1998: Linnet Street 14 [Chapter 2]

Chapter 2: The Cracks Appear

The days after the move blurred together in a haze of unpacking, settling in, and trying to find some sense of normalcy. Yvonne worked tirelessly, both at home and at her night job, pushing herself to make this new house feel like a home. For a while, it seemed like things might actually work out. Duane was still sober, still helping out around the house, and there was a fragile peace that hung over the family like a delicate thread. But I knew better than to believe it would last.

It didn’t take long for the first cracks to appear.

Duane’s new job at the factory was wearing him down, the long hours and physical labor taking their toll. He came home each day more exhausted, more frustrated, and it showed in the way he moved, in the way he spoke. The smiles he’d forced when we first arrived faded, replaced by a tightness in his face that I’d seen too many times before. And then, one night, I found him in the kitchen, a bottle of whiskey in his hand.

I stood in the doorway, watching as he poured himself a glass, his hands trembling slightly. He didn’t see me at first, too focused on the drink in front of him. When he finally looked up, our eyes met, and for a moment, I saw something in his expression that made my stomach drop—a mixture of shame and defiance, like he knew he was slipping but didn’t care enough to stop.

“Don’t tell your mother,” he muttered, downing the glass in one go.

I didn’t say anything. What could I say? I just nodded and backed out of the kitchen, the pit in my stomach growing wider with every step.

From that night on, things started to go downhill. Duane’s drinking, once occasional, became more frequent. At first, it was just a couple of beers after work, then it escalated to whiskey, vodka, whatever he could get his hands on. And with the drinking came the change in him—the anger, the bitterness, the unpredictable mood swings that turned our home into a minefield.

He stopped being the man who laughed with us at dinner, who tried to play the part of the doting stepfather. Instead, he became someone else entirely, someone whose presence made the air in the house thick with tension.

One evening, after Yvonne had left for her night shift, Duane came home late, already half-drunk. I was in the living room with Therése and Rickard, trying to keep them occupied with a board game, when Duane stumbled in. His eyes were bloodshot, his movements clumsy as he dropped his keys on the floor with a muttered curse.

“Why the hell is it so noisy in here?” he snapped, glaring at us as if we were the cause of all his problems.

Therése shrank back, her smile fading as she clutched her bunny to her chest. Rickard, always so sensitive to the moods of those around him, looked up at me with wide, frightened eyes. I could feel their fear, and it made my blood boil, but I knew better than to react.

“We’re just playing, Duane,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “We’ll be quiet.”

He stared at me for a long moment, and I held my breath, waiting to see what he would do. Then, without another word, he turned and headed for the kitchen, where the familiar clink of bottles soon followed.

I exhaled slowly, my hands shaking as I tried to focus on the game in front of us. Therése and Rickard looked to me for reassurance, and I forced a smile, even though I could feel the weight of responsibility pressing down on me like a ton of bricks.

“It’s okay,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure if I was saying it for their benefit or mine.

But it wasn’t okay. It was anything but.

As the weeks passed, Duane’s drinking only got worse. He’d come home from work, drink until he was numb, and then lash out at anyone who crossed his path. I tried to keep Therése and Rickard out of his way, distracting them with games, TV, anything that would keep them away from him. But I couldn’t be everywhere at once.

One night, after Yvonne had left for work, Duane’s temper boiled over. I’d been upstairs with Rickard, helping him with his reading, when I heard the crash. I rushed down the stairs to find Duane in the living room, standing over a shattered lamp. His face was twisted in rage, his fists clenched at his sides.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he roared, his voice shaking the walls.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst. Therése was huddled in the corner, her bunny held tightly to her chest, her eyes wide with terror.

Duane turned his glare on me, and for a moment, I thought he was going to hit me. But then he just sneered, grabbing a bottle from the table and storming out of the room.

I rushed over to Therése, pulling her into my arms as she started to cry. “Shh, it’s okay,” I murmured, though I knew it wasn’t. “It’s okay. He’s just... he’s just mad. It’s not your fault.”

Rickard appeared at the top of the stairs, his eyes wide with fear. “Is it over?” he whispered, his voice trembling.

“Yeah, it’s over,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if I believed it. “Come here, Rickard.”

He came down the stairs slowly, each step hesitant, as if he was afraid the floor might collapse beneath him. When he reached us, I pulled him into the hug, holding them both close. I didn’t know what else to do. I was just a kid, barely older than them, but I felt like I had to be the adult, the protector. I couldn’t let them see how scared I was.

The responsibility was crushing, but I couldn’t let it show. Not in front of them.

Later that night, after I’d put Therése and Rickard to bed, I sat alone in the living room, staring at the broken lamp. I should have cleaned it up, but I couldn’t bring myself to move. I was too tired, too drained. The house was quiet now, too quiet, and I could feel the weight of it pressing down on me. It wasn’t just the tension with Duane or the fear of his outbursts. It was something else, something I couldn’t quite explain.

The coldness in the room seemed to deepen as I sat there, the shadows stretching out like they were trying to swallow me whole. I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself as I tried to shake off the feeling. But it clung to me, like a second skin.

I thought about Yvonne, how hard she was working, how much she was trying to keep everything together. She’d noticed the tension in the house, of course she had, but every time I tried to talk to her about it, she’d brush it off as stress. She’d tell me that Duane was just under a lot of pressure, that things would get better once we settled in.

But I knew better. I could see the way she tensed up when Duane came home, the way her eyes darkened with worry every time he reached for a drink. She was trying so hard to keep the peace, to hold on to the hope that this move could be a fresh start for us. But I could see the cracks in her facade, the way she was holding herself together with sheer force of will.

I wanted to tell her how scared I was, how much I hated the way things were, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to burden her, didn’t want to add to the weight she was already carrying. So I kept it all inside, letting it fester like a wound that wouldn’t heal.

That night, as I lay in bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me. The shadows in my room seemed to pulse with a life of their own, and the coldness was worse than ever. I pulled the covers up to my chin, trying to convince myself that it was all in my head, that I was just imagining things.

But I couldn’t ignore the dread that gnawed at my insides, the sense that something was very, very wrong in this house.

And as I finally drifted off into a restless sleep, the only thing I could think was that the cracks were only going to get worse. They always did.