Leftovers

Stepping up to the front door, I continued to hear screams. Not from just one person, but the whole bus. That’s part of the reason why I hated riding home from school. The rest of the kids were so loud.

The screams faded as the bus rode off.

Entering the house, for the first time all day, I was greeted with silence. My dad’s recliner sat empty, the kitchen dead, other than the occasional fruit fly.

I slid my backpack off my shoulder, plopping it down on the ground. I tugged at the zipper, pulling my homework out. Getting it done would get it out of the way so I could relax the rest of the night.

The couch springs sighed as I sat and placed the packet on the coffee table. The packet was slim and light. The words jumped and smeared together the more I stared at the pages. Giving myself motivation, the pencil finally slid onto the paper.

One by one, the problems were solved.

I leaned back in my seat, refreshed, knowing I was done.

The TV sat dark and silent in the corner. Planting my hands into my knees and pushing myself off the couch, I walked over to the TV, turning it on with a small buzz and a flicker.

News.

Commercial.

Cartoon rerun.

Another commercial.

I clicked again, nothing catching my attention. Nothing good comes on at this time.

I forced myself to watch a nature documentary channel. The sounds of tigers roaring echoed through the house. I rubbed my face with my hands, bored out of my mind. Eventually, I sank into the couch. I watched the ceiling, the TV being nothing more than background noise.

Minutes passed slowly before I decided to make myself something to eat.

Eating away boredom isn’t a good thing, I know, but I’d rather do that than torture myself by doing nothing.

The refrigerator hummed as I opened the door. Waiting for me was a Tupperware container with what looked to be stew. The light from the fridge glistened down onto the container like I had to eat it.

Grabbing the cold, clear container, I placed it on the counter next to the dish rack, peeling the lid off the plastic base. The glass bowls clinked together as I grabbed the red one, the already chipped edge knocking against another bowl.

I took a spoon from the dish rack and scooped a good portion of the stew into my bowl before closing the container and placing it back into the fridge.

But as I was about to walk away, I noticed a ring next to the stove.

I wondered why the ring was there, but assumed my mom had taken it off while doing the dishes and forgotten about it.

I’ll remind her when she gets home.

I took the bowl and set it in the microwave, setting the timer for 1:00 minute. The buttons beeped with each press.

Watching the bowl spin, my impatient fingers tapped on the counter in a steady rhythm. The rich, savory aroma filled the kitchen, my stomach growling at just the smell of the stew.

“Beep. Beep. Beep.”

The microwave dinged to a stop.

Steam fogged up the glass. My hand rose toward the handle, the microwave opening with a click. The steam poured out like someone stepping out of a sauna.

I took the bowl out. In the time it took me to take the bowl and place it on the counter, I swear the heated glass left my fingerprints unrecognizable.

I placed the spoon back into the stew, swirling it around before taking it to the table.

The stew was loaded with vegetables and more meat than broth. The warm, savory smell still clouded my nose.

I slid the chair under me, pushing myself closer to the table. The spoon rose to my mouth. I blew on it before placing it in my mouth.

With each chew, my eyebrows rose a little higher.

The taste was something new, something I’d never tasted before.

Quickly, one bite turned to three, the bowl becoming less and less full with each spoonful. My mouth still watered even as I chewed. It was as if I hadn’t eaten in days.

My mom sure does make a good stew.

I assumed she made it. My dad is awful at cooking.

Scraping the bowl clean, nothing was left except the insatiable desire to refill it, but I held back, rubbing my stomach in satisfaction.

Rising from my chair, I picked up the dish and placed it in the sink.

At this point, I wondered when my parents were coming home.

The eerie silence returned when I left the kitchen.

I stopped when I realized I couldn’t hear the TV.

Standing still to listen for it, I heard a faint hissing noise that made my skin tense, like it was shrinking around my bones.

I approached slowly, each step small and delicate. My head peeped around the corner until the TV came into view.

