Clearing out the cupboard

It began –I recall, with an error. I hadn’t meant to forget the cupboard; it was just that the kitchen needed repainting, and that meant emptying out everything from my long neglected, lime green, narrow galley, into a collection of crusty, cardboard boxes (that I had kept specifically for this purpose over the years, under the stairs.?) It was only when I thought I had finished; that I looked through the corner of my eye, only to realise that I had –somehow- missed one. It had been so long since I had opened it, that I had no idea what I’d find. So, without a thought, I opened the door and saw the cup sitting there all alone. Only then, when I saw its’ contents, did agonising memories come flooding back with the intensity of a thousand needles pushing deep into each and every pore of my skin.
The mug…his mug…. He always drank out of that bloody thing... that cream, age grey cracked, with that awful multi shaded green leaf pattern…the stain of black tea around the inner rim, that never came off no matter how many times I put the thing in the sink...the handle cracked and loose fitting…like a dead and half rotten tooth desperately needing to be ripped out… dead and rotten...even now I can see it… just resting there, in the middle of the bottom shelf… almost staring at me…dead and rotten...fuck.
Looking back, I can see why I chose it to hide the mug there. That’s because the cupboard is positioned quite high –almost out of reach- on the far left hand wall; nowhere near either the cooker or the sink. And being a practical person -at least when I cook- I would have no real reason to even consider going there. That is because of the narrow shape of the room, which placed this particular cupboard away from both natural and artificial light. No...light hardly ever touched this darkened, web filled corner; so time -and perhaps...dare I say... a secret hidden indifference- had finally won its’ subtle way.
To be honest, I don’t know why I kept the bloody thing… Perhaps a part of me needed something to remind me of him. Though, why I should do so, I honestly can’t recall… Perhaps it’s because he was my father, and father’s need to be remembered... I don’t know... after all, my father was not a nice man; so why should I want to remember him? All those years fighting...all those years putting up with his...touching me...
He died –peacefully- in his sleep seven years ago…the gas of his grimy duel hob stove having been left on. He was found, with this cup by his bedside, by the carer who looked after him on alternative days…an old man, white haired, toothless, unshaven and unkempt; there was a lengthy investigation, but after two weeks, the county coroner recorded a death by misadventure. So that was that. A week later his body was cremated; no one came to pay their respect, and at the end of what was a cold winters’ day, I put the ashes in the bin.
But then I started to have dreams...he kept coming in the night...looking at me...pointing at me...calling me a murderer...scraping his long nails against the walls of my bedroom...tapping his hands upon my wardrobe...whispering foul things in my ear... it all stopped when I had to go back to his tired flat, go through his tatty belongings... and there was the cup...so I kept it...put it in the cupboard and forgot all about it...till now.
As I opened the cupboard door and saw the mug it all came back with a savage scream...how I had put enough of his sleeping draft in that mug to knock him out in almost half an hour...how I had waited until he was asleep, then after pulling the cooker away from the wall, I attached a large hose to the gas pipe, ran the hose under the door, into his bedroom and then blocked up the air holes around the hose as best I could; before walking back to the kitchen to put the gas on...I recall I paused...then I slowly opened the valve... how I had left till six in the morning, then, upon my return, how I turned the gas off, removed the rags from beneath the doorway, re-fixed the gas-pipe to the cooker, wound up the extension Hose I brought with me; before opening the door, going back to the cooker and turning it on. Then I left once more. I was home in less than fifteen minutes.
That mug...that mug...that man...he hurt me...he...did things...but I waited...I waited...oh how I waited...it’s a sin to kill but is it a sin to seek justice? I tried to forget what he did to me... but it wouldn’t go away...no tears, no amount of scrubbing can clean my mind, nothing rids me of those memories of him...touching me... and that cup...as it shone its’ reflection brightly in the afternoon light though the glass frame of the garden shed...there...there...there...there...his ghost strokes my hand so gently...so very gently...