Added£1.59Add to basket(A short story of 4500 words)
Say Nothing Till You Hear More
Literary
by Marie Alvarado
Theresa and her sister share a red coat and a deep loss. Years pass until one evening, as the rain lashes down, an unexpected visitor arrives at Theresa's door. Memories and secret sorrows seep once more into their silent lives.
“Let go.”
Theresa could barely speak. Barely breathe. Her father’s hands had no warmth in them as they gripped her throat. Fingers laced in bitter pine from trees felled that morning. A long, cold morning, working side by side in a frosted silver forest, chopping and stacking wood.
That afternoon he’d been to town to sell the logs for firewood. He swallowed his small profit in Flynn’s. Soon after he returned home, his breath rancid with porter and rumour, to squeeze the truth from his thirteen-year-old daughter.
“Name him... Now. The fella who did this to you!
Say it, or I’ll kill you.”
He shoved her roughly against the rose-petalled wallpaper. Theresa’s head slumped beneath the Sacred Heart. Her face pushed upwards. She saw His blood dripping. The votive candle illuminated His face as her own face turned blue.
Time and dust sparkled slowly as her eyes began to close. At last her brothers crashed into the room. Booted voices stampeded around her as they wrenched her father off. It took three or four of them to drag him beyond the outhouse by the pigsty.
Soon afterwards her father drove the donkey in against the hedge, shaving the chins off the wild crimson fuchsia. The neighbourhood could hear the roar of him, as he tried to manoeuvre the cart down the old road into town.
She lay on the cold stone floor, dribbling spit and gasping for air. The pot of stew bubbled on the range. Various brothers and sisters entered and swiftly left the room; the thud of their shoes, voices hushed, as if she were a corpse laid out for a wake. Only Josie, her older sister, came to stroke her auburn hair...
“Let go.”
Theresa could barely speak. Barely breathe. Her father’s hands had no warmth in them as they gripped her throat. Fingers laced in bitter pine from trees felled that morning. A long, cold morning, working side by side in a frosted silver forest, chopping and stacking wood.
That afternoon he’d been to town to sell the logs for firewood. He swallowed his small profit in Flynn’s. Soon after he returned home, his breath rancid with porter and rumour, to squeeze the truth from his thirteen-year-old daughter.
“Name him... Now. The fella who did this to you!
Say it, or I’ll kill you.”
He shoved her roughly against the rose-petalled wallpaper. Theresa’s head slumped beneath the Sacred Heart. Her face pushed upwards. She saw His blood dripping. The votive candle illuminated His face as her own face turned blue.
Time and dust sparkled slowly as her eyes began to close. At last her brothers crashed into the room. Booted voices stampeded around her as they wrenched her father off. It took three or four of them to drag him beyond the outhouse by the pigsty.
Soon afterwards her father drove the donkey in against the hedge, shaving the chins off the wild crimson fuchsia. The neighbourhood could hear the roar of him, as he tried to manoeuvre the cart down the old road into town.
She lay on the cold stone floor, dribbling spit and gasping for air. The pot of stew bubbled on the range. Various brothers and sisters entered and swiftly left the room; the thud of their shoes, voices hushed, as if she were a corpse laid out for a wake. Only Josie, her older sister, came to stroke her auburn hair...