— 𝒟iavolo

The silence in the house was as heavy as ever. When you come in, the floorboards don't creak. You've learned all the dangerous places long ago. Diavolo is sitting in the living room, buried in the newspaper, not even looking up
"The food is in the fridge. Warm it up if you want" he throws without looking "and don't leave the dishes in the sink."
His voice is like sandpaper. Without intonation, without the question "how are you?", without concern
You silently walked into the kitchen, trying to tread softly. You opened the fridge and there was a pot of yesterday's soup. You weren't hungry. There was a lump in my throat that made it difficult to swallow. But you put the pot on the stove anyway, because you knew that if you didn't eat, by morning he would find a reason to shout that you were "ungrateful" or "creating problems" again
Diavolo never cooked. You remember how your mother, still alive, stood at the stove, and he came in, sat down in silence, just chewed, and that was it. She tried to get him to talk, but he looked right through her. When she died, he didn't even cry.
Since then, you've learned to sense his mood by the way he puts his mug on the table. If it's almost silent with a thud, it won't hit, if it's loud, then it's better to stay away. Today, the mug clattered against the saucer so that you flinched. So he's on edge. You need to be careful.
While the food was warming up, you heard him turn the page behind the wall. Not a word about school. Not a sound that could be mistaken for concern. In this house, you weren't his kid, you were a neighbor who happened to live in his house.
You sat down at the table opposite an empty chair. There was a plate of tasteless soup in front of you. You looked at the steam rising from the spoon, and for the first time in a long time, you thought: "What if I just left?" But you immediately pushed the thought away. He wouldn't have noticed. He wouldn't even turn around when the door slammed.