Days 53 and 54

The weekend writing exercise

We need to write a short story that includes, a shocking surprise, an unreliable narrator, and a nonlinear timeline.

…

There was no point asking Jack.

He was the witness who had fourteen different answers for the same situation, in fact, it changed every time you asked him.

I used to think that he did it deliberately, that it was his way of avoiding responsibility and it worked. No one asked him to do anything or asked his opinion, and that threw all of it on me, the younger and only sibling.

For that reason, I left home as soon as I could. Away from my parents who expected so much, and my brother, who was oblivious to the problems he was causing me.

Of course, there was always going to be something to drag me back to that place.

Very early on a Saturday morning, the one day I got to sleep in, the cell phone rang at the ungodly hour of 5:03 am. I remember the time because I also remembered who was calling.

My bother Jack.

I was not in a good mood. “What?”

“Fine way to talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you. Don’t call me again.” And then I disconnected the call.

I made the fatal mistake of not switching off the phone.

5:07am. Jack. He was going to keep calling. I sighed, got out of bed, picked up the phone and pressed the green answer button.

“Make it quick, I’m missing out on a much-earned sleep-in.”

“OK, if that’s the way you want it. Mum and Dad are dead.”

Jack was the original little boy who cried wolf.

“Of course they are. Are you sure they’re not at the mall shopping?” He had tried this story once before. He had half the town in uproar until they were found having coffee at a small cafe, and somehow made it all my fault. As usual.

“No. They would have told me.”

“They never tell you anything because you never can relay anything correctly. Just hang tight, they’ll be home soon enough.”

“They’ve been gone a week, nearly eight days. I think they’re dead.”

More than likely they’d gone on a holiday, told him, and he’d forgotten or got it jumbled up in that complicated mind of his. “There’s nothing wrong with them. They will be back.”

I hung up, this time switching off the phone, and went back to bed.

…

It was never going to end there. Nothing that involved Jack did, and his calling had brought all the bad memories flooding back, bad enough that it was no point going back to sleep.

I had to wonder, after all these years, my parents finally decided they’d had enough of him and just left. Certainly, the last time I had seen my mother, she was at the end of her tether. They had come to visit me in the big city, as they called it, and I got the impression being away was a relief.

I tried calling my mother’s phone and it rang out. It was charged, and on, not the state I’d expect if something had happened to her. My father didn’t have a phone, he said they were the devil’s toys to seduce us, and there were times when I agreed with him.

An hour later, my cell phone rang again. An unknown number. Usually, I didn’t answer them, but for some odd reason, I did.

“Richard Westly?”

“Yes.”

“Sherriff Jackson, Black Ridge County Sheriff’s Department. I assume you live in the old house at the end of Bridge Street?”

“I did. Haven’t been there for a dozen years or so. Why?”

Earlier this morning the next-door neighbour came over to check on them and found the house broken into, and all three occupants were dead. We believe all three are victims of foul play.”

“All three?”

“Your father, your mother, and your brother Jack.”

“When did they die? When did Jack die? Does anyone know?”

“The medical examiner is here, and the preliminary assessment is that they have been dead between four and seven days.”

“Jack too?”

“Yes.”

“That’s impossible. I was just speaking to him about an hour ago.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025