Jam

The plates in the sink were unusually grimy today.

Not the usual filmy residue of leftover food— that has a significantly different feeling. It was sticky and viscous like tar, it clung to the man’s fingers and left tracks of red

it could be jam

The man ponders

He thinks the kid quite liked jam, maybe he had spilt it on the plate by mistake

But then again, the jam he bought wasn’t smooth, pieces of fruit usually interfered with the uniform texture

And hadn’t David told him that he was allergic to the red jam?

He can’t quite remember why, maybe it was the fruit used in it… strawberries?

David always got hives if he ate strawberries, the man recalls.

Well then, it could be Robin..

Except… the man hadn’t seen Robin today. The two of them— him and David— had eaten alone.

Where was Robin, anyway? He was supposed to be home ages ago. He was supposed to help get David ready for school tomorrow… where was he?

The man, unable to focus on the two subjects at once, decides to clean the plate first.

The plate. Focus on the plate.

And for a moment, he does. His mind relishes the constant rush of tap water and his hands appreciate the feeling of rough, chipped porcelain

At this rate, he’ll be done with enough time to spare for one of those morbid shows that Robin enjoyed so much.

The thought soothes him for a few moments

But when he looks down, all he can see is red.

Red. Red. Red.

The plate is red. His hand is red. The water is red.

It is smooth. Not chunky like jams, or slippery like jellies. It is slick and smooth and wet and uncomfortable and he just wants it to go away—

He wants Robin here. He wants to be enveloped in the strong scent of his cologne and hear the gruffness of his voice. He wants Robin to come and save him from the sight of red.

Where is he? Where is he? Where is he—?

He takes a breath

“It’s just jam. I’m being stupid..”

Maybe one of the neighbors had dropped off the wrong kind. Maybe they forgot about David’s allergies. Maybe they had forgotten how the man hated perfectly smooth things

He hates how perfect they are, how staged they feel. This jam feels staged and perfect and smooth. He hates it, he hates it, he hates it—

He hates how it traps him back in that house. It traps him and seals him in so that he can watch it happen again.

The blood.

This isn’t blood, he reminds himself.

It’s jam, and Robin’s still here and David’s going up to bed.

But the jam is smooth and sticky. Jam shouldn’t be sticky, it spreads easy and it has chunks. Why doesn’t this have chunks?

The man is scrubbing at the porcelain frantically now. Rubbing and scrubbing to make it stop feeling so wrong.

But he mustn’t break it. This is David’s plate. He won’t eat on anything else and if Harry breaks it he will never get the boy to do anything. He has to calm down.

He mustn’t break it.

And so he sets it down. It clatters and scrapes against the metal and it grinds against his skull.

And he looks up from the sink.

The room is dark now, he must’ve been standing there for hours, lost in his thoughts.

The wallpaper peels and frays at the corners, he can’t see the green bag— David’s bag— and since when did it start smelling of iron?

“David?”

He calls, making an effort to steady his voice. He doesn’t want to scare David, this is nowhere near as bad as it could be. No need to scare the boy.

But then there isn’t a response. And Harry notices the cans.

Cans littered on the tables and chairs and counters… cans with ducks pictured on the front, cans that are filled with red. Red like the sink and his hands.

And there are more plates, grimy with the same jam from earlier and piled with… meat.

You don’t eat meat with jam.

Somewhere, from the crevices of his mind he questions, only to rationalize in futility once more.

it could… it could be sauce. It could be cranberry sauce. You eat meat with cranberries—

Harry looks down at his hands, pale and shaking, streaked with red.

They smell like iron.

And he looks at the table again—

A figure is hunched in the seat, tears streaming down their face, red staining their mouth.

“David!”

Harry calls, mortified.

The figure lifts their head, brunette waves framing their sun kissed skin. They look no older than 12.

Their eyes once bright in Harry’s memories are dull with fear and horror

Their mouth is full of a string of meats, skin around dripping with a dark maroon.

“David! What are you doing?”

The figure— David— chokes down whatever fills his mouth, he is desperate, his eyes filled with tears that slice lines down his face.

“I didn’t mean it! I— papa said if you didn’t come back with food soon that— that I had to—“

The kid chokes on the words.

“Why did you leave us, dad? Papa said you’d be back soon— and then—“

Harry stands there. Mortified.

It’s happening again. It’s happening again. That stupid house, he was back in that stupid house.

It wouldn’t leave him alone.

Robin was in those cans.

Robin.

He chokes back a sob

The terror in David’s eyes is mirrored in his own, his heart is snapping in half, pulling and picking at the seams. He’d come back too late. Too late.

Never early. Never on time. Always too late.

And he blinks to clear the tears building.

Only to find himself at the sink again. Plate in hand.

A bloody plate.

“Harry?”

Another voice enters the kitchen, followed by a third.

“Dad?”

A hand on his shoulder. Cologne. Robin’s cologne. A hand gripping his own, small. David’s hand.

“Dad, I made you something”

Harry looks down, brown eyes stare up at him, messy hair and all.

The boy holds up a drawing. One with him and Robin and Harry.

“Can we put it on the fridge before I go to school?”

Harry simply nods, too tired, too terrified that this will slip away, as the boy runs off.

He looks back up at Robin, the man with hair as dark as ink. A man he loves. And he’s alive. Living and breathing and moving.

And he finally hears what he’s saying.

“Harry. Can you hear me? The blood is from your finger. It’s from your finger, darling, not from me”

His mind fixates on one word.

Blood

It’s blood, it’s blood, it’s blood—

He only truly snaps out of it when the weight in his hands lightens, and the water runs again.

And then a hand slides into his own, running fingers over the gash in his palm.

“Oh, this is a nasty cut, isn’t it?”

Blood drips down his wrist, and yet he cannot feel anything but numb

This is a dream, isn’t it? It always is.

The plate was still in the sink. The red still clung to it. And somewhere inside him, the house was still watching.