UNNAMED [Chapter 9 -"All on the Table"]

Chapter 9 — All on the Table

It wasn’t the shouting that hurt.

It was the silence that followed, settling on everything like dust.

Even the table knew not to speak.

I heard a knock on the door. It was about 9:00 PM. The sky outside was dark, and the chilling wind crept in.

Maybe she was calling me for dinner.

Another knock, louder this time. I forced my body to move, slid the blades beneath the bed, took a few steps toward the closet, pulled out a jacket, and wore it like a second skin.

“How many times do I have to tell you? Answer me at once if I’m calling you!” she started screaming.

I didn’t say a word;

my eyes fixated on the wall behind her.

“What in the world took you so long to open the door?” Her voice grew louder.

“I was sleeping,” I said without looking at her.

“Useless as ever. Use your body and come help me set the dining table.”

She walked ahead.

I followed.

I went to the kitchen, took plates, and set them on the table.

Water — again. On the table.

Veggies — again. On the table.

Containers — again.

All on the table.

“Cut a few fruits while you’re at it,” she ordered.

I nodded.

I went back to the kitchen, took a few fruits from the basket — apples, grapes, oranges.

I put them in the sink and opened the tap. The water was cold.

I placed my hands beneath it — freezing.

The fruits rested beside the tap, waiting to be washed.

There was no blood, but I could feel the texture of crimson trailing down my hands.

I should keep them beneath the water a little longer.

My hands felt like the air on my skin — cold and heavy.

Maybe these would work for a while.

I took the apples.

While washing, I noticed a brown scar on the surface — like me.

“I wonder how it looks inside,” I thought, curious.

I put that apple aside.

I picked up the grapes.

They looked like eyes, I thought.

The oranges — their texture rough and thick —

It felt like they were trying to protect themselves from the cold.

I smiled.

I turned off the tap.

The cold stayed on my skin.

I picked up the knife. It felt heavier than usual.

I stared at it, unsure why it felt different.

I started chopping the apples.

Inside, they were pale white — tied with beautiful red ribbons.

Then I picked up the apple with the scar.

“Should I cut it open?

Maybe it’s decaying from the inside… or maybe it isn’t?” I questioned myself.

I held the knife above it, not moving.

My hand hovered like a decision too afraid to rot out loud.

I pierced the knife horizontally, glided the apple clockwise, and something clicked in my head.

“What if the apple is already dead?” I paused.

“One should never open old graves,” I thought, and left the apple aside.

“What is taking you so long to cut a few fruits?” she roared.

I picked up the pace and finished my work as quickly as possible, then set the bowl of fruits on the table.

Father and brother walked in.

We all sat at the table and ate in silence. No one said anything.

It’s suffocating, sitting with them.

But I appreciate the silence.

I finished my dinner, but the silence stayed.

Even after the table was cleared.

— to be continued.

Thank you for reading ! Feel free to leave your thoughts, comments, or questions. I’d love to hear your perspective on the story so far.

connect with me at [email protected]

Genre : Literary Fiction, Psychological Fiction, Quiet Horror.