AC/DC

Chapter XII

My mother's cosmetic-free face greeted me as I stepped into the heavenly abode I called home. There was only one word good enough to describe it though: abomination. It was quite an infrequent occurrence to see her sitting with a natural face in the house, but upon seeing the network of wrinkles and age spots on her forehead, I finally realised why she wore make-up at all times. Her age shows without all that make-up, I thought to myself.

As I was returning home from my confinement in the infirmary that afternoon, I spouted a slightly bruised leg that had been plastered by the nurse. My mother, who was spewing a simple green blouse, was sitting in the shared living room on the right side of the grand door when I had walked in. She was on her iPhone, squinting her presbyopic eyes to read her daily dose of news from CNN. My mother did not look up from her phone at all, as I could sense an aura of hostility forming around her.

Fully expecting a grilling session of sorts, I spoke first, hoping she would mellow down.

"Sorry I'm late, mom, I was just caught up with some extra stuff in school."

Alas, my sky-high expectations for a hostile war were inhibited as my mother appeared to be unconcerned at my excuse. A mere grunt sounded out of her mouth as she continued staring at her iPhone to read the news.

"Mom, I'm home late. Don't you give a damn about that?" I quizzed curiously, slightly apprehensive at her nonchalant reaction towards my lateness, or even my injury for that matter. I had made my mind to present it to her as my get-out-of-jail-free card, but it was not working.

"Not at all, Mark," she muttered without even looking up from her iPhone, "Just don't come home late next time, okay?"

My bruised leg may have been plastered, but it was indeed strong enough for me to furiously approach my mother and snatch her iPhone away from her hand. A stony glare was carved into my mother's dark eyes as I tried to gain some attention from her.

"Mom, my leg's in a cast!" I exclaimed, as my mother briefly stared at it before turning back to face me, "Don't you want to know what happened to it?"

The sigh that escaped her dry lips, however, was so slow, as if her brain needed that time to think of a suitable reaction to my endless quizzing.

"No, I don't," she admitted, much to my surprise, "You've injured yourself over football, that's all. Nothing big there."

My mother's unwillingness to react negatively to my injury was incredibly baffling. She had always been worried about my well-being the moment I returned from school. But why has she changed now?

"Come on, mom!" My voice began to rise as rage started filling my belly and my eyes become narrowed, "Your son was beaten up by his friend, but all you can say is that nothing big happened?"

My mother stood up from the sofa and proceeded to sneer, "It's all karma, son. You deserve this for what you did to your sister!"

"She's fucking mental, mom!" I yelled, turning on my mother like an enraged panther, "That doesn't mean you should just ignore me like that!"

"I have all the right to do so Mark," my mother jeered, as she attempted to walk out of the living room, in an obvious move to end the argument, "We've all forgiven Tara, but you still act like an immature baby and refuse to forgive her!"

"MOM! PLEASE! STOP TREATING ME LIKE I'M A FUCKING CRIMINAL!" I shrieked, pleading for some mercy and attention from her after a horrible day, "DON'T DO THIS TO ME!"

My mother's hard and cold eyes flashed at me as I swallowed a breath. She pushed me away with all her might as I stumbled backwards, hitting the shelves of ornaments that fell to the floor with a shatter that almost broke the sound barrier.