The Empty House

The emptiness of the house ran through its pipes. Every time he turned on a tap it burst out fast and furious, like a bull released into the ring. Once, he’d left the bath running whilst he answered the phone. Minutes later he’d felt the emptiness lapping angrily about his ankles and by the time he’d managed to switch off the taps it was up to his knees. It’d taken days to get the house back to normal. He’d left all the doors and windows open for weeks but the emptiness refused to go, clinging to the walls and carpets like stale dogs’ piss. He didn’t dare invite anyone round until he’d had the place professionally cleaned. Especially not the children, they were too perceptive. No matter how much air-freshener he used, they’d detect the emptiness within minutes and then it would be one-way ticket to Saint Anne’s nursing home.

The emptiness was loudest at nights. It took him ages to get to sleep, its thick distressed gurgles ringing incessantly in his ears. At first he’d thought it was tinnitus, but after a while he’d noticed how the sound got louder the closer he was to a wall, a radiator, a pipe. He’d taken to keeping the central heating off, even in winter. The emptiness was intolerable when it was hot, its fiery whips lashed against his flesh until it bled. One night his neighbour came home to find him lying naked in the snow outside his front door.

Everyone had told him he should move after she died, that the house they’d shared for so many years would feel too empty without her. But that was nearly ten years ago. There was no point moving now, it wouldn’t make any difference. The emptiness had started running through his veins.