Carvings

By Laura Hiermann

I walk up to the house. The lights behind the bedroom window on the first floor are on. Apart from that it’s entirely dark and silent. I squelch towards it on the muddy path, my boots sinking into the soft dirt. The door opens with a push and a squeak. Inside, all I can hear is a scritching and scratching that seems to come from above me. I look up, but there’s nothing there. Only cobwebs between the arms of the chandelier. She must be upstairs. In her bedroom.

I’m certain.

I pass from the entrance through the living room to the staircase in the left corner. Each of my steps up is accompanied by the creaking of a stair. Each a different volume and note, creaking and cracking and squeaking. When I turn on the landing halfway up, I can see down the hall of the upper floor that’s lined with framed photographs. The bedroom door at its end is ajar, and a beam of light falls through the gap. As I head towards it, I catch a glimpse of myself in the glistening glass of one of the picture frames. My reflection is shaded by me and her as girls running towards our mother. Back then no one yet knew that soon we’d only want to flee from mother. In the next frame, I can see the outline of my face. This time shaded by Samuel in his tux. My eyes are dark holes among undefined features, and I shiver as if a spider was frantically crawling down my neck.

I push the bedroom door open and to my surprise find the room empty. No one in, on or under the bed in the center. No one in the left corner between the wall and the dresser. No one in the right one behind the fiddle leaf fig. I turn around, where is she?

There.

Her foot peeking out of the door of the walk-in-closet. Before, hidden by the rocking chair between the two doors. She’s in her old slippers, and as I walk towards her, I can see her heel and the festering bloody blister on it. The scratching continues, grows louder, drowns out my steps. But I want her to hear me. I need her to hear me. So, I stamp through the room, thumping towards her.

When I open the door, she’s not startled. She’s kneeling on the floor and doesn’t even turn around, doesn’t even look up. She just continues to carve something into the wooden floorboards. I’m trying to glance over her shoulder without disturbing her to get a better look, when suddenly - you move. You’re hiding away behind the hung coats and the bags and shoes that pile on the floor, in the very back of the closet. I can only make out the glimmering white of one of your big eyes between the brown fur coat and the green parka Samuel left behind. For a second, we look right at each other. Then you retreat. A little too sudden though and the coats around you tremble on their hangers and a high heeled shoe on the floor tips over. The baby blue one, the pair she wore to her wedding with Michael. But she doesn’t even notice. She seems entirely unaware of your presence. She’s still busy carving.

I bend down next to her, still in the doorframe. The shadow I cast over her swallows her writing. I can only see the veins that pop out of her delicate hands, like worms crawling on and in and out of her, accompanied by the blades of her tendons. She grips the pair of nail scissors and as I move closer to her, my shadow retreats, unveiling the floorboards in front of her. Now I can see. She’s carving their names.

She’s carving them in chronological order, first Thomas, then Michael, George and John and lastly Samuel, whose unabbreviated name I’ve never heard or seen her use before. Some of the letters are a little crooked, some a little too large or too small, but each reminds me of the man himself. Thomas is light and a bit squiggly, Michael reaches deeper into the wood than the others, George is rounder and softer, John’s letters are almost too perfect and Samuel she rushed through and now needs to redo.

She puts the small nail scissors aside, admires her final work and then turns to me. Her dark brown eyes look black, and suddenly, we all know. You and her and me. We all know that they’re dead. The news of their death comes to us in a shared gut feeling that makes me gag and her wince and you shake and the hangers clink. I don’t quite understand, but I know Thomas, Michael, George, John and Samuel are dead.

I look down at her and wonder if she did it, if the carvings are her tribute to them. A little floorboard memorial. But her calmness begins to peel away with her first tear dropping right onto Michael on the floor. With each drip and drop another layer dissolves. Her breathing fastens, and I’m not so sure anymore. Her eyes dart through the half-darkness of the small walk-in-closet, and I’m not sure at all. And then they land on me. A worm pulsates from her nose up to her hairline. It thickens and thickens, and I’m certain it will burst. Her eyes are swallowed by her cheeks, and her mouth grows and grows and grows until it consumes her face. Wide open, a blackhole filled with grief. She grabs my calves and drives her nails into my flesh. She digs deeper and deeper, but I focus on you. Maybe you did it. What are you doing behind the coats and bags and shoes anyway? It must have been your plan all along, to blame me.

Her nails in my calves are starting to become painful now, but her groans are already quieting down until they turn into heavy breathing. She still clings to my legs, but her nails don’t penetrate my flesh anymore, and her grip begins to loosen. I look down and see the blood-red curved marks on my skin. How dare she? None of those men deserve her rage. None of them was good enough anyway. I grab her hair and yank it back. I force her to look in your direction. But she doesn’t see you. Her eyes wander right over you. You’re no more than a presence behind the coats and bags and shoes. Barely noticeable, barely even there. I let go of her hair and she sinks down to the floor, as I step out of the closet back into the bedroom leaving the two of you behind. I’m tempted to shut the door. I could lock you both away, but I decide not to. I want her to come to me, return to me. So, I only give the door a little push. It slams into her ankle, bounces back and then remains there, half closed, half open.

