Gargoyle

‘Just a little bit to the left. Okay, and down a bit. Actually—no—just set it to the right—' Mum stroked her chin, tilting her head to make sure the frame in my hands fit the feng shui of the room. I wondered if the to-scale pillow of her childhood dog, Milton, or her high school netball trophy contributed to said feng shui.

‘Mum! I’ve got work I need to be doing!’ I insisted. My tiptoes balanced on the seat of a wonky wooden stool, brought into the living room from the kitchen.

‘More important than helping out your poor old mum hang up her new picture?’ Her neutral tone soured.

I didn’t respond; this was one of many verbal traps that Mum had placed throughout my childhood in an attempt to guilt me into affection. No matter what school work demanded, or where friends invited me, helping out my “poor, old mum” had to be the number one priority. Except she wasn’t “poor.” In fact, we’d always been a relatively wealthy family since dad was promoted to head engineer and we moved closer to the broads. The ailments she blamed on age were at best exaggerations, or at worst aches from her choice to sleep on the downstairs futon when Dad had his training weeks up north.

‘You can leave me now, all alone.’ Mum said, between fake sobs barely hidden behind her hands.

‘What does she expect?’ I thought to myself. “You can leave me alone” was just code for “I’m done needing your help and want to get on with my own thing.” 

Serving Mum’s need for attention was impossible, as it only brought her satisfaction when the serving appeared self-driven, and how was I supposed to give any more when her asks were so endless. I carved my time out of her requests and she still wanted me to trim the shrubs. Needless to say, her need for attention remained unquenched by my assistance with the fifth musty charity shop gargoyle portrait to be hung around the house, and Dad’s recognition remained uncaptured. I often questioned which element of the art would bring Dad to notice them? Would it be the image of the gargoyles, or the smell of dampness that oozed from their frames? My sister, Daphne, was very observant, and had noticed immediately. We had both decided that the best way to deal with the situation was to ignore it, and hope that Dad wasn’t doing the same thing or else Mum might explode.

Daphne was younger in age but taller. She embraced the archetype of a troubled artist and resided in her room on most days to meditate and sniff incense. Given that Mum provided Daphne with her art supplies, she rarely felt the need to sell her art for any more than the paint would’ve cost. If she wasn’t such a talented artist, it would appear like she was running some money laundering scheme. The only scheme Daphne ran was the one that came from being the younger sibling, and the only laundry she was involved in was the stack of worn clothes on a chair in the corner of her bedroom. Her status as the youngest allowed her to get away without performing such meaningless tasks as gargoyle hanging duty, and today’s one was particularly gruesome. It perched on a tree branch with its claws etched into the bark and a dead cat hanging from its talons. The cat was a tabby, like the neighbour’s one that I’d feed when they were away; however, this particular cat’s fur had been dyed red from being saturated in its own blood. I didn’t know much about gargoyles, or their eating habits; I knew equally little about their hunting techniques, but this seemed unusually cruel.

'Hooome!' Dad’s murmuring voice called up and around the house, paired with a brisk draft that had been waiting at the front door for his arrival. 

An immediate stillness was parodied by the swinging of a door shut and Mum’s voice replying, 'That door doesn’t need to be slammed!'

'Yeah, my day was alright. What about yours?' His passive aggression stewed.

'I can’t get the TV to connect to the box,' Mum complained with a perfectly rehearsed delirium, guiding her husband’s eye to the gargoyle portrait that I had hung not long before his return, and Dad rolled his eyes dizzy explaining how to use the remote for the umteenth time.

'It is a bit slow connecting, I will say,' he hummed. 'I’ll have to take the router apart.'

The idea of Dad getting out his drill did not have the same euphemistic charm that drew Mum to the builders when they came to work on the extension, but she did enjoy Dad's frustration at her gaudy comments about their arms. Dad left for the shed and Mum returned to the kitchen to watch the slow cooker simmer and fantasise about a life with Paul the builder (or “Paul Your Trousers Up,” as Daphne and I referred to him).

It was difficult to hunker down to any work with the fragile cogs turning around the house. The sound of Daphne striking a lighter, for example, was something I’d have to listen out for, despite the likely reality of her lighting another incense stick to pair with the other one that had been burning slowly in her room all day. She always inhaled the initial burning wick of the stick; it was before the aroma developed any depth or consistency, just a faint roughness from the match’s head. Although Daphne never liked the scent of fireplace smoke or burning logs like Dad did, she appreciated the complexity of the fleeting first burn. It was a sign that she would be a smoker one day, though that was something I could do very little about.

