The son of the architect lies strewn on a heap of rubbish
She was killed on a Friday afternoon. Father did not dare to go. I had to. We went, the gardener and I, down to the old house. Blood on the stairs, the walls, everywhere or so it felt. The bed, unmade stared at us, asking what we were doing there. The gardener started cleaning, I just walked around. I had not been to the house since I was five. She did not want to talk to us any more.
Silence has insinuated itself to every pore of the house (She can curse us no more). In the kitchen, a few lonely cups await their fate. The fridge is grand and new. We are inside it. All of us, every single one of us.