On Writing

He’s at it again. Bursting guitar riffs, booming of drums, and throaty shrills echoed throughout the house. He’s writing.

Every afternoon, her husband locks himself in his study, entering a world different from his life. His chosen songs make you think that he writes horror and thriller - because he does. He’s an international bestselling author, his publisher’s best brand. He produces two books a year, and he did it religiously for the past five years. But he’s also a father, living in a grand, spacious house, with three children and two dogs.

Kitchen tools and utensils jiggled with the sound of the bass upstairs. Her reflection on them, blurry. She closed her eyes, inhaled, exhaled. 

Dinner. 

Before the kids arrive.

She grabbed the tongs and picked up the chicken thighs from the plastic bag. Carefully removing one chicken at a time, she let the marinade drip off before placing them on the plate. 

The plate’s surface was covered in a mixture of corn flakes, Parmesan cheese, and thyme - seasoned with salt and pepper. She flipped the chicken on each side, making sure it’s covered. He and the kids like it crunchy. Then, she lined up the chickens on a ceramic tray.

She went to the oven, set the temperature, the timer, and turned it on. Five minutes. An equivalent of two songs.

So, she listened. She knows this song.

Hatred, hatred

The crucifix is your bed

Once he turns his eyes on you

You’ll be better off dead

She remembered yesterday’s mess. After cleaning his room, there were four full garbage bags of beer cans, bloodied cotton balls, Q-tips, tissues, and a dash of “white powder magic” - as he calls it.

A week’s worth of trash.

She’d let him drag the bags out, hoping it would make sense for him how much trash he produces every time he writes. But he came back, droopy eyes, settled on the reading chair near their fireplace. 

As he reaches the end of his draft, she knew that the garbage bags would multiply, the music would get louder and chaotic. There would be more nights that she’d be alone on their bed.

The oven dinged. She was staring at the reflection of the hanging ladle. A thin line of blended colors swirled and moved as she approached the oven.

She pulled the oven door, carefully slid the ceramic inside, and closed it. Set the temperature, the timer, and turned it on. Forty-five minutes. That’s two sides of a cassette and the Side A of the second. That’s probably two chapters for him, and ten chapters for her.

She walked to the living room and tried reading. The book talked to her.

Yet the profound irony was that our killer believed he was providing himself with just those things: vengeance for the child he had been, protection for the tortured soul he had become.

Even if she’s in awe of his talent, she’s sick of it. She looked around the empty living room that they’ve been enjoying for half a decade. 

Five years ago, she never imagine the grandness of this life. They were living in a rented house with cracked ceilings. Water dripping every time it rains; they’d use pails or basins. They couldn’t afford fixtures. But sometimes, the heavens would smile at his frightening short stories. Publishers would pay him, or he’d win contests. They would finally have a nice dinner, a take-out, with some money left for next week’s groceries and a fix-up of their second-hand car. They decided that cracked ceilings are tolerable.

The best moments were more enjoyable when they were scarce.

But now, they own a two-story house, living in a neighborhood with enough space on the sidewalk for him to run before breakfast. They’re not bothered to have a pantry of snacks and spices and use them for tonight’s dinner. Instead of washing other people’s clothes, she now sits to read as she waits and listens. And their kids go to good schools.

All of this, because of him, writing.

But it’s also because of him, writing, that he’s slowly disappearing. Becoming a ghost. A dreadful sight making horrid sounds most of the time. Screaming, groaning in the dead of the night, his characters, haunting him. In the morning, he releases these demons on paper and makes her read them.

Even if it was a novel about a husband murdering his wife.

There was one night, they were eating out with the kids. She saw him grinding his teeth, tight fist, looking at the table next to theirs. He asked her, ‘why do they leave their drinks unfinished?’ Was it rhetorical? It confused her why he cared so much - until she saw him chug five mugs of beer in front of the children. Like swallowing pills. Proving he’s better than these unnamed people she’s never even bothered to look at. These well-marketed products made him believe that it makes him a better writer, a better man. Hemingway must have said it first. She shook her head when she found herself wondering how long a shotgun barrel is. That night, she asked their oldest son to drive them home instead.

No sound. The house was quiet. She placed the book down and waited at the edge of the chair. Imagined him flipping the tape to Side B, pressing play. Still silence.

She got up and walked to the stairs. She leaned, looking up, her hand on the rail. 

“Honey?”

Her voice echoed, like it was someone else’s; it had a higher pitch, a flat tone.

She waited for a response. Her eyes wandered back and forth, from the peak of the steps to the second floor’s hallway. Maybe his head or hand would show up. Somewhere.

But nothing.

She walked up the steps, her heart thumping. Banging in her ears like the drums of that metal song. Her breathing louder. She walked, or maybe she ran, to the end of the hallway.

A closed door. She asked herself whether to turn the doorknob or knock, whether she’d call 911 first or his brother, whether she’d sell the house or stay with his ghosts.

“Sure mother, Ralph said. Now think of yourself as a battery. You really are, you know. Your brain runs on chemically converted electrical current. For that matter -“

He was reading.

Out loud.

Sitting on the floor, she placed her palm on her chest. Her other hand covering her ear. The thumping was still there.

Sometimes, she wanted to find him unmoving on his desk or sprawled on the floor. Just to stop this horror.

It’s been a long time since she hasn’t given a damn. What does it feel like to not be his caretaker, to not listen and imagine, to not flinch in every unusual sound, or stand like a statue, staring most days?

What does it feel to open the door and see him dead?

The oven downstairs dinged.