- Author
- 04/23/2016
- 685 Words
- 1,477 Views
- 0 Comments
Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Moving On - 1. Moving On
Alone, in my childhood home, I rummaged through the remnants of my past as the radio station spoke of the anniversary of a brutal incident.
"For ten years, the mysterious fire that had plagued our town has continued to baffle investigators. Just a year after the case was opened, it was closed, the result truly believed to be an incident with electricity or one of their lamps. The family made use of candles and oil lamps, so viewing it as a dreaded tragedy was..."
I sifted through the old papers that just laid about, finding old toys my mom used to keep away.
"The only surviving member, their lone child, managed to escape the wreckage unscathed, "but was clearly under signs of abuse when the paramedics brought him to the emergency room. Many remembered the home of the influential family, known for all their church works and..."
I shut the drawer and moved to the shelf, finding one of the things I came here for. A small metal music box. When I flipped it open, a soft tune played out, gentle and sweet. Two ballerinas circled each other in loops, constantly opposite each other, never touching, never meeting. The trinket was a sharp contrast from the depressing surroundings.
Just as I shut the music box, the radio continued... "Must be nice being back, huh?" I looked over my shoulder, and the radio sat there on the ground, a little red light glaring at me. "Ten years, and the prodigal son returns to the scene of the crime."
I set the music box aside and walked over to the radio. I didn't turn it off, however. I knelt down and stared at it. Static hummed through the channel and laced with the voice.
"Not up for a little chat, you little brat?"
"It's been a while, Dad," I answered curtly.
"Living good, I see. What brings you back to this hellhole?"
I moved to sit on the floor, facing the radio. "Seeing if there's anything left to salvage before we have the place bulldozed. Mayor wants me to clear it out."
"Fucking asshole."
"First time we agree on something." I really didn't care. I stopped living here ages ago. I had a good life now. A boyfriend, dear friends who cared for me, a decent suburban home, and a job that helps pay for it. Soon, I'd be starting my own business. I was just here on a social call, as far as anyone was concerned. "All the papers burned with the house, so you'd expect the authorities to make this place useful, but they've been sitting on their asses for all these years."
"Useless pigs, then, huh?"
"Much like you," I agreed. I remembered how despicable this man once, hiding behind and desacrating his faith to uphold his bigotry. "You know that day was just a bunch of accidents, right?"
He met me with silence. I remembered that day clearly. I was being beaten again, but this time, an oil lamp got knocked over, and the fire spilled onto his clothes. While my mother panicked, I escaped. I didn't know how dense she was, but it seemed to just spread everywhere in the home. Before I knew it, I was watching my home burn once I'd made my escape.
He didn't bother answering, so I continued. "I'd like to ask where you are, but I don't think I even care."
I gently picked up the radio, smiled, and turned it off. Looking out a wall where the gas stove blew a hole in, I chucked the radio at its general direction. A satisfying crash filled the air for a moment. I had radio in my phone anyway. I could get my white noise from there. I plugged my earphones in and switched it to the station I was listening to.
I wondered if there were any antiques worth saving from upstairs. I kept hoping against hope that there was something worth salvaging from this place.
I wanted to write a short story so this is it. 
You can find me on [twitter]Twitter[/twitter] and Instagram.
You can also find me playing gay games at my Youtube channel.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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