Blistering Silence

Who am I?

I pulled a woolen blanket from my head. Had the walls begun moving again? Pulsing in and out like lungs. Had I been drinking again? Mindless attempts to silence something. My senses were grounded by the soft humming of my cat, Tober. She sat beside me, composed. It’s Tober like October, get it? October is my wife, June’s, birthday month. I thought it’d be a sweet name—also considering they act eerily similar—but her stale nature shut it down. Lots of people think it’s stupid, June especially. But I think June can be stupid; she left me about a month ago. I have been trying to contact her, but it’s been to no avail—she’s still angry about my outburst last time we saw each other.

Though, it’s as if she never left.

Our house is still as dull and soundless as it was before she left. I never understood what changed with the girl I loved—who’s soul was vibrant and explosive with the ecstasy of life. Her flesh had turned reticently stagnant—composed.

Where is she?

I don’t mean to be so boisterously obnoxious—or even violent—but once you’ve lived in the filth of a thick stillness for long enough, things kind of happen. She should be used to these kinds of episodic outbursts. She should know how to help me. At times, I regularly don’t recognize myself, or my behavior. She should ground me, shouldn’t she?

Tober’s been playing outdoors again.

“Tober, spit it out!” I call out just as Tober disgorges one of June’s scarves. It was, peculiarly, the exact scarf she had worn on the day she left. How’d it get back here? Great. This is what I mean when I say Tober and June are eerily similar—they even have the same taste in cherished scarves.

I held the scarf to my nose—it still smelled weakly of her perfume. Maybe that was just the house, her scent soaked into the wallpaper, furniture—everything. It’s so odd to feel like I’m hearing the same off-key purrs, but she’s not home.

Tober meowed in an unpleasant tone, much like the toneless melodies that June sings. Her head cocked toward the basement door, her tail swishing like a metronome. Her eyes were obsidian in color, I know because she stopped her gawking and directed her scowl toward me. She maintained her gaze until she softly hissed, darting down the corridor, toward the basement door.

——————————————————————

The scarf had unwittingly been in my hand as I made my way to the kitchen. I scooped bits of half-frozen peas into my mouth. I sat still, listening to the click of Tober’s paws down the hall. The sound was rhythmic, like raindrops against a window. Then it stopped.

Silence—once again, so relentless it rang in my ears.

I fidgeted with the scarf in my hands. The fabric was damp near an edge, darker in color. The faint scent of damp soil and iron clung to it. Mold, maybe wine. June likes to drink when she’s angry at me—or maybe I like to drink? Either way, drinking makes her quiet. Her stillness, her composure, it seemed to have melted onto Tober. She was a rowdy kitten—bursting with infectious energy, but she gradually grew more taciturn.

There was a creak in the direction of the basement door—the bending of wood, or maybe a door opening. My chest had suddenly felt tight, and my stomach churned lightly. Those damn peas.

“Tober?” I called out, only for my voice to be swallowed by the absent noise.

There were hums from the fridge, low, off-key notes. The scarf slipped from my hands as Tober scraped the tile of the kitchen floor.

“Hi, Tober,” I whispered, extending my arm invitingly.

She purred back in response, dropping a five-dollar poker chip from her mouth. How the hell did she get into the basement?

“Look what the cat dragged in,” I reluctantly remarked. “Quit messing around in the basement, Tober,” I grunted, exhaling sharply as I rose from my seat.

I hate it when she goes downstairs. She messes with my poker table and scratches my leather chairs. Not to mention, there are too many electrical wires, too many sharp objects, too many hazards. I pick up the chip from the floor, walking it to the creaky basement door. In that moment, it felt admittedly foreboding despite the years I’ve lived here—a strange odor plumed from beneath the undercut, solidifying my discontent.

Tober brushed my legs, a beckon to go downstairs. I ignore her. She caresses me vigorously now, the grotesque and pungent scent occupying the only space left in my brain. I open the door, freeing the smell to roam imprudently throughout my home. My boots echo as they clamor against the decaying oak stairs. Deep. Slow. Sullen. Like the ticks of a clock. I reach the bottom step and immediately take notice of the faint buzzing coming from around the corner. It’s getting louder. I jumped when I looked down to see Tober, gazing past the corner. Her head hadn’t been cocked, nor had it been held high.

She’s seen whatever is past that corner before.

The buzzing began taunting me, mercilessly growing louder. I attempted to breathe, but the odor had filled my lungs. I gasped, reaching for my throat; but instead of hearing the sound of dull breath rasping in my throat, there was a sudden, high-pitched feminine bellow. It sounded paralyzingly familiar.

June.

I hadn’t moved, but before me I witnessed the glint escape her eyes. A pair of husky hands wrapped around her neck, her gravelly voice croaking. I froze. My limbs fell fuzzy, detached almost. There it was again. Blistering silence. The buzzing stopped, Tober was gone—the poker chip, too. I stepped forward, and the echo of my boots was gone. The world had become still and soundless.

What am I doing?

I stepped forward again.

What am I doing down here?

My eyes grazed the edge of the corner, enough to see Tober crouched quietly beside a pair of ashen legs. She meowed at me.

“What have you done, Tober?”

It was June.

It was June’s corpse. Rotten. Voiceless.

“What have you done!” I shrieked, my body fighting between running to her body, and running back upstairs. If not for the profound bruising on her neck, and the mildewing limbs—she would’ve been clean, silent. Composed.

“Tober! Why did you do this? Tober! Tober?” The words stumbled fitfully from my tongue, my eyes jerked erratically around the room. It was a desperate attempt to locate Tober, who had no longer been crouched. Tober, who had no longer been meowing. Tober, who had no longer been curiously wandering through her quiet life.

Who did this?

Did I do this?

Why did I do this?

My wife, my once exuberantly luminous wife, had been decaying on my floor. The monstrous revelation, the spoiled and repulsive scent, and the same blistering silence—it nauseated me and clouded my mind. I retreated to the stairs. I don’t remember what happened as I made my way toward them, but it happened.

My head felt heavy—drenched in memory. I lay down on my couch, pulling a woolen blanket June had sewn over my head. I shut my eyes, so hard geometric shapes fluttered in the shadows of my eyelids. I tried to rid myself of the memory, I tried to rid myself of what I’d done.

That’s when I heard her.

Tober’s gentle purrs.

I yanked the blanket from my head. Tober sat beside me, waiting silently. She purred again at me, louder than before. I think I smiled at her. I peered closer at her—June’s scarf rested just below her sharp teeth.

“June?” I whispered.

Tober meowed in response, dropping the scarf. The walls swirled yet again, this time—breathing with me.