Watch Your Step

T̸w̸i̸t̸c̸h̸ [ep. 4]

The next day, Rod finds out that one of the boxes left on the terrace contains his books. Although it was shaded by the low roof of the house, it did not protect the box from the slanting blades of the rain last night.

He scoops the wet books into the drenched box and looks for his mother's blow dryer. Unfortunately, when he begins to dry and opens the pages of the books in the living room, suddenly the lights turn off. He hears the sound of a machine shutting down and darkness swallows the living room. Celia who just finished cooking finds him with books sprawled all over the floor. "I forgot to tell you there's a power interruption today," she says. Rod pretends to flip the pages so he won't have to face his mother after what happened last night.

"I'm sorry for last night," Mrs. Fletcher pursues.

Rod could have started to argue and complain, but he thought better. Now that he has a clearer mind he chooses to speak:

"You don't have to apologize," he says, "it's my fault."

"Hey, we have to stop blaming ourselves, okay?"

Silence. Rod looks away and starts tangling the cord of the blow dryer.

"Promise me you won't do it again."

He nods but still, his eyes don't meet hers.

"Do you want to come with me to the market?"

Being thrifty with his words, Rod shakes his head.

"Why don't you go out and have fun?" Celia suggests as she straps her handbag over her shoulder. "The weather's nice today," she adds. Rod gives her a forced smile and it makes his cheeks tired already.

He chooses to dry his books first on the low roof of the terrace for it is truly a nice weather. Yet quite unpleasant to him. The sunlight is fierce and he knows it would turn the pages yellow. But it doesn't matter to him anymore. The air is muggy like in a sauna so he prefers to stay inside the house. With no books and no electricity, what choice does he have but to wander around the house? He tries to divert his thoughts as he used to: counting the doors and the curtainless windows. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. It was perfect. Two in the living room, one in each bedroom, and one in the kitchen. To him, five is a perfect number. He passes the wide mirror and counts the picture frames on the cabinet. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Also perfect. But the scars on his wrist—that he counted too. It was only four, like rungs of ladder clinging to his wrist. With another twitch on his mouth, he defies the itch to add one.

When he became too bored, he remembered the puzzle he brought from their old house. He finds it in the laundry basket but one tile is already missing—apart from the space to move the pieces—which made the pieces of the puzzle loose. He digs the clothes in the basket, then he searches the house and in the pockets of his worn shorts. Even if it's sunny outside it's still dark inside to find anything. And searching for something as small as a dime can be so tedious. Soon he worries that all the tiles will detach from the puzzle and he will never have the chance to fix it.

It was after lunch that he finally gave up. After, he eats the food which his mother cooked in the breakfast. Carrying his bandaged arm, a small pitcher clasp on its finger—a simple exercise to know if it was already healed—he went to the living room and looked at the light bulb, still out of electricity. With his left hand, he flicked the light switch on and off and on and off and on—. He grunts and turns to the kitchen. Then his face drained white and the hairs all over his body stood up when a black shadow slipped between his feet. His fearful response was immediate. He jumps to his feet and almost slips the pitcher in his hand. Frightened, it convinced him enough to get out of the house.