[ WP ] Mother just came home , but she 's been dead for 10 years .

Small things change. My brother ’ s t-shirts get tighter, my dad ’ s guitar twangs new sounds. I look at one point and it ’ s light. I look up later and it ’ s dark. There ’ s toast on a plate in front of me and then there ’ s isn ’ t. My nails grow. My mother hums. Small things. 
 
 Nothing changes when night falls. I always give her the silver cutlery now. I ’ ve watched her stand in the dawn. I ’ ve traced her fingers over her warm, fleshy cheeks and there ’ s no pallid discolouration, no smell of rot. She blushes, bleeds. She asks me if I need any more tampons and she buys them for herself. Rhythmic bumps from my parent ’ s bedroom at night. 
 
 So I don ’ t know what it is. 
 
 “ Why is mum here? ” I asked my brother once, but he just looked at me like I was mad. 
 
 I ’ m not mad. I see it in her. Small things change but the big things don ’ t: I see the wrongness in her. The empty plate by my hand is cool and the bread knife my dad used for the toast is nearby. 
 
 Rhythmic bumps from my parent ’ s bedroom. 
 
 I pick it up. 
 
 I ’ m not mad. 

