Charles Buttle
Mornings are the worst.
I wake up in sweat, sheets twisted tight,
the room heavy with the smell of something I can’t scrub out.
I breathe.
It doesn’t really help,
but isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?
I am steady.
I am clean.
I am free.
The words run through my head,
rehearsed, worn smooth by repetition —
shaped on my tongue, polished,
until they almost become something I can believe.
I make my way downstairs,
guided by the smell of toast drifting softly through the hallway,
the kettle whistling over the brittle edge of my parents’ low, sharp-voiced discussion.
When I step into the kitchen, the silence hits like a wall.
My mother turns, lips drawn into a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
My father doesn’t look up, his hands moving with quiet precision as he flips the newspaper, each page snapping like a warning.
“Morning, sweetheart,” my mother says brightly.
She busies herself with the plates.
“I’ve already got eggs and sausages on the go. How does that sound?”
My father doesn’t even glance at me.
“Is he even allowed to be eating that, Maggie?” he mutters.
“Oh, come on. What will one cheat day do, really?” she says,
glancing back at me again, that same tight smile stretched a little too far.
I take my seat across the table as my mother fills the silence
with waves of her voice, rising and falling in careful, cautious tones.
I guess she tries, in her own way.
But it feels too rehearsed.
Too smoothed over.
Like she’s smiling through the tension,
pretending not to flinch,
filling the air with harmless chatter.
To my right, my father sits hunched behind his newspaper.
No glance. No words.
I’ve given up trying to draw him out.
You can’t have a conversation with grunts,
with half-lowered eyes,
with someone who stiffens when your shadow crosses his plate.
After breakfast, trying to reclaim a little ground,
I offer to clear the table,
eager for some small sliver of trust.
I take my time, letting my fingers trace the folds of the tablecloth,
the rim of each plate,
the lingering scent of cooked meat —
faint, salty, still clinging to the air like smoke.
I carry them carefully to the sink,
lining them up like evidence.
But as I turn my hand under the tap, I see it.
Something lodged beneath my fingernails, dark, crusted.
I scrape at it with my thumb.
It flakes away slowly, stubbornly.
Dirt. Just dirt.
It has to be.
But it’s not black enough.
And then the smell hits me.
That sharp, metallic tang, faint, but unmistakable.
I freeze, the plate still balanced in my hand.
My heart thuds, sharp and shallow.
I turn the tap hotter, scrubbing harder,
until the skin around my nails glows raw and red.
It’s nothing. It has to be.
What else could it be?
But something cuts through the hush,
a floorboard creaking. Then another.
Slow. Measured. Emerging from just outside the room.
I turn quickly, hands dropping instinctively to my sides.
My father stands in the doorway, his presence heavy, even without words.
He doesn’t approach.
Doesn’t speak.
Just lingers.
Long enough.
His eyes flick to my hands then quickly rise to meet mine.
A flicker, small, but unmistakable.
His jaw tightens like he’s bracing for the answer he already suspects.
But I hold his gaze.
Steady. Blank.
I give nothing. Not anymore.
And still, I feel it.
That creeping sense he’s already made his mind up.
Not with proof. Not with words.
Just that look people give
when they’ve decided what you are.
And worse,
when they’re waiting for you to prove them right.
I Still Remember — Complete Series
- https://horrorobsessive.com/2025/07/27/i-still-remember-part-one/
- https://horrorobsessive.com/2025/08/04/i-still-remember-part-two/
- https://horrorobsessive.com/2025/08/08/i-still-remember-part-three/
- https://horrorobsessive.com/2025/08/12/i-still-remember-part-four/
- https://horrorobsessive.com/2025/08/16/i-still-remember-part-five/
- https://horrorobsessive.com/2025/08/18/i-still-remember-part-six/
