The Prescott House

The Prescott house was quiet now. 

It was a horribly unusual state; the house was normally overrun with ruckus and chaos from the trio of children that ran throughout the halls and corridors during all of the hours of the day and night. 

But it was quiet now. There were no longer shrieks or giggles or the shattering of dinner plates. There were no whispered secrets or light footsteps or music boxes that played Chopin, Bach, and Mozart. 

The Prescott house was quiet now, except for Mr. Prescott, who took a couple steps inside his old house for the first time in years. He looked around at the foyer; at the old wool rugs that had faded over time, bright reds becoming dull pinks. 

He looked at the fireplace in the parlor, which once gave home to joyful family Christmas celebrations. The kids, scattered around the rug, tearing open their presents like wild animals who'd just eliminated their prey. Mrs. Prescott, who'd hold up that old, rusty camera and film the reactions of her children when they found their gifts. 

~

"The kids don't want Beethoven vinyl's for Christmas, Klein." Mrs. Prescott had sighed after one holiday. The children had gone out to play in the snow so the older Prescott's were forced to have the conversation they had every year.

"Molly, It's good for their education. I wish I'd known all the famous composers when I was their age." He'd grunted with a big cigar sticking out of his mouth. 

"Yes, I bet you were a very fun child to hang out with when you were their age." She smirked, crossing her arms. Mr. Prescott smiled too, and took the cigar out of his mouth as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. 

"You know I hate it when you smoke, dear. " Miss Prescott groaned, walking over to her husband. 

"What a shame, as I love it so much." He replied, setting it down on the tray next to his chair. Mrs. Prescott sat on his lap and cupped his face in her hands. 

"Maybe they'd...fit in better if they had more normal toys. And maybe a more normal house." She urged quietly, looking Mr. Prescott in the eyes. He pondered for a moment, looking around the room. This was all he wanted growing up. It was beyond him why any child would want more. This was the perfect life. The perfect life. 

~

But the Prescott house was quiet now. Free from the unreasonable nagging of Mrs. Prescott. She was buried somewhere in the backyard, her tombstone covered in moss and soil, forgotten over time.

The kids had stopped talking to him a while ago. After the funeral, his oldest son gave him a firm handshake and left with his wife and two kids. Not a hug, or even a familiar pat on the back. A handshake like the one you give to your boss after getting laid off.

His two youngest hadn't even looked at him. They brushed past him quickly, muttering a quiet, "Goodbye." It happened so fast, he hadn't even gotten to process it before they'd already left the chapel. 

Mr. Prescott went up to his daughter's room, and looked at nothing in particular. He barely registered the chipping, pink wallpaper and the old clothes strewn across the floor. He walked over to the shelves next to her bed and picked a small, yellow music box. 

~

The happy birthday tune played in the background as Mr. Prescott walked into the dining room, a small gift in his hand. His daughter sat at the head of the dining table, jumping in her chair when she spotted her dad behind her. Mrs. Prescott and her sons stood beside her with big, beaming smiles on their faces. 

"Daddy got you something for your birthday." He grinned, setting the gift down in front of her. She teared apart the wrapping paper with excited hands and held her gift in her hands. 

"...What's this?" She mumbled, holding a yellow box in her hands. Next to her, he could see his wife and son's faces fall when they recognized the gift. 

"I told you to get her a doll! Or a tea set!" Mrs. Prescott fumed. Mr. Prescott simply ignored her and rotated the lever on the side in a circle a couple of times. His daughter gaped when she heard Beethovens 5th symphony come out of the small box and she spun it some more, jumbling up the sound. 

"Dad..." His sons groaned. They shook their heads and frowned along with their mother. But Mr. Prescott picked up his daughter and spun her around above him, making her squeal with delight. 

"You liked Daddy's gift, right?" He chuckled. 

~

Mr. Prescott sat on his daughter's bed and rotated the lever of the music box. He waited and listened but nothing came out. He checked the batteries and realized there were none. His daughter must've forgotten to replace them. Yes, that was the only reasonable answer because she loved the music box. 

He knew that she loved it a lot, because this was the only present he'd ever gotten her for her birthday. Why would she need or want anything else?

He left the room, setting the music box down carefully on the bed. He walked downstairs and exited through the front door, passing by a collection of family photos hung up on the walls. They'd all seemed so happy back then.

He stood on the porch, gazing at the front yard where his children used to build snowmen. And play tag and hide-and-seek. He'd never gone out to watch or play when they'd asked, but it wasn't like they couldn't play without him, right? He was working, making money so they could go to college and live in this nice house and go to a nice school. They'd thank him later. 

Except they never did. What happened? Why was he even here, at his old house? Why did his kids hate him so much? Who was responsible for everything going so wrong? 

Realization hit him like a truck.

"Maybe this is all my fault..."