Homecoming

Short Story by Maximilian P Siddell

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Pete hardly recognised the gaunt, careworn woman who answered the door. His sister was only seventeen, yet she looked at least thirty. Where was the bubbly little girl he remembered?

“Rosie?”

She kept her downcast eyes on his sneakers. “Can I help you?” 

“Rosie, It's me, Pete.”

She gasped and glanced at his face. “You came?”

“Of course,” Pete nodded. “I got on a bus as soon as I read your letter.”

“I thought you'd…” she trailed off, her voice cracking.

“Can I come in? Are mum and dad around?” Pete made to step forwards. Rosie recoiled, slamming the door in his face.

“Rosie?” He called out. “Rosie, are you okay? I'd really like to see you guys.”

The lock clicked. 

“Rosie?”

Silence.

He sighed and turned off the doorstep, following the garden path down the side of the house and around the back. Five years… so much had changed. The once pristine building was now caked with grime and heavy with the stench of mouldy wood. The once meticulous flower garden was now a dense carpet of knee-high grass and straggly weeds.

He stepped onto the splintered wood of the back porch, then paused at the door. They still had the same doormat. Its fabric had faded and frayed beyond recognition, yet he still recalled the bold lettering sewn into it.

Family makes a house a home. Pete's mother loved that quote. The mat being so ruined now seemed strangely fitting.

Something moved behind a shuttered window. 

“Rosie? Mum? Dad?”

No answer. He tried the door handle. Locked.

“Hello?” He knocked. 

“What do you want?” A ragged voice called from within.

“I…” Pete stammered. Even after all these years, that voice made him feel small and weak. “Dad? It's Pete, I've—”

“You’re not my son!” the voice roared. “I’m not that stupid. I know what you’re up to, coming round here, hassling my wife. Now get off my land before I put a bullet in your head.”

The words hit Pete like a kick in the gut. His chest went tight and his mind numb. Before he’d left, his father had often forgotten who he was and, mistaking him for an intruder, chased him off. His mother had always told him not to hold a grudge. That it wasn’t his father’s fault. That things would get better if only they could be strong and patient.

Pete had never understood that. It had always felt like she was making excuses for choosing his father over him. In hindsight, he realised she’d been just as scared as he was.

In a daze, Pete walked back round the front and down the driveway. When he stepped out onto the quiet, suburban street, he turned back, imagining himself hurling a brick through a window. He thought he saw wide, desperate eyes watching him through the blinds, but when he blinked, they were gone.

He started for the bus stop, fire seething in his chest. This had been such a waste of time. He felt bad that Rosie and his mother were stuck with that prick, but if they weren’t even going to talk to him, what was he supposed to do?

“Afternoon, Pete,” an elderly man called out, waving to him from behind the immaculate picket fence of the neighbouring house.

Pete was torn from his reverie. “Oh, hey Darren.”

“You went to visit your pa?”

“I tried to, but Dad didn’t even know who I was. I’d hoped…I don’t know, that things would be different now.”

Darren sighed. “Try not to take it too personally, Pete. You know how it goes with Henry. He’ll come right in a couple of days. He hasn’t been himself since Mary died.”

“It's hard not to take it personally, he's my…” Pete’s voice caught in his throat as Darren’s words sunk in. “Mum's… dead?”

“I thought you’d know,” Darren said quietly. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this, son. Truly, I am. Mary was always such a bright beacon of hope.”

Pete’s gut roiled, threatening to cast out his lunch. He keeled over, clutching the top of Darren’s fence. “I wanted to... I thought…”' What had he thought? What did he want? What was the point in any of this?

Darren put a gentle hand on Pete’s forearm. “Why don’t you come inside for a sit down and a cup of tea, aye?”

---

“... a lot worse than when you were a boy anyway.”

Pete looked up from his untouched tea, blinking across the off-white dining table at Darren. “What?”

“Er, Henry. Those episodes of his have gotten worse since Mary died. Even worse than when you were a boy. For a while it seemed like he was getting better, but now Mary’s gone, well Rosie can only do so much. Poor girl.”

“How long ago did she die?”

“Can’t have been more than a few months ago. Terrible accident from what I heard.”

“And no one even thought to tell me.”

“I’m sure they didn’t mean anything by it. Rosie’s had her hands full with Henry. And Henry, well he’s a… complicated man.”

“Complicated? He's a total arsehole!” Pete surged to his feet. “He’s always hated me. I don’t care what’s wrong with him. She was my mother. I'm going back over there.”

“Pete,” Darren said gently. “Why don’t you wait a bit? Let yourself breathe. You’ve got every right to be upset, but if you go over there and start yelling, like as not you’ll just make things worse.”

“What am I supposed to do then?”

“Maybe you should sleep on it? Go back over in the morning when you’re fresh. You're welcome to stay in the spare room till Henry comes right.”

He slumped back into his seat, deflated and defeated. 

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Pete awoke to a light tap tap tap on the window above the bed. Outside the world was nothing but star-speckled darkness. He lay still, listening, sleep drawing his mind back into its embrace.

Tap tap tap.

He bolted upright and pressed his face against the glass, peering into the blackness.

“Pete?” a muffled voice whispered. “Pete, are you awake?”

Pete clicked on the bedside lamp. The light cast his reflection onto the window, but past his own haggard face, Rosie squinted at him. She was shaking but managed a wan smile. Pete undid the latch and slid the window open. 

