Kitchen Sink

Humbull was away most days doing what he did and nobody knew what. Old Mother dared not ask, the neighbors dared not imagine. Humbull always returned home on the brink of twilight, when it was hard to tell if the sky was black or blue. Those ungodly hours of the night echoed of Humbull’s kicks on the door, often startling Old Mother up from her sleep. No warm slumber at night but dreamless freezing was Old Mother’s routine, who never stopped eagerly waiting for her son.

Upon Humbull’s return, Old Mother would turn on the tangerine bulb hanging over the kitchen sink, the dull glow of which lived and died within its silver rim.

Yesterday, Old Mother opened the door for Humbull who stood on the porch swaying like a ghost. It was no secret that Humbull’s veins carried a dose of horse-tranquilizers all the time, yesterday was no different. When Old Mother asked, “Where have you been?”, Humbull’s body started to tremble, his bloated fingers curled into a fist and punched the wall. The blow left a smiling cut on his knuckles. He screamed in his jagged voice, “If you ever ask me again, I’ll spear my head into the wall and my blood will be yours to mop off the floor.” Old Mother wanted to cry, but then Humbull said he was hungry. Old Mother dragged a chair to the dining table for Humbull to sit, served him, and washed the dishes.

Not long ago, much like yesterday but a lot worse, Humbull had not come home for seven nights. Old Mother’s dinner turned cold staring at the door, and along with her the walls of the house sobbed for a week. On the morning of the seventh day, Old Mother opened the door and walked out into clear daylight. Her mouth was a gaping hole. Her face was soft like melting earth, and loose white hair on her head stood suffocating. Old Eyes searched for Humbull far and beyond, but she couldn’t look further than the horizon. She stood a little bent to her side, crooked, and in her hand she carried a gun. Old Mother had to breathe into the muzzle, she found it hard to breathe otherwise. The cold, black metal burned in her hands while her fingers hugged the trigger. The birds watching over Old Mother snapped their eyes shut, and so did I. Just as her finger began to turn yellow, the telephone in the house made that terrible noise it is known for. Old Mother’s prayer was answered it seems, and so she went back inside, cleared her throat and shut the door

Yesterday, while Old Mother washed the dishes, Humbull went through casual rounds of belt-strapping and vein-injecting. A fresh dose of horse-tranquilizers went bolting through his veins again. Once the frothy liquid steamed down his hand and blurred his vision, Humbull called out to Old Mother, feebly. Old Mother’s living corpse twitched at the sound of her son’s voice. Her feet rapidly moved towards him. He, meanwhile, began to drag himself towards the kitchen sink. On his way, he stumbled into the chair by the dining table and fell face-first, his breath gradually slipping away from him. Upon reaching the sink, he managed to pull the switch on the tangerine bulb. The dim glow of the bulb felt like a newly risen sun. His head dropped into the sink; a copious amount of blood spilled from his mouth, the acid from his guts tore his lips apart, and a flood of fiery liquid drawn from his inner chambers stained his tongue black. From Humbull’s breath, which was about to lose itself, swung a noise of laughter: bestial, corrupt, insane. Humbull faced the ceiling, or God perhaps. He continued giving air to his evil laughter and then suddenly, he felt a volcano burst in his heart. He turned his eyes down and saw a wound splashed across his chest. He’d been shot. Old Mother dropped the gun, and turned off the tangerine bulb.