He rushes down the wooden staircase. Each step rattles under the boy’s sharp, light
weight—made heavier just a touch by a bulbous, dark-blue backpack. The thud of wood is replaced by the dull tone of paved stone as he heads for the gate. He unlatches it and the street outside is a combination of the familiar, narrow flatness of the road and the imposing height of the houses on either side. The height of the street is elevated further by sporadic firs. His head turns right in the memorized direction of school, where he becomes a third grader, and he begins to walk. But before he rounds the bend, he looks back. There, between the dark blur of a fir and
the oncoming obstruction of the next house down the street, he sees her. His other is there, standing watch in the bathroom window, on the second floor of their house. From that distance, he cannot make out her features. It is a sight he’s grown used to—a part of his mornings. She cannot accompany him more than that. She must work. Most days he simply waves, sees her wave back, then turns and continues the walk through the suburban streets. Though other days, if visibility allows it, his heart is chilled by a sight he cannot quite understand. She stands here and her face seems contorted with unfathomable emotions—out of childish bounds. It feels as though the world’s fate hinges on her face staying soft and benign, the way a morning should be, the way most are. There, that window frame becomes integral in the absolute. And on the days when his sight is sharp enough, the world slips, almost imperceptibly, off its hinges. The boy’s step slows on such days, and sometimes he hesitates before hurrying further down the street—away
from the sight of the window and the crumbling mother in it. Running as the world tumbles. And by the time a numbing cavalcade of school and afternoon activities go by, the boy forgets about the world’s fate and how his mother’s face has a crucial role in it. She returns from work and all is well. Perhaps it was only a misunderstanding. Imagined panic.
Twenty years later he is a boy in memory and photograph only. He visits his mother, who lives with his younger half-sister. During an evening visit the three—mother, son, and sister—gather in the living room, with fathers cast off somewhere. Much has transpired, and the man thinks he knows his mother’s repertoire of expressions—what brings them about. The sister—unborn in those thirdgrade years—now stands tall as a blooming young woman. The evening ends when her boyfriend texts that he’s waiting downstairs. He’s come to whisk her away. Practiced goodbyes follow—questions, promises, lastminute confirmations. The sister kisses and leaves. She is taller than all. The mother retreats from the living room and the man follows her not. A moment passes, and he rises to visit the bathroom; though once he is at the threshold, he sees her back. She is at the window. She stands motionless, unaware of him, utterly rooted, and he knows that not even a shout, or a calamity somewhere behind her, could budge her from the window. He stands and wonders which of her expressions she wears: the soft and
benign, or the omen, the one that augurs the world’s plunge.
Why does the room tilt so?
Alexei chases visions of unspeakable loveliness from a world lost. He is an ardent fan of rabbits, insects, and monkeys. Born in the Middle East, he is currently based in Belgrade. His stories appear in publications such as The MacGuffin, Sublunary Review, and Phylum Press. Connect with him at https://x.com/enemyofcruelty