My room didn’t need incense or candles, as the smell of Daphne’s room wafted beneath my door. I kept my window wide open to filter out the heavy aroma as I sat cross-legged and typed furiously on my keyboard, giving it a gentle hit whenever it froze. Even though I felt burdened by a need to overwork during the time permitted, I preferred the stress to the feeling of worthlessness. It was all I felt capable of doing to avoid the fate that my mum had obtained: wealthy enough not to worry, not quite rich enough to live carelessly. I didn’t exactly want wealth, but I envied the freedom that it provided. 

'Daphne!' Mum shouted from the kitchen.

'What!' Daphne wailed through her closed bedroom door.

'Did you post that letter I asked you to post today? The one that I needed posting today?' Mum continued the inefficient, two-story conversation.

Daphne was silent.

'Did you?' She asked again, her shrill voice interrupting Daphne. 'Post it?'

'Mum! You made me mess up!' Daphne hollered with quick spite. 

It wasn’t Mum’s fault, but if it seemed that way then she would at least stop asking the question she already knew the answer to.

'Miranda!' Mum shouted with a softer tone, using my full name to indicate that she wanted something from me. The same didn’t work for Daphne’s name. 'Could you?'

'Okay!' I reluctantly paused my typing and got up from my desk. I looked towards my open window and judged how cold it would be going down to the post office in my current clothes. A slim gust eased into the wide opening, weaved its way into my dark, wolf-cut hair, and shimmied down the back of my sea-blue tee. I grabbed my suede jacket from a hook on the back of my bedroom door and slung it over my shoulder as I walked down the corridor to my sister’s room and knocked twice.

'Can I come in?' I called through the closed door. Despite the barrier, the smell of dried rose and lavender clogged my throat, desiccating my saliva.

'Yeah,' Daphne admitted.

'What are you working o—'

'What’s with the questions?' Daphne lashed.

I was silent.

'I’m sorry, it’s just—'

'Mum—I know,' I interrupted. 'I know.'

I stood for a moment, admiring the glorious figure she’d painted. Daphne used black lines and the white canvas background to form an ornately detailed angel. It was an ingenious way of preserving her paint supplies, and an idea that I never would've thought to have come from her.

'She’s wonderful, Daph.' I breathed out in relief. 'What’s the grey part?'

'I was trying to fix some of the outlining, and Mum jogged me.'

'I think it’s unique,' I reasoned. 'Angels can’t all be black and white.'

Daphne folded her lips to resist a smile, and I took her in a hug, supporting her back with firm hands. 

'You feel cold. Put a jacket on,' I instructed her as I let go and headed towards the door. 

Daphne nodded and picked up a paint brush, scooping up a splodge of black and mixing it into the white-filled section of the pallet.

'Do you want anything from the shops? I’m gonna stop in on the way back.'

'A bar of chocolate? And maybe some red paint?' Daphne squinted her speech into a plea.

'I’m not getting you art supplies—that’s Mum’s job. What chocolate do you want?' I asked. 

Her head tilted down, and bronze eyes glared up. 'Surprise me,' Daphne produced a cheeky smile, then disengaged with the conversation and took to painting. 

Downstairs, on the living room floor, dad had begun taking apart the router, as indicated by the intermittent sound of the drill and the smattering of cursing in between. I followed the sound downstairs and entered the kitchen, where Mum sat on a stool, doom scrolling through the vast emptiness of Facebook on her phone. Her greying hair veiled her vision down to the screen, where the light refracted off the silver, straggling strands into her eyes. The room was as cold as it always had been, since the building existed long before proper insulation. The slow cooker was the only source of heat for the kitchen, and it exuded a dense steam of meat that would marinate the walls for long after the food had been consumed. 

'What are you up to, darling?' Mum queried, not looking up from a post about some distant relative’s baby shower that she wasn’t invited to.

'I was just going to ask you where that letter was—the one you wanted me to post.'

'Oh, you don’t have to post that—it’s fine,' Mum said, rising into a sudden cheeriness at the sound of me 'volunteering'.

'It’s okay, I’ve stopped my work now—I can do it,' I pushed, not pleased to be playing into Mum’s game.

'I’ll come with you then, shall I?' She asked, stepping up from her stool and placing her phone on the counter.

'If you must,' I huffed bluntly.

'No, no, I’ll stay here on my own,' she resumed her earlier fake weeping.

'Dad is in the front room, Daphne is upstairs. Do you want anything from the shops?' I refused to pander to her guilt-tripping.

'No. The letter is on the table over there. If you’re not home by dinner, you’ll have to heat it up again yourself,' Mum said with a familiarly abrupt hostility.

I ignored her cruel sentiment, picked up the letter, slipped on my shoes, and left out of the front door. Free, I breathed in a big lungful of cold air and tried not to let out a tear. Mum’s coldness never upset me; it was simply the breeze.