Playing on the TV was live footage of the kitchen. The light shining off the white countertops created a glare in the camera.

Treading lightly toward the TV, I came up with reasonable explanations.

The channels had switched to the security cameras, showing the live footage.

My body’s tension slowly eased.

My eyes’ gaze shifted to the play button in the corner of the screen.

“Playback?” I thought.

Dad never leaves recordings open. It must’ve frozen on an old clip…

Reaching over to turn the TV off, a flash of red caught my eye.

My red bowl in the sink.

Could it have recorded me while I was eating?

Why would it do that?

Before I could have one more thought, the video started to rewind.

I came on screen, my movements backwards.

The recording played from the beginning.

Grabbing the red bowl.

Filling it with stew.

Heating it up.

Then eating it.

My mind raced and raced, but zero explanations played in my head.

There’s no way for it to start recording by itself.

The air around me turned cold, grasping at my spine and sending shivers through my body. The house was quiet enough to hear my spoon clanking against the bowl with each bite.

I turned the TV off. The video shrank into a small dot in the middle of the screen before disappearing.

Sitting in silence, I tried to make up an explanation, something to tell myself to keep me calm.

I stared into the TV, its empty black screen reflecting the empty living room.

This wasn’t something I could push past. I’m not a person who’s scared of the dark or being home alone, but in this moment, I even feared the sound of passing cars.

I decided to spend the rest of my night in my room.

Walking down the dark hall, family pictures hung and spread out along the walls. One was slightly tilted to the left, which now didn’t bother me as much as it used to.

I reached a closed door.

My parents’ room.

They never really closed their door unless they were sleeping.

At the end of the hall was my room, the last door on the right. I flicked the light on as I opened the door.

The light illuminated the dark hall.

My bed was still made up from this morning, the pillows fluffed out and the sheet tucked neatly under my mattress.

The air was warmer, like a blanket draped over me next to a soft, crackling fire, though there was no fire or crackling sounds. Just the warm heater and the quiet noise of water falling from my fish tank’s filter.

Which reminded me that I needed to feed my fish.

I opened the cabinet under the tank, grabbing the small bottle of fish food and sprinkling it over the water. The fish hurried to the surface, nibbling at the small flakes.

The bed softened under me as I sat down.

What could I do to pass the time?

I wanted to take a shower, but I was still deeply unsettled by the TV incident.

I decided not to be cowardly about it and just do it.

I approached my closet, the door blinds closed, allowing me to sleep comfortably at night knowing no one’s watching me. My hand pushed past hanging clothes until I picked a comfortable outfit.

Stepping back into the hall, the bathroom door was open but dark. I quickly flicked the light on.

I was met with the cold, white marble counters and a leaky faucet.

I closed the door behind me, grabbing a towel from the shelf beside the sink and placing it neatly on top of my clothes sitting on the counter.

I turned the knob to turn the water on.

The quick, frantic noise of the water rushing through the pipes and walls filled the hollow tub, like an animal clawing its way through the drywall.

My hand cupped under the water while I turned the knobs to find the perfect temperature.

After finding it, I undressed, my clothes falling to the ground.

I stepped into the shower.

The water ran over my face and then the rest of my body. It was refreshing. It ran down the bridge of my nose, then onto my lips, the water warm against my skin like blood from a nosebleed.

After just a couple of minutes, I heard a noise on the other side of the bathroom door.

I held my breath to hear it again, but only the hiss of the water remained.

I listened closely, my breath still held.

I heard it again.

This time, louder.

I rushed out of the shower, soap still in my hair, my feet chilled as they hit the cold tiled floor.

I threw on my clothes without drying myself, my shirt sticking to my back.

Are my parents home? I wondered.

I quickly turned the water off. The steam fogged up the mirror, my silhouette the only thing visible.

I stepped out into the hallway, met with the eerie silence again.

