Jesse

3: Dinner and the Night Sky

3: Dinner and the Night Sky

     Drip.

     Drip.

     Cold, sweaty hands—my hands—clutched the bathroom sink. The cabinet mirror reflected the glare of the fluorescent light, and his purple-ringed eyes and pale face. My eyes were dark brown. My wonderful father’s eyes. No, they were my eyes. Not his. I was examining my eyes, for the usual redness. Both of them were bloody. I grimaced.

     “Shit.”

      Drip.

     I turned on the sink's water again, and began to vigorously splash his face with his hands cupped, washing out my eyes. The faucet squeaked as I swiveled it off, and I stared into the mirror, my face shiny, wet, water dripping along my neck. I saw some of his tousled dark hair was soaked and he felt it plastered to my forehead. I winced uncomfortably. I felt my stomach lurch, twisting into knots. I felt like I was going to be sick.

      Snatching a white towel, I slowly wiped off my face, and put it back on its mounted hanger. I would just have to wait for it to wear off.

      What time was it? Four? Five? I was hungry. The sickness had become hunger. But what to eat? Oh, I had to make dinner. I stumbled from the sink and caught myself with a hand against the wall.

      “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” I beat my head against the wall, and gave the wall named Harold McLeod a good kick. Who cared if it bruised? Who cared if I had a fucking anger problem! Who didn’t when you were forced to live with some awful psycho?

     Grumbling, I left the bathroom, and headed down to the kitchen.

     The kitchen cabinet creaked as he opened it; my eyes passed over it, and I sighed dissatisfied. My eyes drifted from the near empty inside of the cabinet, and along the teal-painted walls, and then briefly on the mounted ticking clock.

      I shut the white door, and decided to have a look in the fridge. The frigid air blew against my balmy face, refreshing. There were a few frozen dinners left. Thankfully. I didn't feel like cooking at all.

      I pulled out two blue-packaged Hungry-Man’s—fried chicken with cream potatoes and corn—and passed the sink window to the old, black microwave lurking in the corner of the counter. The fiery sunlight was falling through the outside trees—it was getting closer. The dread was setting in. Like an unstoppable nauseating poison. The fear. The sickening, inevitable fear.

      Carelessly, I threw open the microwave and yanked the plastic cover off of the before putting the frozen meal into the appliance. I pressed the numbers for the time, and clicked START. Now the waiting began, again.

 …

     I heard the slam of the front door as he was setting the oval dinner table crammed in the far end of the cluttered kitchen. He heard the familiar rough coughing, and jangling of keys. He focused on sitting down the drinks instead—Miller Light for Harold, a Coke for him. The same, as always.

      I heard his footsteps, then them fading. Harold went to his room first. To change. Change out of his Wal-Mart, work clothes. He had had a decent electrical job, before…He had to quit, because of the snap, because of his sudden change. Rendered useless. But he wouldn't admit it. And I knew it.

      As I was placing the napkins, he heard his father’s footsteps again. When I looked up, I saw Harold step into the kitchen. I had figured out that his father had exactly three moods. The first was he was afraid of the most: unexplainably, horribly livid. He would be glaring. Maybe something went bad at work. Or maybe he realized that he was working the worst job imaginable, in a place he hated more than anything. Then he would cuss. Even beat on me, perhaps throw his plate to shatter against the wall, and storm off yelling. Then the second. He wasn't as angry, but he continued to yell, and complain about the day. The third was what I saw, thankfully.