nobodies son, nobodies daughter

unwashed dishes

He turned the shining fork over in his hands, once, then twice, contemplating as its cold ridges brushed his calloused hands, whether he should let it drop upon the table. Or worse, sink it into the neck of the closest being. It was a tempting thought, he was un-reluctant to admit, to watch those iron prongs penetrate snow white flesh, and bring to the surface a river of red. And something even more beautiful would be reaped from his sudden burst of violence-that being complete and utter silence. For once in his life, everything would be completely still and quiet. Oh what joy! What peace! His hand begun to burn. He put that fork down as quickly as it had been picked up, a precautionary measure. The minute his eyes rose from his empty plate, he began to regret his decision to refocus into the conversation. Actually, he would correct me, conversation would not be the word that could be used to describe this interaction. Lecture, talking too, telling off, would all be descriptions more apt to the situation in which he faced himself. And at the head, looming above the three men who sank deeper into their armchairs as the words became sharper and more poignant, was his mother, with a face flushed red and eyes that spoke of fire. He had only for a second tuned out, but that moment had been crucial in determining who would be on the dinner plate that day, ready to be dissected-prodded and poked by shining knives, exposed for their faults and shortcomings. "You selfish, good-for-nothing boy" she spits viciously across the table, spewing a vile tap of saliva that sizzles as it settles all within her vicinity. "Do you have any idea at all how much I have given for you all these years? All the sacrifices I have made?"

He could recall this monologue. If you turned the spotlight to fall upon his face, he could almost certainly recite it back to you. He could probably do it backwards, upside down. He knew, that was all, what was coming next. It entertained him to follow the lines in his head. Next would come "And you give me nothing back. I am your mother. And you treat me like a common woman. I don't know anyone else that has so much disdain for the hand that feeds them."

She throws her head back, her thinning hair swishing around like a cat-o-nine tails. Her eyes sharpen "and you give me nothing back. I am your mother. And you treat me like a common woman. I don't know anyone else that has so much disdain for the hand that feeds them." He could've stood up and applauded her. Brilliant! This performance was almost as perfect as last weeks, in which this line was delivered with a petulant stamp of her feet and the violent huff of her breath. His eyes fell to his father, who as usual stayed firmly in the wings, unfeeling, unreactive to the spattering of aggression. Seeing this man usually so energetic and colorful in all things reduced to a colorless blob of nothing filled him with a rage which his mother could never induce, no matter how hard she fought to. How could he all these years weather these storms without so much of a second glance to protect those most drenched by its torrential downpours. How could he stand in the dry, comfortable in his sense of safety whilst his very own cowered at the crashes of thunder? This man was not his father but a coward. He couldn't stand to look at him for so much as a second.

"I've had it up to here with you Charlie. If you're so desperate to reject this family then you are more than welcome to leave!! Your presence here is about as valuable as it is when you're gone!" Was her closing speech, eyes brimming with tears, and out the room she went, leaving a trail of destruction in her wake. Silence at last, but at what cost? They sat round that dinner table which had somehow been converted into a bomb-site. Charlie and papa sat there reeling. "What did you do?" were the words that came out his mouth, tainted with sympathy.

"I forgot to do the dishes." Charlie replied.

__________________________________________________________________________

A series of unfortunate events. He had planned to have a relatively stress-free visit home, a nice dinner, a quick catch up with the family before he settled back into the normality of his university routine. However, his plans were of course set to fail from their very beginnings. Since when could his home ever be described as stress free? When had family dinners been anything other than grueling drills of who could withstand the screaming for the longest. His night that he had envisioned cuddling up in his childhood home was instead spent cowering over his sobbing mother, softening his voice, cooing. "He doesn't understand Mama, he really doesn't want to upset you. You know how loved and valued you are." Everyword that fell out of his mouth made him feel progressively more nauseous. He wasn't sure whether the words were being formed from his mouth or his asshole. Either way, they had no consequence. Nothing that he had ever said to the woman that brought him into the world had ever been associated with truth. They were only objects for survival. And these objects worked. After a good hour of cooing, inflating her ego to an untouchable level, stooping over so much his back began to ache, he could finally retire to bed, brain still buzzing with the shrillness of her prior tone. And as he did so, turning to his phone to find a message from Carla, his latest fling. "I don't think this is working, it's been nice getting to know you."

Brilliant. What a fantastic day. He wasn't particularly mourning the loss of Carla. He liked the idea of someone's presence more than the reality. There was not much about her, as a person, that he had actually liked. She was pretty, sure. Smart, certainly. Could talk about interesting things, for a period of time. She would do. Which is exactly what he had wanted. Someone who would do. Who he could just about tolerate. It was working well for the pair, until, obviously, it wasn't. And now he'd be back at square one, looking for another girl who was tolerable enough to retain his interest, if only for a small while. At Least now he did not have to worry about her meeting his family. After night, he wondered if anyone would ever want to anyway. A terrible day, made even worse. The next day he ruminated on his poor luck as he stepped back onto the tube, the announcement of the doors leaving the station filling him with a dizzy sense of relief. How strange it was that leaving home brought more comfort to his soul than returning to it. And everytime he did come back, things only got progressively worse for him. He wouldn't become like his brother, that was for certain. He possessed a strength that Charlie never could. An ability to switch off his emotions if necessary, to disengage and go dead cold. Poor Charlie had inherited his mothers emotions, and that had ruined him. He thanked God for his distance. To feel would have killed him long ago.

He could switch off as much as possible, and then, turn to a new distraction altogether. He went straight to a party that night. He needed a drink, something to remind him that he was alive.