“Mom?” I yelled down the hall, expecting to hear her soft, velvety voice.

Instead, I heard a quick and sharp thump coming from my parents’ room.

Walking up to their door, I continued to call out.

“Dad?” I said, a bit quieter as I approached their door.

I tried turning the doorknob, but it stopped turning a quarter of the way.

It’s locked.

They don’t lock their door when they leave.

I jangled the knob again, trying to push it open.

It didn’t budge.

Then I remembered I hadn’t checked the garage. Were their cars even there?

I made my way through the hall into the kitchen, fruit flies hovering over my red bowl in the sink.

I opened the garage door, the rusty hinges squealing as I pushed it open.

I stood in the doorway for a couple of seconds, flicking the light on to make sure what I was seeing was right.

My mom’s dark gray Toyota and my dad’s black truck sat untouched in the garage.

They’ve been here the whole time?

That can’t be true.

They would’ve come out at some time.

I rushed back to my parents’ room, closing the garage door behind me.

I called for them again as I made my way closer to their room.

“MOM! DAD!” I yelled, loud enough to give myself chills.

But still, no response.

I knocked on their door, almost banging on it. The wooden frame around it shook each time I raised my fist.

I wasn’t angry.

More so worried.

I tried to open it again, jangling the knob, and to my surprise—

Click.

It cracked open.

I slowly opened it. A small glimmer of light poured through the barely opened door from a bedside lamp.

I leaned my head through the space, my grip tightening on the doorknob.

The corner of their bed came into view.

My hands rose to grab the edge of the door to push it softly.

I could see more.

The rug on Mom’s side had a stain. The spot looked like spilled wine.

She stopped drinking three years ago.

Or so I thought.

I could feel anger rise through my body like a levee had broken.

I swung the door fully open, hitting the dresser with a slam. The door rattled as it swung back a little.

The lamp illuminated more of the room.

Expecting to see my mom passed out in bed, the anger in me soon vanished.

Their bedsheet soaked in blood.

Their bodies were mangled beyond recognition.

Blood splatters stained the floral wallpaper and the headboard.

My knees weakened as I pushed myself back out of the room, my breath shallow and cold.

Grabbing onto the wall as I ran to the kitchen to get to the phone, the already crooked photo fell completely off the wall as my hands searched for support.

I could feel my temperature rising despite the cold air.

I pulled the phone off the wall, my fingers trembling, struggling to press the buttons.

The coiled cord stretched as I brought the phone up to my ear.

A long, rapid, droning beep rang through my ear, like mockery.

I rushed to the front door, struggling to unlock it. Two large silhouettes stepped out of the hallway behind me.

In my peripheral vision, I could see them running at me.

The door opened.

I pushed through the screen door, my screams echoing through the dark, quiet neighborhood, birds fleeing from the power lines above.

A large, calloused hand grabbed my shoulder, shoving me down and pulling me back inside.

Slamming the door shut, his other hand wrapped over my lips and nose.

Every muscle in me tensed, trying to get loose, but to no avail. My knees imprinted into the carpet.

The man released his hand from my mouth. My lungs expanded, hungry for air.

In a quick movement, he kicked me in the back, the sole of his boot rough, sending me forward and hitting the right side of my face on the floor.

In that moment, I felt every muscle in my fragile body collapse, giving up on fighting back.

I began repeating my wishes in my head, closing my eyes.

“I wish this were over.”

“I wish this were over.”

The words clouded my brain like a rainy Sunday afternoon.

I opened my left eye slightly, trying to see what they were doing.

Both of his knees crushed into my sides, keeping me pinned down.

He slipped a small, tin-colored capsule out of his pocket, stabbing a thin needle into the top of it.

I grunted at him, demanding he let me go, my voice cracking from the struggle.

Removing the needle from the capsule, he flicked the end of it.

He flipped my left arm over, his grip tight on my forearm.

My eyes slammed shut, preparing for the shot.

