Jesse

9: On Top of the World

9: On Top of the World

I ended up comically standing over the beef stew as it simmered, with another bag of ice over my left eye. I was hoping the swelling would go down a little more by the time Harold got home. My mind began to drift as I looked through the window. Watched the evening sunlight dance through the trees, the leaves waver in the wind. I thought of Ian. I began smiling.

Suddenly, the microwave beeped loudly, and I blinked. The rice was ready.

When I sat down, after setting the table, I heard the door swing open, a jingle of keys, rustling of footsteps, and then the door slam shut again. Coughing. His coughing. Hear the footsteps again. My heart pound into my ears. Feel the sweat. Taste the fear. I swallowed.

I heard the footsteps fade, the sounds disappear.

I didn't start eating: only when he took his first bite. The stew was hot anyways. I inhaled the wandering steam, and thought to myself. I didn't really know anything about cooking a few years ago. Until I was in the kitchen one day. Mom was in there. She was always in there. She had been an amazing cook.

She was cooking lasagna, I remember. I asked her if I could help, and from there it all started. I learned more as the years passed. I couldn't make much, but what I could I thought was okay. We had had a conversation. But I couldn't remember what we had said. I was forgetting.

I didn't want to forget that, but I was. And that scared me. I didn't want to forget what little good was left.

Harold had told me in the time before, the time when he was Dad, that I was really good at it.

Now.

Nothing. Complaining. Something was either too salty, or too try. This tastes like shit that tastes like its burnt. What the hell did you do to it? Shit in it?

I closed my eyes. I was so tired.

I heard the footsteps again. My eyes flickered open, and I saw Harold, today in a stained dark red shirt and shorts, grumbling to himself. Instantly, I diverted my eyes from his cold, and glaring—and concentrated them on the wooden cracks and dents in the table.

"What the hell happened to you?" he blurted, grunting as he collapsed into his seat.

"Got into a fight," I muttered.

"A fight," he mocked sullenly, mumbling something about how weak I was. From the corner of my eye, I saw him grimace over the food, and we began to eat. He didn't complain about it today. Maybe it was passable. We ate in silence. But inside I was screaming. And there was no one to hear me. To understand. To know.

It could have been worse. He could have threw his bowl of soup at me, and burned my skin. Like before. Hear the bowl shatter as it collided against the linoleum. Whimper. But he didn't.

He didn't. But one night he would.

…

We were watching TV again, but we weren't. The news at 11 was on and as usual Harold was asleep still holding his bottle of Miller Light, snoring. And I was lost in thought.

I stared at the remote, and the box of cigarettes. A grin slipped my lips.

The night breeze was cool against my face, as I stepped outside. I made sure to shut the door quietly behind me. For a moment, I closed my eyes, my smile only growing.

I hadn't been this happy in long while. Well, ever.

I laughed softly to myself, and continued my walk around the house. Up on the rooftop, I lit my cigarette and began to smoke. Inhaled its smoke, and released it into the night. Here, I was on top of the world. Here, no one could tell me what to do. Tell me what I was. Tell me that I needed to do this, or that. Here, I could breathe. And just be in fucking, wonderful peace.