The Cabin
The midnight moon’s glare hung low over the small clearing in the woods as he searched for wood dry enough for the fire. The icy chill of the night was stinging his face and his clothes were damp, but he had a steely resolve. As he made his way back to the cabin, there was no sound but for the sloshing of wet leaves and broken sticks under his mud-soaked boots. He wiped his sweaty brow as he looked up the dirt path toward his old sanctuary, now a shell of its former self. The steps had begun to rot, the rusted tin veranda was on the verge of collapsing and the windows had been partially boarded up. His heart sank, as it had so many times before, at the thought of what could have been. He remembered buying this beautiful sprawling property for his budding family and everything they had dreamed of turning it into. The unbearable pang of regret weighed heavily on his shoulders.
His feet crunched the gravel underfoot leading up to the front door as he tucked the firewood under his arm; his jet black hair and gruff beard dripped with perspiration. He pushed open the heavy oak door to the cabin; the bright lantern lights from within pierced the night. The dwelling was one large room with a deteriorating kitchenette bordering the right and a large stone fireplace was built into the left side of the room. The rear of the cabin was dark but the shadowy outline of a decrepit double bed could be made out; it had clearly lay dormant for years. Seated at the large oak table in the centre of the room was Carol; her eyes narrowed as he entered.
“Where have you been Michael?” she asked quietly.
“You know where I’ve been Carol.” Michael answered, gesturing to the collected wood under his arm.
Carol shifted uneasily in her seat. Her blonde shoulder length hair shone from the candlelight emanating from the table but her face was pale. She was wearing a long black coat with her hands cupped on the table. Michael walked slowly to the fireplace and knelt down onto the timber floor before placing some of the drier pieces of wood into the burnt grate, stained with charcoal and burnt newspaper. He tore some discarded paper and placed it strategically throughout the fire place and pulled some matches from his pocket. With trembling hands, he clumsily tried to spark the first match which snapped under the pressure. He tried another match but the side of the matchbox was still damp from being perched in his flannelette shirt pocket.
“I’m cold.” Carol said through a shivered whisper.
“I fucking know Carol. What do you think I’m trying to do here?” Michael hissed back through gritted teeth.
He finally managed a spark, which ignited the fire place with a building flame. The immediate warmth begun to waft through the desolate cabin. Michael brushed himself off and stood to face Carol who looked appreciative but sullen. He walked to the kitchenette sink, turned the faucet on and washed his hands in the murky water that ran from it before taking a seat at the oak table opposite carol. He grabbed the bottle of scotch that lay on the table and poured a hearty nib into a glass tumbler. He held the bottle out and looked at the dusty label with a smirk.
“Do you remember when we bought this? A $300 bottle of scotch to celebrate our new ‘family home’. We barely had a cent to our name,” he mused with a pointed tone, “what a crock of shit.”
He dropped the bottle back on the table with a thud before taking a sip from his glass; he could feel the scotch coursing through his system and he took a deep breath. The smell of pine was overpowering and triggered memories of fishing in the nearby lake with their daughter. His eyes started to well up as Carol broke the deafening silence.
“What are we doing here Michael?” she questioned softly.
He wiped a single tear from his left eye.
“It’s been four years since we’ve come back here. There were times I never thought I’d be able to step a foot back in this place.” Michael replied, looking around the cabin; the dancing flames caused eerie shadows to dance upon the timber walls.
“But a part of me thought that if I didn’t come back here, I’d never be able to fully accept what happened and move on.” Michael continued, his voice breaking under the confession.
“It’s not your fault, it was an accident. You have to know that.“ Carol replied softly.
Michael had heard these sentiments countless times, but none of it absolved him from the crushing guilt that he felt. He took another swig of scotch and wiped his unkempt beard.
“Don’t say that to me. Not you.” Michael whispered. “I know you think it was my fault, and you’re probably right. I told her to go and play; I was too busy to spend time with her. I replay that exact moment in my mind every day.” He murmured, running his hands through his hair. He paused for a minute, before staring directly into Carol’s pale, blue eyes.
“We should never have come here.”
“Why? You can’t run away from this your whole life.”
Michael chuckled to himself before rising from his seat. He walked to the kitchen and leant over the sink, peering out of the window into the night. He contemplated Carol’s words that hung over him like an immense raincloud. He had been running whilst delving into despair; alcohol and solitude his only respite. The haunting glow of the moon reached across the vast black lake next to the cabin, its surface without even a ripple like glass.
“It was right here.” Michael sighed. “I was standing right here and looking out of this window. She wasn’t moving. I got out there as fast as I could; it was ten seconds but it felt like ten years.”
A single tear rolled down his left cheek. Every time he remembered that life-changing moment, his heart broke all over again.
“It’s not your fault Michael.”
His head slumped. He returned to his seat at the old oak table opposite Carol and poured himself another generous amount of scotch.
“Do you know what it’s like?” Michael asked angrily. “To see your daughter lying face-down in the water? To have to hold her lifeless body in your arms? She was alone at the end.”
“What happened to Hayley wasn’t your fault.” Carol repeated.
His blood begun to boil as he stared into her cold eyes. Every time she repeated these words, they held less substance to him, as if she were goading him. He knew that she blamed him for their daughter’s death. After the initial shock of what happened, the air of resentment in their marriage was undeniable; he couldn’t blame her for leaving.
“It’s not your fault.”
“Carol…” he pleaded.
“It’s not your fault.”
The last time she uttered those words, Michael noticed the faintest hint of a smirk spread across her face. His last pillar of support had crumbled in the form of blatantly obvious empty reassurance. He begun to feel a white hot rage build inside of him, which spread to every pore in his body. He was incensed, as though something had snapped. Michael gripped his glass in his right hand and hurled it at Carol; the glass smashed against the empty chair in a rain of expensive scotch and broken glass. He panted heavily in his seat as tears streamed down his face. He wiped both of his eyes roughly and tried to compose himself. The crushing realisation of his loneliness had now returned and though Carol had left years before, Michael often found himself arguing with the ghost of her presence. The eerie silence that filled the cabin was deafening and was broken only by the old wooden chair that creaked as he leant back and closed his eyes. Michael then looked around the empty cabin and though it represented the exact point his life fell apart; he knew that he would never leave.
Daniel Jubb 