The needle pricked through my skin, gliding into my vein.

The back of my eyelids began to spin, my face turning hot.

In my head, I could see my wishes breaking apart, like I’d failed some game, the letters jumbling until fully disappearing.

It felt like seconds.

I slowly opened my eyes.

Looking down at my arms, I saw tape wrapped around my wrists and over my mouth.

I was no longer pinned down, but tied to a chair.

The TV was placed in front of me.

In the reflection, I could see two black silhouettes behind me, both standing a couple of feet apart, blocking the front door.

The TV jolted on, burning my eyes as they adjusted to the light.

I could hear the buttons on the remote clicking from behind me.

A photo popped onto the screen.

A picture of my parents’ bedroom.

The play button sat in the corner.

I could feel one of the men approaching behind me.

I clenched my eyes shut, expecting something to happen.

Instead, he reached in front of me, placing his calloused fingers onto my eyelids and forcing them open.

The air hit my eyes, making them burn. A small trail of tears trickled down my face.

I could hear the remote buttons click one more time.

The video immediately played.

Both my parents were lying in their bed. The door swung open violently. My parents looked clearly alarmed, jumping up from the bed.

One of the men tackled my dad to the ground.

My mom’s screams echoed through the room.

The other man started to beat her to the ground.

She pleaded for them to stop.

“You can take anything! Please, just don’t hurt us!” she cried.

Trying to close my eyes, I found his fingers still on my eyelids, forcing me to watch as they murdered my parents.

I tried to tug my arms loose from the tape, shaking my head back and forth. He tightened his grip around my head, facing me forward and kneeing the back of my chair.

The video cut off.

I let out a small sigh of relief through my nose.

But another photo popped up onto the screen.

The kitchen.

The video began playing.

For a few seconds, it was just the kitchen. Nothing else.

But one of the men came into frame.

I could only see the back of his head as he entered. A quiet scraping sound followed, like something being dragged across the carpet.

He was slumped over, dragging something into frame.

My mom’s rug.

I muffled a scream as more of the rug came into frame.

Lying on the rug was my mom, her lifeless body sprawled out.

More tears trailed down my face, blurring some of my vision.

The footage sped up, the movements blurring together until I could barely make out what was happening. Then, without warning, it returned to normal speed.

The man hovered over my mom, a meat cleaver in his right hand.

Before I could even fight to close my eyes, he began to strike, cutting her limb by limb, blood pouring off the rug and into the grout of the tiles.

I stared at the kitchen wall, trying to look away.

But the blood splattered everywhere.

I tried to free myself again, my hands turning red as I tried to slide them out of the tape’s grasp.

Tears fell into my lap.

With everything in me, I shook my head back and forth again, but his grip remained too strong.

The video began to fast-forward again, the small white line at the bottom showing that the video was almost over.

It started to play again.

My eyes immediately steered toward the large pot on the stove.

My mom’s wedding ring sat on the counter next to the stove.

One of the men approached the pot, taking the lid off.

Steam rose to the hood.

He placed the lid onto the counter and walked over to the cabinet.

In the pot were small chunks of what looked to be meat and some sort of stew.

I could feel my stomach flipping as I realized what was happening.

He grabbed a container from the cabinet, peeling off the lid and setting it onto the counter.

He then grabbed a ladle and placed it into the pot, stirring it around before scooping it up and pouring it into the Tupperware container.

I wanted to throw up.

Everything in me was telling my stomach to throw up, but I just couldn’t.

He put the container into the fridge and placed the pot on the stove.

And the video ended.

Another short video played.

A couple of seconds of me at the table.

The sound of the metal spoon hitting the glass bowl.

The sound of me gulping down what I now knew was my mom.

The same video that I had seen earlier.

And then it cut off.

The screen turned fully black.

I stopped fighting the chair and listened to the silence around me.

No screaming.

No gulping.

Just silence.

My mom sure does make a good stew.