I settle down on the bed and wait. The satin sheets feel cool on my skin and my calmness returns, while neither she nor you make a sound. The room is perfectly tidy, apart from Samuel’s mess on the dresser that she never got rid of. Designer clothes, one of his watches, that ugly pretentious pen he never allowed anyone to use, least of all me. He took her away from me. Inviting her into his world, locking her in and keeping her restrained. I’m kind of glad you did it. She might not see it now, but she will eventually. I’m certain of it.

One of her hairs is caught between my fingers. I carefully pull on it and it slides through my hand until it dangles in front of me. A delicate thin black line splitting into two towards the end. I twist it around my index finger. Another twist, the skin around my nail slowly reddens, as the hair edges into my flesh. Again, I twist, and when I carefully dap the tip of my index finger it feels numb. Just like she must have been when she left me alone with mother, just to be with Thomas. Abandoned me. And I take the hair for two more rounds around my finger. I’m on round three when it, just like that, snaps.

Snippity snap, not quite as loud as neck.

My heartbeat pulsates in the tip of my finger, while the color of my skin returns to its normal shade. I notice the dirt in the creases and underneath my nails. I get it out with my thumb and rub it between my fingers. It’s the grainy texture of soil. When did I play in the –

Tip, tap. Now there’s the tapping of a foot. I believe it’s your foot. Impatiently tipping and tapping, tipping and tapping. The sound swells. I want you to stop. You annoy me. Why can’t you just stand still? Why can’t I just lie here in peace?

Although, maybe she’ll finally notice you if you keep going, and I begin to applaud you, cheer you on in the rhythm of your tipping and tapping. Go on, go on, go on; she’ll hear you, she’ll find you, she’ll blame you. I catch myself giggling in the intervals between your tips and taps. Now the floorboards creak. She’s looking for you. Another creak. Maybe she’s found you. Crack. The closet door opens.

She stands in the doorway alone. Such a disappointment. The floor’s imprinted on her knees, thin delicate lines on her red skin. For a second, she looks at me the way she used to look at mother after her outbursts. Her jaw is tense, and her upper lip curled. Then she turns away and limps past me. She seems to want to get away, but I won’t allow it. She has no right to be disgusted by me. I follow her and you follow me. I can hear you behind me as she leads us into the hall towards the stairs.

We walk down memory lane, past all the photographs. First, it’s only Samuel’s eyes that look for the guilty one among us from behind the glass, but with each step another pair from one of the frames joins in. They keep on hectically moving from you to her to me. Now even our childish eyes judge. Going from me to her to you to me to you to me to me to me and they stay and they stare and I have to look away and I walk faster. You’re right behind me. Creak, crack. You’re catching up. Crack, creak. Going faster. Getting closer. I feel your breath on my neck. Creak, crack. My thoughts stumble. I turn around on the landing. I think you must be right behind me, but instead you’re on the most upper step. A dark shadow against the light falling through the open bedroom door. Only a silhouette, except for your eyes that glisten in the dark just like the eyes in the picture frames. All looking for me. Resting on me. Settling on me.

Self-doubt crawls up my legs. I lean back against the wall, against another picture frame. Its edges press into my shoulder blades, and when I sink to the floor, the frame between the wall and me shatters. It crunches, scratches and cuts into my skin and it hurts, but not bad enough. I think of the slashes on my back and the blood that must stream down my skin, drain my shirt and smear the white wall. But the maggoty doubt nagging on my stomach hurts more.

When creak crack, you walk down the stairs towards me. You come to a halt next to my right knee. I can make out your naked feet in the darkness. They’re right next to my hand that rests on the floor. One of your toes is missing. It’s the fourth one. Maybe your mother dropped kitchen knives as well. You sit down to my right, still swallowed by the darkness. Only shadows and outlines of your features, until you smile at me. Your teeth are so white they shine through the darkness, and I smile back at you, almost laugh.

Then you lift your hand and point down into the living room.

She has returned. She stands at the bottom of the staircase, and she can’t see us, but we can see her. She’s tapping her phone on the side of her leg. We wonder if she’s afraid. Does she know we’re not alone anymore? She’s looking around. She’s looking for us. She turns her head. To the left, to the right. Behind her, in front of her. But we don’t move. We don’t want her to know where we are. Not yet. We don’t want to spoil the fun.

Laura Hiermann is an Austrian writer studying Creative Writing at University of Edinburgh. She also works as a freelance editor and contributes to the anthology From Arthur’s Seat as a Communications Assistant. Her short stories have previously appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine and Short Vine Journal, and her work is forthcoming in From Arthur’s Seat Edition VI.