The door to the cottage was ajar. The darkness from within seemed to spill out into the sunshine. But that was silly, because the dark didn’t do that—it didn’t travel, not like the light did. It was a shadow from the magnolia tree, that was all. Here and there, bright pink petals had fallen onto the path and were wilting in the sun, edges curled and brown. He picked one up.
He tiptoed up the steps, placed his hand on the door. The glossy red surface was warm. He ran his finger along a crack, felt the threat of a splinter, picked off a flake of paint. He held his breath. Listened. Something was wrong. The air sat heavy in his ears, like water. It seemed to have swallowed all sound. He felt a pain in his tummy, the one he always had when he was worried. It was the silence. The rage and the shouting and the smashing of plates he didn’t mind so much, he could hide from it, hands over his head, curled under his bed or crouched behind a tree in the garden. It was the silence afterwards he feared. It settled over the house like fog, seeped into corners, lingered over him as he tried to sleep.
He rubbed the petal between his fingers nervously, rolling it back and forth into a tube until it disintegrated, leaving his fingers damp and perfumed. He held them to his nose. Sweet. Comforting. From somewhere in the distance, a lawnmower started up, cutting through the quiet and breaking its spell over him. The birds sang. The grass rustled. A dog barked. He pushed open the door.
The cool inside air settled on his sweaty face and bare arms, and he shivered. He blinked as his pupils dilated, adjusting to the dimness of the interior. He scanned the room, eye level first. Mugs on the breakfast bar; a newspaper, spread open; a glint, sunlight on metal—a teaspoon; dust swirling; the armchair, not where it should be, shifted, facing the wrong way.
And there, on the floor.
He’d seen it as soon as he’d walked in, but some instinct had forced him not to look, and now that he did, his brain was trying to process what he saw into something acceptable. A pile of clothes. But it had arms and legs and hair. A mannequin, then, like in a shop, with limbs so stiff and pale. Around its head was a dark shape. It was moving, very slowly. It was creeping towards him. He reached out and touched it.
Sticky. Warm.
He held his hand up to the light from the open door.
Red.
A shifting. A rustling of fabric. He was not alone. In that moment, he longed for the silence again. Because he knew that what had happened in this room was terrible. And someone was here, and they would see him, and now he was part of it. He glanced down at his hand. Worse. They would think it was his fault. He took a step back. Towards the door and the warmth and the barking dog, which he strained to hear above the racket his own heart was making as it pounded at such a rate he felt sure it would explode.
A moan. Somebody was crying. Muffled sobs. Behind the kitchen counter. He faltered. His teacher at school always said you should help people in need. He swallowed. Tried to push the fear back down to the bottom of his stomach. Tried to be brave. Walked towards the sound. One step. Softly. Slowly. Two steps. Remembered the time he found the cat with the bleeding leg. It had lashed out at him when he’d reached towards it, not knowing that he just wanted to help. He should let the person know he was here, so as not to startle them.
‘Hello.’ It came out as a whisper.
The sobbing continued. He tried again. Cleared his throat.
‘Hello.’
A sharp intake of breath.
And he knew, from that single sound, that his help was not wanted.
That it was not welcome.
That he should run.