James Mandarin

Dinner

The television is on. A man stands on the podium saying something. I think it's the Prime Minister. I do not know. I know nothing about politics. It doesn't concern me. I don't read the newspapers and I don't vote. What's the use getting involved?

Mum is wearing an orange dress. "It's brand new," she said when I walked inside. "I bought it from one of the posh stores in the city."

Her hair is packed into large golden curls, fastened with bobby pins. She wears her finest pearls and earrings, and hums as she waltzes around the kitchen.

"I did some baking today," she says as she takes out a pie from the oven. My mouth waters. It smells delicious.

"I noticed," I say, not wanting to start a conversation. Mum moves towards me like a dandelion in the wind. She touches a cheek and gives me a peck.

"How was your day?" She asks as she ruffles my hair.

"Ok," I reply, taking a step back. My wrist itches and I want to remove my jumper, but not now. Not here. Not in front of my mum.

"Well, that's great. Go upstairs and do your homework. We're having dinner at six." I want to ask what the special occasion is. Maybe she forgot about her argument with dad. Wondering about it makes me think of the night before, and it makes me want to crawl into a hole. Instead, I nod and pick up my bag, before heading towards the staircase. It's then I hear the man's voice on the screen: "Self-harm is a growing problem among our youth..." My heart skips a beat when I hear the words. I quickly rush upstairs and lock my door.

It's as if he saw through me as I stared at him earlier. He could see me through the glass. He knew my secret. He knew about the scars.

* * *

The razor is in the bathroom cupboard behind some skin lotions. I should know this. I hid it there this morning. I dump my bag on the bed and open the curtains. My eyes burn at the instant flooding of sunlight in the room. I look at the walls, crumbling and faded. They were once pale blue, like the colour of the bathroom tiles. Now they are grey, just like my jumper.

I raise both hands to the sky. My left-hand slips under the jumper and in a swift motion I free both my hands and torso from its cage. With a snort of disgust, I throw it to the floor.

I don't look at my arms. Instead, I take a book from my small bookcase and begin reading it.

It's about a man madly in love with a woman but feels he'll never be good enough for her. He doesn't have a job, money or nice shoes. He has a guitar and waits at the same spot everyday just to catch a glimpse of her face as she leaves her workplace, dressed in a black pencil skirt, a top and red heels the size of a skyscraper. But she doesn't notice him. His voice goes unheard as she passes by him every single day. That doesn't stop him. Instead, he plays and plays and plays until his words die out and his guitar goes out of tune.

* * *

Dinner is a strange affair. Almost macabre. Mum dissects a slice of pork before carefully placing it in her mouth to avoid smudging her lipstick. Rogue, it's called. It's one of those new ones they have in the store, imported from Paris. I'd love to go there one day and lose myself in the city of lights. That would be nice. Anyway I don't see the point in mum buying a lipstick imported from France. There's a lipstick store just across the road from Woolworths. All the posh ladies in town go there.

Chloe doesn't wear lipstick. Instead, she wears lip balm that smells of vanilla. Sometimes she wears strawberry scented ones that bring out the rosiness in her cheeks.

Thinking of red lipstick makes me think of paint. Thinking of red lipstick makes me think of blood. I quickly sever my thoughts altogether.

I play with my salad before placing a tomato in my mouth. I hold back a cringe. I hate tomatoes. Boiled tomatoes. They taste dead, withered.

Dad grunts as he stabs his fork into the meat. I flinch as the table jerks violently.

"Try to be careful, darling," mum says in a tone probably used by women in the 1950s; warm and smooth, like butter. Dad rolls his eyes and continues eating. I poke around the pork before slowly placing it in my mouth.

"Why are you wearing your jacket?" Dad asks, turning his attention towards me.

A lump rises in my throat. "I'm cold."

"It's bloody hot, James!"

"But I'm cold," I reply. My voice quivers, and I hate it. It makes me want to crawl up in a ball and disappear forever and ever.

"Well then, suit yourself," He snaps before he finishes eating. Without another word, he leaves the table. Mum and I sit on brown chairs, fiddling with our thumbs as the pork goes dry and tomatoes dissolve into a liquid mess.