Mortar Doesn't Breathe

Mortar Doesn't Breathe

The coffee turned traitor, refusing to be drawn out any longer. It had progressed down its various stages from steaming. The bitter sludge-that she’d never really liked much anyway - had skimmed past pleasantly hot, through unappealingly warm. Here it was good enough to linger kindly over tepid for sometime, until finally every last iota of warmth had dissolved into whatever substance cheap mugs are made from these days, and she had to admit that the damned coffee was stone cold and it was time for bed.

She pondered how long she could take with the ritual of shutting down the house. It usually took about two minutes; tonight it could be stretched to ten. Andrea took her cup through to the kitchen and carefully washed, dried and put it away, it didn’t look as lonely in the cupboard with its mates; the gaudy sunflower motif look more vibrant and sunny. Maybe she too looked less lonely when surrounded by people; odd then, that that was when she felt most alone.

Andrea shook her head as she wiped an already spotless work surface; this was ridiculous. Snapping out of her lingersome mood she moved briskly now, ashamed of her dallying. Every light in the house shone comfortingly, each bulb a single branch of a collective beacon proclaiming to the neighbourhood that this was a house brimming with light, and therefore full of life. She resolutely turned each light off as she passed by the switch, every click snapped louder than the one before.

The fire tutted at her as though disappointed by redundancy at another day's close, its click, click, click, of cooling jets admonishing her long after she had turned the dial to Off.

The doors were already bolted and all the windows closed down against the chill night air and its predators.

The weather girl, with the unnaturally red hair that looked too bright for midnight, warned of a cold, windy night followed by more of the same the next day.

‘Thank you so much for sharing,’ Andrea had spoken aloud and her voice sounded brash in the cooling house. Regardless of what the girl was saying, hers was a voice in the room and Andrea hesitated with her finger poised over the button. She took a breath to steel herself and turned the television off.

Silence. Complete and utter, total silence, even the fire had stopped tutting to listen to it. She heard the silence and it hurt her ears as they strained to catch the enormity of its grating tone. This, she decided, was what she’d been dreading most. She switched the lamp off with a click that made her start.

Up one flight of stairs. Turn right. Open the door. Switch on the light. The bedroom—his bedroom. The neatly made bed turned down as though ready for his return. She held her breath and listened to the house. It too must have be holding its breath because she couldn’t hear it breathing.
Perhaps it had died, or maybe it was just waiting for things to return to normal before it exhaled.

This room was usually perfect, but tonight it was so wrong. Bart Simpson's yellow mocking face leered up at her from the bright duvet cover. Mr Bilbo, the battered old Teddy wasn’t on the bed. It comforted her to know that old Bilbo was tucked under her little boy's arm; whatever adventures lay in store they would meet them together.

Andrea turned sharply, only to lock eyes with Crusty the clown. She’d painted the mural herself, a happy, grinning face full of colour and cheer. Tonight he looked maniacal. He had perfect circle eyes, thanks to a coffee jar lid, and permanent marker pupils with a strategically placed tiny white dot that gave his eyes that cheeky glint. Yesterday he'd had laughing eyes; tonight they gleamed with insanity and malice.

Thirty seconds and still the house hadn’t taken a breath, nor let one go, or was that just her?
His bedroom was filled with his stuff but was empty without him. She’d been smiling at him as he stepped off the kerb and moved towards the car. She had heard the car's horn, and then its brakes, and then he was gone.

She left his waiting bedroom and the door closed behind her with a gentle click. When she brushed her teeth she ran water into a mug rather than leave it flowing as she did in the mornings. The plumbing ran behind the walls in his room. It was a good two years since he’d thought that the water clanking down the pipes was a monster, but ever since then she’d rinsed from a mug so as not to frighten him. She put her toothbrush back in the holder next to his, and felt a pang of guilt as she realised that tonight for the first time in seven years he had not cleaned his teeth. Such a silly little thought, but it seemed important nonetheless.

She lay in bed it dawned on her that, even one floor above and at the other side of the house, on some level, maybe only an instinctual one, somehow she could hear her little boy breathing while he slept, because tonight that was missing. It was too quiet, too still.

The house forgot to breathe.

She rolled over and smiled as she saw the photo beside her bed, his wickedly impish face; Oh well matey won't be long until tomorrow morning.

It was his first night away from home; the first time her baby had been brave enough to accept the invitation of a sleepover. Her little boy was growing up. She remembered his brave smile and her encouraging one as Mrs. Mitchell had stopped outside the house and tooted her horn; his moment of sheer panic as he realised that he had almost forgotten Mr. Bilbo, and his, I don't need that. Attitude in front of his friend Sam as she had tucked the old bear into the car beside them.

Her last thought before she slept was, ‘I wonder if Mr Bilbo's magic extends to protecting un-brushed teeth.’ She shouldn’t have forgotten to pack his toothbrush.

And the house waited to exhale.