Callum Ross-Rowland
Content Warning: Slight mention of stalking and masturbation
I ascend the staircase as I do each afternoon. My tie sits perfectly as it did this morning—a blue pinstripe atop a white collared shirt. My jacket has no creases or stains. My smile holds its shape as I take the last two steps, sliding my finger past the last of the chipped railing. I stand before my apartment door; its stained green exterior is sickening. I’m still. I wait for my nerves to settle, my thoughts to go silent. I am a patient man who has become accustomed to an unwelcome home. My friends tell me so.
Although, I am not patient.
I twist the brass knob till it clicks between my fingers. The clunk of its old mechanism echoes through the hall.
I am not patient.
The apartment is dark when I enter. I turn to place my keys on a hook when a sigh surfaces from the middle of the kitchen. I put my bag on the corner of the sideboard and move to the counter, taking off one ring at a time. My watch collapses, and I begin to loosen my tie. She hunches over the sink, her head lowered to the counter.
My smile holds.
We’re quiet for some time before the silence breaks. I watch a bowl slip from her fingers, smashing on the kitchen floor.
‘There goes another one,’ I say.
It has become so regular that I no longer offer to clean it for her. This new form of greeting confused me at first, but I have come to welcome it. Our interactions since our first date have never been the same; her love takes shape in forms that take me days or weeks to learn. She tells me I disgust her but cries when I am not home after work. Her tantrums are exotic. Her father tells me how patient I am.
She wears my blue collared shirt like a dress. It is no longer wearable as she has stained it beyond repair. As she turns to clean the ceramic pieces from the floor, I see a fresh, wet patch seeping into the fabric. This is a sacrifice I have made. Her leg hairs are overgrown, ridding her of the soft skin she had when she was beautiful. I want to ask when she will get better, but when I approach, she looks at me with her pale face and sunken eyes.
‘Do you want help?’ I ask.
‘You always ask when I have finished.’
The pieces hit the bottom of the bin, tearing the plastic bag. Ceramic smacks against plastic, and the noise forces me to wince. She moves past me without a glance before falling onto the couch. I turn to look at her, but she is facing away, silent.
I wake to an empty bed, my body spread among the sheets. I stretch and roll in my king bed for some time before getting up. The mirrored wardrobe doors glint from the morning light, reflecting my naked self. I watch the muscles along my arm and ribs stretch and mould to perfection. Each movement twists and contorts my beautiful skin. As I stand to reveal my whole self, I feel aroused with every step I take toward the mirror. I feel myself sway while my muscles tense to hold me upright. I touch the mirror as if I am touching myself. His smile imitates mine. My hand glides along my thigh, easing its way up to my waist. My skin raises bumps, and I shake with excitement.
‘Dad’s coming,’ she says from the door.
The bumps flatten as I smirk at her. The door slams, and my glance returns to the mirror.
I had asked her father over at the beginning of the week, as I felt I was losing control of her. I need the guidance of the only other man in her life. We respect each other enough to share this information. The first time I met the man, he gave me the time and consideration I had always thought I deserved.
After getting dressed, I enter the loungeroom to push back the curtains, a slight breeze flowing through the room. The kettle slowly boils as she tidies the previous day’s mess. She has washed and curled her hair; it bounces as she passes the window. She wears the same dress every Sunday when her mother visits.
I feel a hint of jealousy as she cleans with a smile. How can her father’s presence be any different from my own? I have given her the life she desires, as her father explained. I come home to darkness and silence, yet she welcomes another man with a smile, some light, and clean fucking hair.
My thoughts are interrupted when a knock comes from the hallway’s door. Her parents have arrived earlier than scheduled. I place an arm around her. She shrugs it off, racing to the door without me. She gasps as she embraces her mother for some time.
‘At least do this inside the apartment,’ her father says.
The entire day is full of small talk. She speaks more than I do, occasionally cutting me off when I try to insert myself into the conversation. The looks her father gives me are unbearable, as if he has lost all faith in my ability to control her.
I grow tired of the repetitiveness of the talking. She reminds us of her old recitals; I say nothing. I remember the mornings she would practise in front of me. She was beautiful. We never got to speak about any of it as her mother wanted to beat the traffic home. She had gotten her way.
As the door closes behind them, she steps away, turning to look at me. A smirk rises from her mouth as her eyes search mine. She would often do this, unsure if I knew what she was about to say.
I never begged her to stay that night. I felt relief that she was gone, taking her troubles elsewhere. I gave her more than I thought possible. The house remained clean and perfect, as I never made a mess. I wake alone and live for myself, which almost feels the same as when she was here. I despise her for the time I wasted, the money I spent, and the years I lost.
The lights all turn to centre stage as she bows to her audience. Her smile is perfect, practised, and clean. Her legs softly shine one in front of the other. They cheer.
We both know this was all for me.
Whatever you are, I made you.
Author: Callum Ross-Rowland (he/him) is a Meanjin (Brisbane)-based creative writing student at QUT. He was the 2023 Literary Salon’s Photographer with his recent Diploma in Photo Imaging from Billy Blue (Torrens). He was recently shortlisted for Photographer of the Year in the Animal and Nature category and regularly photographs for Artful Heads magazine, where he captures portraits of artists from different mediums. Find him on Instagram @alrightatart.
Artist: Callum Ross-Rowland
Edited by: E.L. Maloney and Ashley Commens