything is shiny, as always. Perfect, untouched, while this family rots from the inside out. If they put a fraction of the care that they show inanimate objects into the living, maybe I wouldn’t feel like I’m being choked in the presence of my own father.
I look around the living room as I ask, “Are you alone?”
He laughs lightly as he returns to his seat. “Your mother went to the store to get all the fixings for a meal fit for the prodigal son’s return after you called.”
I nod as I take my seat in the other armchair, leaving the large sofa free for guests, as I was told to as a child. There’s a strangeness to being here as an adult. The last time I sat in this armchair, my parents and grandparents were arguing about what I told them of the priest. They weren’t arguing to protect me, just to protect themselves.
What would people think, Erik?my loving mother’s voice echoes through time.
The ghosts of that conversation are all I can focus on, as if I’m back to being that boy. I watch my father, noting the grey hairs and how he blankly stares at the fire. There’s no television, sincethe cabin was always a place to get away from the world, so the lack of background noise makes my thoughts even louder until they spill out.
“Why didn’t you help me?” I ask, partly curious, partly accusatory.
“We gave you your trusts,” he says flippantly. “What more help did you need?”
“No—why didn’t you help me when I told you what happened in the church?”
“Don’t cry over spilt milk,” he scoffs, pushing out of his armchair. His steps drag as he walks into the kitchen, ignoring me once again.
But I’m not a child at the mercy of what he wants to give, so I follow him. “I’m not crying, and that wasn’t spilt milk.”
Rather than talk to me, he pulls open the back door and walks out towards the frozen lake. Is it so fucking hard for him to admit he was wrong? He could put me at ease by saying it. All he has to do is say,“Sorry, son. I should have done things differently,”and I’d feel the weight lifted off my shoulders.
I revert to that dismissed child and go down to the basement, where my toys were kept for me to be out of the way when my parents entertained their friends. Children are to be seen, not heard. Don’t make noise, don’t ask questions, don’t make a mess. I was just a fucking prop to them, like all the shitty ornaments and furniture that show their wealth.
The bulb buzzes, glowing a harsh yellow that makes the cream walls appear dirty. A new room has been added to the basement, splitting the section from where I used to play to whatever new prop my parents have found. I laugh to myself soundlessly. It’s not the same as the wine cellar in my childhood home. That had tempered glass to show off their vintage bottles and rare collection, whereas this is more like a bank vault. But there’s no pin required as I spin the wheel, daring to spoilthe temperature-controlled environment as a fuck you for their neglect.
I could have a million years to prepare for the sight when it opens, but it wouldn’t be enough. The inside is covered in metal sheets stained with blood and clawed dents from where someone has attempted to escape the cell.
It’s not someone, though. It’s Hana who crouches in the corner, blood staining her mouth and chin as she pushes her hand into my mother’s dead body. I stare, unsure of what I’m seeing, because my woman can’t be in this metal room with my mother. My mother’s shopping. She’s going to come back, and Hana is…
“You,” she says weakly. “You found me.”
I hold my hand out to her, needing to feel her touch to know if I’m imagining this. Blood, my mother’s blood, coats her fingers slipping against my palm. Pulling her closer, I whisper, “How are you here?”
She wraps her arms around me, repeating, “You found me. Hana’s a good girl. You found me.”
And like a key fitting into a lock, it all falls into place.
I expected monsters to empathize with me.
My father didn’t give a fuck because he’s a cruel bastard. There’s no other reason why Hana would be locked in this purpose-built box with only my mother’s dead body, and she’s clearlyusedwhat was within reach to survive. They were never loving, but I look at my mother’s bloated body, and a chill works up my spine at how easily my father lied about where she was.
“I’m sorry, baby.” Kissing the top of her head, I close the door on my dead mother.
She tightens her arms around me as she whispers, “My uncle will come back.”
“Who’s your uncle?”
“Erik. I killed Martha, and he locked me away again.”
Why does she think my dad is her uncle? My parents don’t have any siblings.