“Hey, Rosie,” he said, rubbing his heavy eyes.

She glanced skittishly over her shoulder. “I think I got out without him hearing me.”

“What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“No, I… Please take me with you when you go,” she said quickly. “You’re leaving again, aren’t you? You can’t leave me with him. You have to take me with you. I won’t… I won’t annoy you or get in the way or anything, I promise.”

“Hey, Rosie, slow down. What's going on? You’re welcome to come stay with me. My apartment is tiny though.”

“Anywhere’s better than here. Ever since mum…” she choked up, her wide eyes glistening. 

“Why didn’t you tell me about mum?” Pete said more harshly than he’d intended. 

“I’m sorry. I know I should have. I just… I was afraid. Maybe if you knew you wouldn’t come back. Maybe you’d think there wasn’t anything left for you here.”

Pete put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, it’s alright, Rosie.”

“No it’s not. He’s… I think he… he scares me so much, Pete. He never lets me leave the house and… and…” She broke down, sobbing.

“If I’d known things were so bad, I’d have come back sooner.”

“You left me here last time. You never called me like you said you would. I thought you’d forgotten me.”

“No never. Look, Rosie, the last few years haven’t been easy for me either. But I never forgot you and I’ll always look out for you.”

Her face softened and suddenly she looked like the seventeen-year-old girl she was. “Thank you.”

“We can go now if you want. I think the bus runs till—”

“Step away from the window, Mary,” said a ragged voice from the darkness.

Rosie froze, her face paled and a strangled gasp escaped her still lips.

Henry’s silhouette loomed just beyond the pale light’s reach, the unmistakable shape of a rifle in his hands framed against the darkness. Icy terror tore at Pete's insides. His father wouldn't actually shoot them, would he?

“You can’t…” Pete croaked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You can’t keep her here. If she wants to come with me—”

“Shut your mouth! Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do? Step away from the window, Mary.” He stepped full into the light, the rifle pointed directly at Rosie's back.

The years hadn’t been kind to him. The once powerful man was now a withered husk, bent and thin. His eyes were still the same though, half-glazed and boiling with fury. If anything, they were somehow even more bereft of humanity than Pete remembered. 

“Mary,” Henry growled, shoving Rosie aside. She fell with no resistance, collapsing into a whimpering heap. Henry advanced, his rifle in one hand, its stock cradled in the nook of his elbow and its muzzle inches away from Pete’s chest. He tried to retreat but Henry grabbed his collar, yanking him back.

“Dad, please, I—”

"Who’re you calling dad?" Henry’s eyes showed no sign of recognition, only deranged anger and hatred.

“I’m your son, Pete. Ple—”

He let out a blood-curdling howl and wrenched Pete forward, curling his gut over the windowsill. The cold metal of the rifle’s barrel pressed hard against his stomach. “You think I don’t know what you’re up to? You think I don’t know what you want with my wife?”

“Please don’t kill me. I’ll... I’ll go, I promise.”

“It’s too late for that.”

An outdoor lamp flickered on, bathing the perfectly manicured lawn in white light.

“What’s going on out here?” Darren called from his front door. “Henry? What are you doing?”

Henry shoved Pete backward and turned on the old man. Pete sprang forward, raking his shins on the window frame as he dragged himself through. He reached for the gun. Henry snarled and recoiled. Pete missed the gun but caught hold of his father and they both went down. A dazzling flash and deafening bang erupted from the gun as it flew from Henry’s hands. Darren shrieked. They struggled on the ground, rolling and thrashing about. Pete got on top, pinning Henry. Henry squirmed and hissed.

Then Pete loosened his grip. The man beneath him was mad, monstrous even, but he was still his father. Pete didn’t want to fight him, not really, not like this. 

Henry yanked his arm free and planted his fist between Pete’s eyes. Pain exploded in his nose and his vision swam. Henry threw him off and pounced, driving him down, hands tight on his throat. Pete flailed at his father, clumsily groping at his chest and arms.

His head grew light and his lungs screamed for air. The world began to fade.

Then something shifted in Henry. His sharp scowl softened and a glimmer of recognition flitted through his eyes. He blinked and let go. Pete coughed and spluttered. Thunder cracked behind Henry and bloody spittle exploded from his mouth. He went limp and toppled forwards.

Pete lay inert for a moment, collecting himself. His head reeled and blood poured from his nose. He rolled Henry’s body off, surprised at how calm he was. He felt nothing for the man that had once been his father, no sorrow, no regret, only cold emptiness. 

Rosie stood a few feet away, eyes wide and white, gun clasped in trembling hands. Darren lay by his front door, glassy eyes staring blindly into the sky, the front of his shirt stained dark red. Pete forced himself to unsteady feet. Lights were on in several of the neighbouring houses. 

“Rosie,” Pete said, glancing around. “Rosie, we…we have to get out of here.”

She looked at him blankly, then blinked and cried out, throwing the gun to the ground. “I... I didn’t mean to.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“I know.” Pete stepped over Henry's body and put his arms around his sister. She was all he had left, but at least now they were together. He’d found his family, found his home. “I’ve got you, Rosie. It’s going to be okay.”

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Maximilian is a market gardener, fantasy enthusiast, and aspiring fiction writer. His work ranges from high concept epic fantasy to broody, introspective contemporary fiction, and everything in between. He hopes you enjoy reading it as much as he enjoys writing it.