I took another breath before returning through the door, having posted the letter and acquired the bar of chocolate for Daphne. I looked up at the flaking exterior of the house; flecks of pastel blue paint were now dry and faded like the scrapings of a mouldy pastry. The windows that looked in on the front room were pristine, but the outdoor ledge that underscored them was worn to the wood and doused in animal excrement. This house was old—older than all of us combined—but, when inside, it felt like I’d lived there since it had been made, experiencing every moment of its existence. 

A loud clattering sound from behind the keyhole interrupted my flittering thoughts and led me back inside the house. A hoarding pair of footsteps rattled down the stairs and appeared in front of me.

'Dinner!' Daphne alarmed.

'Don’t forget this,' I held out the bar of Mopson cookie-milk chocolate.

'Delish.' Daphne swiped the bar and headed towards the kitchen. 'Thank youuu!'

'What have you got there? Don’t eat it before dinner or you’ll spoil yourself,' Mum sprawled.

'Cookie-milk, Mira got it for me.' Daphne rushed past Mum to the table, where she sat atop, legs hanging off the edge with her feet rested together on the seat below and her hands twiddling with cutlery.

'Oooo, anything more for me, Mira?' Mum reached her hands out as if I were a portly beadle, ready to reveal my passion for song.

'You didn’t say you wanted anything.' I sighed with frustration, continuing up to the table and taking a seat beside Daphne’s feet.

'Fine then.' Mum served the next plate with an aggressive splat of a spoon and the sauce from the casserole spat onto my top. 'I’m sure Daphne will share hers with me.'

Daphne was silent.

I was silent. 

We all remained silent through dinner as the soundtrack of Dad’s clattering and cursing echoed through the house.

'You’ve got paint all over your face, darling,' Mum pointed out with disgust.

'Yeah,' Daphne replied with nothing more to add. 

Dinner ended as awkwardly as it began, with Dad entering just as the dishes were being stacked for the dishwasher.

'So you decided not to join us, then?' Mum remarked.

'I didn’t know you’d started—you women are quiet eaters,' Dad answered.

Daphne and I shared a look as his remarks sparked against her striker paper skin.

'Maybe we’d be louder if you were there to make conversation,' Mum hissed back.

He ignored her, swiping Daphne towards him as she tried to slip away. The bristles of his stubble brushed against her navy fleece, then against her smooth, cold cheeks as she wriggled around in his arms. 

'Where are you going, monster?' Dad lifted her back up as she got close to squirming free.

'Daaaaad, I’ve got work to do!' Daphne whined playfully.

'You’ve got to pay the toll!' He roared, allowing a gruffness to encompass his voice.

'Okay! Okay! Here!' Daphne reached into her back pocket and broke him off a row of cookie-milk.

'That’s a sweet toll today. Remember to save some for tomorrow’s,' he chuckled, ruffling her hair. 'You’ve got some mean hair horns going on!'

'Oh, get a brush, darling,' Mum intervened. 

Daphne side-eyed Mum and leapt up the stairs, her technicolour cargos rustling as she went. I followed briskly behind, relieved to finally be able to finish my work.

'Thanks for the choc, Mir,' Daphne reiterated as she shoved a row into her mouth.

'Don’t be daft, Daph—' We collided as she paused before reaching the top of the stairs, and she sprawled, face-down on the old wooden floorboards of the landing, pulsing in pain.

'Shit!' I shouted into a whisper. 'Are you okay?'

'I’m fine, I’m fine!' Daphne growled, weaving her way towards the bathroom, darting between walls. I stopped and checked around for blood. The only marks were two indentations that were probably there before. I followed after her, taking a more direct route to the bathroom, which was now firmly locked. I wiggled on the door handle with small, frequent shakes so as not to alert our parents downstairs.

'I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.' I spoke louder now. 'It was an accident—I’m sorry.'

'Please just leave me alone!' Daphne’s voice scratched through the keyhole. 

'Is everything going on okay up there, darlings?' Mum fired up a frequency from the bottom of the stairs.

'All good!' I picked up Daphne’s cookie-milk bar from the floor and folded the foil opening over itself.

Mum walked back into the kitchen, murmuring, 'I’ll have to tell Aunty Marley and cousin Lena about this.'

An hour crumbled away as I sat patiently against the wall until a lingering tiredness outweighed the discomfort of the floor, forcing me into slumber. I woke, not to Daphne’s exit from the bathroom, but to a rumble of activity downstairs. I could make out only a few words before a door slammed, and all turned into muffled sounds. I turned my attention back to the bathroom door, gently pressing my finger up against it. It opened only to the length of my finger before slamming back against me. 

