That deep rich stink of fried meat always lingered in the apartment, coating the walls, hiding in the corners. It filled my childhood, wafted the taste of home into my brain, and I waited for that smell every time I opened the door. That and the sound of my mother grumbling in the kitchen.
Now the stench of death overpowered it all. And Mother lay on the floor, a knife sticking out of her chest.
Why did I do it? My hand on the knife, her screaming at me, and then…
No planning involved, no premeditation, unless you counted the years of wishing she was dead. The years of dreaming a car would hit her, or her shrivelled heart would give out. I suppose my patience gave out first.
Stabbing her was odd, though. No last accusations, no gasping for breath. A gurgle and some blood, but not as much as I thought. In the movies I watched, knife wounds had more blood. She laid there on the worn tiles, eyes still open and a stain on her blouse, a look of surprise on her face as if she never imagined I’d kill her.
I suppose I never imagined it, either. But it’s done and I can’t take it back.
Not that I’d wanted to.
Calling the police was out of the question; I wouldn’t go to jail for her. I needed an excuse for her absence. The neighbours hated her, with little chance they would question her absence if I told the right story. I was her only family, so no worries there. What to say if anyone asked? Maybe… maybe she just moved into a retirement home? She’d been complaining about getting old, about how hard it was to live alone. That might work. Tell people I moved Mother into a home and pack up her things.
What about the body?
The freezer maybe? Hide her under all that meat? Or better yet, make her part of that meat. How hard would it be to cut up a body? I smiled at the meat cleaver hanging on the wall, next to all of my late dad’s butcher tools. It’d be apt, considering she drove him to an early grave.
Let’s see how rusty I am at the old trade.
Several hours of work and frustration later, I had Mother packaged nicely, pieces of her neatly wrapped in brown freezer paper and stored under the hamburger and the pork chops. I scrubbed down the kitchen and the bathroom, and tidied myself up, before noticing a parcel of Mother still sitting on the counter.
How did I miss that one?
I stared at the slab of Mother for a moment and then grinned. Why not? It seemed fitting.
So I got out the frying pan and the butter, and once more the deep rich stink of fried meat filled the apartment.
~ A. F. Stewart
© Copyright 2021 A. F. Stewart. All Rights Reserved.
4 thoughts on “The Scent of Home”
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Excellent, Anita! Another big winner!! How horror doesn’t have to be bloody, it doesn’t need a MONSTER! It just needs a certain smell.
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I love the sensory details. A very evocative story!