Salamander

Chapter Six - Self Worth

Chapter Six

My mother walked in halfway through the song, carrying a tray full of teacups and a pot filled with what I suspected to be the tea. She set it on the coffee table next to the sweets, already half-gone after Miriam and her sisters had gotten to them. They were sitting next to their mother on the sofa identical to the one my father was sitting on, and Mrs. Falker had her arms tightly wrapped around them like she expected him to come lunging at them with his whip.

            “Thanks,” My father said as my mother set down the tray.

            She didn’t look up the entire time she was in the room. She just gave him a slight nod whilst staring at her feet before walking swiftly out of the room. Just before she went back into the kitchen, I thought I caught a glimpse of a newly-given black eye. My heart seemed to plummet. My father beat her again, undoubtedly in the heat of the anger he had been in shortly after I had ran away.

            I felt my fists clench at my sides, but I didn’t say anything. Like my mother, I stared at the ground.

            I could hear Mrs. Falker pouring herself a cup of tea. She took a short whiff. “Mmmm . . .” She sipped the herbal liquid. “Chamomile, my favorite.”

            “I remember learning about the Chamomile herb,” Mariam said. “It’s said to bring a sense of calm . . . or something like that.”

            “Really,” Mrs. Falker said. “Mr. Righton, I think you need to have a cup of this immediately.” I could sense the amusement in her voice. My father could use a bit of calming down. “You too, Alan.”

            I looked up and saw that she was looking at me expectantly. “I’m fine,” I said softly so that it was almost a whisper. “I don’t need any calming down.” My voice sounded hollow, like it was lifeless. I wanted it to sound lifeless. My own parents didn’t care about me; not my father, not my mother. I didn’t care anymore, I just didn’t care . . .

            Mrs. Falker hesitated and gave a couple rapid blinks as she looked over to my father. “He seems forlorn, Mr. Righton.”

            “He’s probably just hurting from his injuries,” he said. He stood up immediately as if he saw an opportunity he was willing to take. “In fact, maybe you guys should go now, head off to the festival. My son needs some time to rest.” He looked at me. “Alone.”

            “That won’t be necessary,” Mrs. Righton said quickly. “In fact, we were planning on him attending the festival with us. Isn’t that right, Alan?”

            I knew what she wanted me to say, so I said it. “Yes.”

            Mrs. Falker sat back, a gesture showing that she wasn’t ready to leave. “You see? We just came so he can change into his best.” She glimpsed at my feet. “And to put on some shoes as well.”

            My father was leaning toward the coffee table as the soft gurgling of the tea splashing into his cup filled in the transitory silence. He nodded as he brought the cup to his lips. He took a long gulp and set the cup back onto the coffee table, giving a big, refreshed sigh. “Then what are you doing out here, boy?” he asked me. “Go on to your room.”

            “Well, he can’t really walk,” Mrs. Falker pointed out.

            “I can,” I said. “A little bit.” I slowly stood up from the wheelchair and felt myself lose my balance yet again. I steadied myself by putting a hand on the piano, and once I felt like I could trust my feet, I began to take tentative steps across the living room. My legs continued to ache with every step, but the numbness of my torso made the walking a little bit less of a challenge.