THE EMPTY HOUSE By Nicki Benson This is my attempt to imitate a style of prose used to great effect by David Peace, author of ‘The Damned United’, the Red Riding sequence and more recently ‘Red Or Dead’, a fictional biography of the former Liverpool FC manager Bill Shankly.

In the house, the empty house. Tom stood at the foot of the staircase. Tom’s mother and Tom’s father were not in the house. They were on their way to a dinner party. The house was empty. Tom’s mother and Tom’s father would not return to the house for hours. For hours, Tom would be the only person in the house.

Tom climbed the staircase. In the house, the empty house. Tom reached the landing at the top of the staircase. Tom looked at the three doors that opened onto the landing. The door to the bathroom. The door to his bedroom. And the door to his parents’ bedroom. Three doors. Leading to three rooms. Three empty rooms.

Tom did not open the bathroom door. Tom did not open his bedroom door. Tom opened the door to his parents’ bedroom. Their empty bedroom. In the empty house. The bedroom that would be empty for hours. Beyond the door that opened onto the landing at the top of the staircase. In the house that would be empty for hours.

Tom opened the door to his parents’ bedroom. Their empty bedroom. Tom did not close the door behind him. Tom did not switch on the light. Tom walked around the bed. Tom pulled the curtains closed. Tom stared at the dressing table. Tom stared at the chair. Tom imagined sitting on the chair. Tom stared at the items on the dressing table. At the bottles. At the jars. At the brushes. At the little boxes. Tom imagined sitting on the chair, reaching for one of the bottles. For one of the jars. For one of the brushes. For one of the little boxes.

In his parents’ bedroom. Their empty bedroom. Tom remembered the girl in the leather jacket. The red-haired girl. Tom remembered her white T-shirt, taut with the swell of her breasts. Her snug, faded jeans. Tom remembered her nose ring. Her eyeshadow. Her burgundy lipstick. Tom remembered the boy holding her hand. Tom remembered how the boy had leaned towards the red-haired girl and kissed her. On those burgundy lips.

Tom wanted to hold the red-haired girl’s hand. Tom wanted to lean towards the red-haired girl and kiss her. On those burgundy lips. Tom wanted that very much. But Tom did not want to be the boy who had held the red-haired girl’s hand. Tom did not want to be the boy who had leaned towards the red-haired girl and kissed her. On those burgundy lips. Tom did not want that at all.

Tom sat in front of the dressing table. Tom looked into the mirror. Tom saw his reflection. Tom did not see the red-haired girl. Tom did not see a nose ring. Tom did not see eyeshadow. Tom did not see burgundy lips. Tom did not see a white T-shirt, taut with the swell of his breasts. Tom wanted to see those things. But Tom wanted to hold the red-haired girl’s hand. And to lean towards the red-haired girl and kiss her.

Tom began to think about how he might be able to see those things, and about how he might be able to do those things.

In the house, the empty house. Tom opened his mother’s wardrobe. Tom looked at the garments hanging on the rails. At the coats. At the jackets. At the dresses. At the skirts. At the blouses. At the pairs of slacks. Tom looked down at the boots, at the shoes, at the sandals. Tom did not want to wear his mother’s clothes. Tom wanted to wear a white T-shirt, taut with the swell of his breasts. And Tom wanted to hold the red-haired girl’s hand, and to lean forward and kiss her. On those burgundy lips.

Tom turned away from his mother’s wardrobe. From the clothes he did not want to wear. Tom turned away from the dressing table mirror. From the face he did not want to see.

But Tom knew that there would come an evening when he opened a wardrobe that contained clothes he wanted to wear. When he sat in front of a dressing table mirror that reflected a face he wanted to see. In another bedroom. In a bedroom that did not belong to his parents.

And Tom knew that there would be a girl who wanted to hold his hand. A girl who wanted to lean forward and kiss him. On his burgundy lips.

In another house. In a house that did not belong to his parents.

Tom walked back downstairs. Tom went into the living room. The empty living room. Tom sat on the sofa. Tom watched television. Tom thought about the future.

In the house, the empty house.

Music: 'Out On Your Own'
Performed by the Lotus Eaters. From the album 'No Sense Of Sin' (1984)

https://youtu.be/x1rKcy7xyj0