She had been sick for months. He didn't know what had happened. He cared for her, he always had. The way a husband should, in the hopes that maybe then she'd see him as a good enough son. She had cursed at him again, but when she yanked his hair her grip had been stronger. Maybe Yelena was getting better. He had her back in bed, then he'd left for work.
It was the late evening when Lisitsin came home. He found her asleep, and sighed a breath of relief. He could sleep in his room tonight. Often he had to play the role his father left. Not that he complained, after all, it was his fault that he left. Nothing fairer than being the one to put in the extra effort then, right? He climbed into his bed. The night ran when it came so quietly, and he didn't want to close his eyes, didn't want to miss it. The silence hid a coming storm, he knew it well enough.
He took a book he'd stolen from the school last month, something about genetics. Lisitsin had all of those schemes and words seared into his mind, but he still loved to see them over and over again. Maybe he fell asleep then, maybe he fell into the book so deeply he didn't see the time. Whatever it was, he came to with a brightly lit room.
Lisitsin groaned, the bed creaking beneath him as he got up. He checked on mother, finding her still asleep. That was... Good. He made her food, took the bottle with her medicine and ointment, and made his way into her room again. She hadn't moved. He frowned, approached. With bated breath, he reached, expecting a cold hand to wrap around his wrist again. Nothing.
Yelena was pale. Didn't breathe. He checked her pulse, tugged at her arm — stiff like a tree trunk. Should he cry, should he call somebody? Who? Maybe she was asleep. Could she even die? How was he supposed to mourn her, as his wife, as his mother, not at all? Lisitsin sat on the edge of her bed, then stood up. She'd be furious when she woke up, he thought. She hated undecisive men. He left the room.
It'd been a day. He hadn't gone back in there. He tried to move to his bedroom, stay there. He remembered when she came in the night his father left. She was quiet. Watched him. Left without a word. He sat in his bed remembering, then moved to the kitchen, but she had wrapped her arms around his torso once there, laid her head between his shoulder blades and said he was growing taller than his father. He moved to the living room, but didn't make it to their stained sofa. The washroom, with water which was months old now, from when she had him help her bathe, was not an option. The hallway floors had her heel prints.
Outside, he wondered why he felt like puking. He should bury her, or else she'd smell. Mother hated bad smells, she'd be furious. He'd be an useless husband again, and he didn't want that. He walked back in, made his way to her room. He watched her, expecting, in his heart of hearts, that she'd scream. He left.
The smell wasn't so bad. A bit pungent sometimes, but the sound of the flies was much worse. He couldn't recognize much of her face anymore. He had to bury her. He hadn't slept in three days. His bedroom door was open, just in case she walked in to join him again. She didn't. Lisitsin had to bury her. She would be so furious.
He stood outside the house, motionless, watching. The night had fallen, and he could feel the smell from the porch now. Something had to give. He needed to bury her.
The lighter was cold in his hand. Lisitsin wasn't sure when he got it. He flicked it open. The house stood behind the flame, an immense casket for his mother-wife. He wouldn't ever sleep in their bed again. His clothes, which she'd sewn on his body, not as careful with hands and needle as she could've been, were peeled and tossed into the house-grave.
It was a cold night, but he didn't feel it. He took the alcohol he'd hid in the barn and the gasoline he'd stolen from the neighbor, and drenched the house with it. His clothes were enough to start the fire. This had to be enough to bury her.
