I haven't posted writing for a while, so...Yeah. This is what I've been doing. Coursework. Enjoy.
The attic of Oscar Stevens Jr. closely resembles that of a rat’s hideaway, the fire-scarred furniture once shoved angrily into a dim corner and never retrieved, to this very day. Turn to the right there and see the thin layer of dark mould growing in the cavities of the walls where pictures used to hang. But where are they now? Follow a droplet of water down to the half-uprooted floorboards, the once-shining nails standing proudly like soldiers on their battlefield of crushed glass and torn photographs. They say Oscar used to be kind, that Oscar used to smile and most importantly of all, that Oscar used to love, but you can’t see that now. All that remains are the traces of a long-lost love, etched into the wrinkles lining his face like battle scars.
It’s clear to see what happened here that fateful day and as your gaze flickers over charred books, you can almost see the flames leaping at the walls, can almost feel a phantom blaze heating the back of your neck. You don’t want to imagine the sounds; it’s been ten years since Oscar’s wife died when the attic caught fire. Notice the stray wires hanging down the ceiling and draw your own conclusions; Oscar did when the police told him, “An electrical fault,” and subsequently hasn’t stopped blaming himself ever since. Hasn’t stopped blaming you either - he said everything that he meant when he’d backed you into the corner and flat-out screamed it in your face. It was your fault, after all, that he’d been at your apartment that day while his wife waited for him patiently at home. He’d told you then, hands rubbing over his face tiredly, shrugging away the arm that you’d rested on his shoulder.
“’S’been eight years and I still see her face in my dreams. Still wake up and think that she’s trying to curl up next to me in bed. Can still hear her screaming.” His eyes met your face and flickered briefly over your features before twisting into a wry smile. “I know she’s not coming back. I’m not stupid.”
You know that Oscar hasn’t been here for weeks at least - the iridescent cobwebs framing the walls and ceilings tell you that. You’d know that even if they weren’t there, much as you’d hate to admit it. “Tough as nails with a heart colder than steel,” that’s what they’ve always said to you, ever since you were a child. You’ve known Oscar since those early years - but not friends, never friends. Something more. Maybe something less.
Oscar was always the popular boy at school; the boy with a girl hanging off his arms. Truth be told, you’d hated him with a passion back then. You wouldn’t have cared at all if he’d just lost his family in a freak fire, or if he’d simply dropped off the face of the earth. You’d never have guessed the extent of your role reversal though - everyone knew that Oscar was supposed to succeed, that he was supposed to be the one with the money and the high-status job. It was supposed to be you that wound up holed up in a rut of a ruined house, was supposed to be you out on the streets searching for some way to forget yourself.
“Oscar?” You offer a yell into the silence of the attic, hearing your voice echo throughout the house and shivering as your breath appears as a cloud of thick air in front of you. It’s the atmosphere that gets you though; the stillness of it all. If you didn’t know better, you’d say that the place was haunted.
You’d never thought that anywhere could be silent or that it could be as still as this, but you’ve learned differently now. It’s almost as if the fire froze the house in time, casing it in the creases of history. The novelty of it all is more than a little dizzying and you reach out to steady yourself on the wall, feeling damp plaster chips beneath your fingertips. It really shouldn’t surprise you as much as it does that the house is deteriorating quite so seriously, but you find yourself absent-mindedly rubbing your hands on your coat to try and remove the sensation of the house falling apart underneath your hands.
Fifteen years ago, Oscar would have set to work with his toolkit and a sunny smile, but those days are gone. Somehow, you know that even if you walked into the next room and found Oscar sitting on the floor waiting for you, you wouldn’t have recognised him. The last time that you saw him, he’d aged about twice his age, the burden of his loss weighing heavily upon his shoulders and causing him to stoop. It’s almost as if the house has mirrored his emotions; you saw this house when the paint was wet and the air was fresh with the scent of just being new. Oscar’s wife had shown you the nursery proudly, pointing out the pink wallpaper patterned with various flowers. You’d bitten your tongue, not wanting to admit the way that the combination of it all turned your stomach. The way his smile had turned your stomach.
Hadn’t you wanted this? The question nagged at you, biting away at your skin until it harrowed your bones. You’d been jealous, fiercely so, and he’d confronted you with those very words, spitting them out like venom. You’d tried to interrupt, tried to tell him that you were happy when he was happy but he’d interrupted- did you think that he was stupid? You’d told him to get out, that you never wanted to see him ever again, that you wanted the chance to live without him constantly hovering over you and reminding you of the feelings that you never asked for anyway.
“Oscar?” You offer into the dead silence once again, hoping for a miracle.
You’d give anything to see that smile again.