The air above the road shimmered as the sun beat down on the tarred surface, bringing the blackened surface almost to its melting point. Indeed in places it was already sticky and runny, shining dully in the heavy July afternoon. The sky above was clear The frail clouds that had earlier floated lazily under the sun's warm glow, had since drifted away over the horizon leaving the world below completely exposed to the relentless onslaught of the sun's furnace. On the street children were playing apparently immune to the oppressing heat. On one side of the street a group of four young girls were gathered around a shakily drawn hopscotch grid. They let out screams of delight as they took turns to throw the furry, pink ball they were playing with. Their excited calls sounded strangely mute in the warm air. They seemed distant and dislocated from the rest of the world. The same goes for the group of boys playing football in the middle of the street. Their cries of "Goal" carried no energy as they made them and almost seemed as if they were coming from some other world. In the gardens to both sides of the street, sprinklers were dousing the parched grass with stead streams of water. The precious nutrient re-hydrating them as fast as the hot afternoon snatched the water from their roots. In a few gardens parents lie in the sun, some seemingly half-asleep, others with newspapers or books over their heads, keeping away the glare. Somewhere on the street the sound of toddlers splashing around in a paddling pool rises from a garden. Along with every other sound, the splashing sound oddly disjointed, almost tired.
Towards the end of the street, there's one house that doesn't exhibit any signs of life. The grass in the garden is browning steadily under the sun. The sprinkler system lies dead in the centre of the lawn; a few drops stuck to the water outlets tantalise the parched scrub. The blinds over the upstairs windows are drawn and two full bottles of milk lie outside the door, curdling with the heat. The air here seems to press down heavily on the earth, adding to the sense of death that surrounds this odd oasis of quiet in the centre of the young suburb. A little girl riding down the pavement on her tricycle suddenly loses her balance outside the house and begins to cry as she grazes her knee on the rough concrete. Her cries carry bluntly along the street, sounding as unreal as the other dulled sounds. Her mother, middle-aged, wearing a colourful summer dress that hangs loosely over her wide hips, hurries over. She bends down and cradles her little girl in her arms; gently singing as she rubs her daughters grazed knee. "There, there Lily," she says comfortingly, "Let's go and get you an ice-cream." The little girl looks up a small smile breaking out through her tears. "With chocolate sauce, mama," she asks pleadingly, sniffling as she rubs the tears from her eyes. "Yes dear, now pick up you bike and come along." Smiling again, the little girl picks up her tricycle and with her sore knee forgotten, peddles along happily after her mother.
Outside of the strangely quiet house though, everything remains undisturbed. The silence that had been broken by the little girl's cries flowed back in, collapsing over the street again, covering it in it's weighty blanket. A bird tweets somewhere to the back of the house. It's solitary song adding to the aura of loneliness that surrounds these seemingly vacant premises. In the house's sitting room, visible through the spotlessly clean windows, the television is lifeless. It sits alone in the corner on a mahogany entertainment unit, its black screen reflecting back the sunlight outside. On the shelf under it, the VCR sits silently, the time flashing tirelessly on its little screen. The videos lie propped lazily against its side and one still lies half in and half out of the tapedeck. The remote control, lies thrown on the plump green sofa, half hidden behind a tasselled cushion. Another one lies strewn haphazardly on the floor, leaning against the side of the sofas matching armchair companion. A empty coffee-stained mug is sitting on the small coffee table that lies on front of the sofa. A small drop of coffee that had been spilled lies pooled by its base, slowly drying in the warm air, leaving a sunburst stain on the glass top of the small table. A copy of Vogue lies untidily across the top of the magazine rack, covering outdated copies of National Geographic and the previous day's Times.
The door leading out to the small entrance hallway is slightly ajar, and through it one can see the edge of the small table where the phone is resting. Above the phone is a small, cork bulletin board, with phone numbers and messages pinned randomly across it's surface. The light on the answering machine, just below the small caption that says "New Messages" is flashing as tirelessly as the clock on the VCR. A small fly is buzzing around the small interior of the hall, flitting around the few coats that hang from the coat rack hung on the wall by the door. It flits around the hallway, without purpose, its buzzing muted as with all sounds in this quiet little neighbourhood. A pair of worn sneakers lies by the foot of the stairs, the soles worn away to almost nothing. Across from the stairs is the kitchen and from somewhere in there the faint sound of "The Red Hot Chili Peppers" is emanating from the radio lying on the countertop. Next to it is a glass chopping board, with a few scraps of carrot peel strewn across its surface. The peeler lies next to the chopping board, pieces of carrot still lodged in it. In the sink nearby, two wine glasses are lying, half submerged in water, the remnants of the red wine that they once held, taint the water a slight reddish colour. On the kitchen table, an empty cereal bowl lies next to a box of cornflakes. The layer of milk in the bottom of the bowl has long gone sour and is well on its way to drying up completely. Small crystals of sugar glitter in the bottom of the bowl. A copy of Elle lies open on the table, a few drops of spilt milk wrinkle the page around an add for moisturiser. Through the window that opens onto the back garden, you can see clothes, swaying in the gentle breeze, hanging from a clothesline. The grass under their shadows still holds until its green vitality. Back in the kitchen the laundry basket lies by the backdoor, a few clothespegs strewn along its bottom alongside some socks and other items of underwear. Next to the door that leads back out to the hallway the fridge door lies slightly ajar, a thin crack of light coming from inside is just visible.