'Sorry,' I called through, my voice shaken by the aggression of the force. Nobody replied. I moved my hand down below the door and felt a sharp breeze cut across my fingers. Taking the handle in my hand once more, I twisted it down and pressed against the opposing force until it swung around to bring me in. A thick fog of combined smells doused my nostrils. It was Dad’s man-deodorant (a flavour unrecognisable but for the label on the bottle that read “Dark Indulgence” or “Crisp and Fresh”), and Mum’s delicate, yet distinct, musk of a flowerbed blended with half a bottle of gin. The remaining ingredient was a scent we shared; it was from a bottle of clean spray that Grandma would give each of us for Christmas. It smelled like dish soap but was able to cover up any level of sweat and dirt that may have built up over the day. I wafted the fog over to the open window, but found myself drawn forward to the sink, where droplets of blood drizzled like strawberry syrup on a sundae glass. I left the bathroom and ventured back onto the landing, trying to ignore the bickering that beat like a palm’s pulse against my ear.

'Daphne, are you in there?' I knocked on her door. 'Let me in, Daphne; I’ve got your cookie-milk,' I pleaded. 

'Go away!' Daphne’s voice sounded gruff and shaken.

'I’m sorry!' I pressed against the door and skewered the handle between my ribs to evade the sound that had risen up the stairs. A draft marched its way beneath my toenails from underneath the door, overwhelming my senses. 

I knocked louder now to accommodate the arguing, then moved my hand to twist the door handle like I had done to the bathroom prior. As I stumbled into the room, I attempted to lean back against the door to avoid it swinging open entirely. I instinctually looked away from Daphne, waiting for her outburst to permit my sight. Instead, my eyes remained set on the open window, its framework coloured with indulgent spirals of purple to cover the weak, yellowy-beige shade that had been vomited onto it years prior. The deep purple swirls grew out onto the lilac interior of Daphne’s room, but an even richer red now trailed off, spattered on the wall, and tippled in intervals across the carpet towards Daphne.

'Don’t be mad. I just want to make sure you’re okay,' I assured her. Daphne remained hunched at her easel, face hidden behind her torso. I took a step towards her to see if there was any damage to her head, but all I could see was a coating of dust. I looked down at her empty pallet, then at the canvas, detailed with lashings of red—the same lashings that had saturated the carpet beneath her.

'I’ve got your cookie-milk?' I enticed her, stealing another step closer. A sudden frantic shake pulled Daphne’s head, but she steadied it with an opposing twitch, and as I reached over to touch her body, she contorted around at the point of her waist, exposing the convulsing tabby in her talons. Her face had twisted into a lead grimace, with a scarlet smile drooling down her sharpened canines. Daphne’s concrete-set eyes seemed somehow sad to see me look at her so disturbed, but no emotion could counter the fear that drove me back out of the room. Breathless, I allowed the noise from downstairs to consume me, dwindling down into the kitchen. There, another two creatures towered, their faces raw from smacking sharp words against each other.

'Your father hasn’t even noticed our gargoyle!' Mum proclaimed at my arrival.

'So you know about her?' I cried a built-up rage onto my parents’ futile argument.

'Know about her? You helped me put her up this morning, darling,' Mum said, her eyes trying to feign concern but failing in favour of frustration. 

'So they’re ‘hers’ now, not ‘its!' Dad laughed. 'You’re all insane!'

'No, it’s Daphne—look at her!' My insides churned towards my throat. Mum and Dad ran through the corridor, barging into each other as they went. Then, looking up from the bottom of the stairs, they stood like frozen statues in winter, and I saw the resemblance between them and their youngest daughter’s stone presence. Daphne’s tears had washed the blood away from her face, giving shine to her grey cheekbones but barely distracting from the wings that had sprouted from her spine.

Dad fell silent.

'What did you do to her?'

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When I publish these, I do wonder how they're perceived. A lot of what I write is influenced or reflective of my own life, and then there are short stories like Gargoyle which take on aspects of other people's relationships, but have no semblance to any of mine. The dynamic of the older sister and the mother is something I have always found quite fascinating, and I do believe it is widely effected by other circumstances, such as the absent father, the coddled youngest/pet, and even stretching as far as to the mother and father's parents, lacking in their own ways and passing down generational insecurities.

Stories such as these highlight the difficulties of family, however, unlike some of my more critical pieces, could be perceived as ignorant to the struggles of the mother, for example, who is framed as belligerent and selfish. Of course, the lens of the speaker must be considered in this case, and I hope that the lines which allude to deeper challenges within the family structure aren't considered throwaway. If you've read this far then you're a true betweeny; if you could take the time to answer the poll below I'd really appreciate it!

What would you like next week's blog post to be?

• Another short story
• Something critical
• Travel blog post
• Poetry

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