Visible through the door, are a set of Picasso prints that line the wall alongside the stairs. Upstairs on the landing, a pair of jeans and a T- shirt lie on the ground outside the main bedroom door, waiting to be added to the day's washing. Beyond inside the room, posters line the pale pink walls. From one Slash, the longhaired guitarist from Guns 'n' Roses looks down though a thick veil of hair. In another Kurt Cobain is throwing himself at a drumset. On the one opposite the bed, Garfield is looked directly out and is in the process of wagging his finger, the caption reads: How many times do I have to tell you, Sloth is not one of the seven deadly sins. The bed hasn't been slept in, the plain green sheets, are still perfectly folded and the pillow lies plumped, no depressions in its feathery mass. On the bedside locker lies a tray full of little pieces of jewellery, bracelets, rings and necklaces. A lava lamp lies cold next to this little collection of trinkets, its plug lying lazily by the socket. The wardrobe lies half open to the right of the bed, a pair of jeans and a black denim jacket hang sleepily in view. A pair of Doc Marten boots lie on the floor of the wardrobe, the laces loosely open. An overrun CD rack sits on the floor next to the wardrobe, a few displaced disks lie strewn on the floor next to it. The CD player lies open, a disk lying inside.
Back out on the landing the phone rings, but nothing in the house stirs. A faint ringing comes from the extension in the second bedroom. The walls are painted in a light blue colour, darkened in places to a deep violet by the varied light that comes through the closed blinds. The bed covers lies bundled in the middle of the double bed and the pillows have been flattened in the centre. A faded pair of mens pyjamas lie strewn on one side of the bed, on the other side lies a floral print nightie. The dresser is strewn with perfume and make-up and a paperback novel lies half- open in the midst of the clutter. Next to the wardrobe, a pair of black mens dress shoes lie. They shine in the dim light from the new layer of polish that had been applied to them the previous night. Next to the full length mirror opposite the bed is a small table. Lying across its surface are discarded razorblades and bottles of aftershave, most of which are empty. An electric razor lies untidily at the edge of the table, ready to fall. Its coiled cord drops downwards to where it is plugged into the wall socket. The phone is still ringing in the hall below and still no one answers it. It stops abruptly, almost angrily in mid-ring as the unknown caller finally gives up.
The bathroom door is shut, the ceramic sign stuck to its surface adeptly announces, in the midst of flowery bouquets and bees, its purpose. The carpet at the bottom of the door is slightly wet, as are the white tiles inside. The floor glistens beneath its coat of water, rippling as the overflow from the sink drops to the ground. A figure lies slumped at the sink, her hands draped over its edge. Her soaked hair lies flatly over her lowered head, her light summer nightie sticks to her body, a few dull red stains lie smudged at the shoulders of her gown. Her skin is very deathly pale, made whiter by the thin shafts of light that actually enter the bathroom through the half-open curtains. On the ground next to her, submerged under a thin layer of water lies a razor, a few fine hairs jut from between its blades. The body slips slightly under its weight and as her arms shift one is able to see the thin white scars that litter her forearms. One in particular stands out more than the others, blood still stains the edges of the torn tissue, and in the middle of the wound a something small and white comes to the surface. Her body slips again and collapses to the floor, water splashing upwards.
Downstairs the doorbell rings. The rings travel through the quiet house, braking the silence. They stop briefly as the person at the door considers what to do. In that brief instant the silence comes crashing in again, smothering the atmosphere inside. The bell rings again ripping a hole in the veil of silence, sounding misplaced, just as the sounds outside did. The doorbell rings again, three long blasts, one directly after the other. Another brief pause, and the silence implodes inside the house again. Outside children can be vaguely heard playing, and some bird is tweeting in the background. The doorbell rings again, but there's still no answer.
Keith O' Sullivan
9-11-04