Been working on this since January. I omitted character names on purpose. Looking for feedback all sorts on it =)
***
Tonight, she’s making his favorite meal: meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas. She doesn’t drink, but she still has a couple of bottles of beer in the fridge for him. She knows that he is never coming back, but that doesn’t keep her from believing that he is. She is simply waiting for one phone call, one person to call and say “we found him”; she knows this is a dream. She knows that the chances of this happening grow smaller as the weeks go by. But she clings to this dream, this hope, that someday, her boy might come home.
He is not a causality of war, he has run away. He has a problem, several problems, and rather than help him, as she and her husband should have, they kicked him to the curb. She saw him around town here and there, now and again, but soon, that stopped. She would see him here but never there, now but never again. She wanted to say she was sorry, but she could never seem to find him. Soon, she stopped seeing him all together.
Now, she pulls the battered blue roaster from the oven and inspects the contents inside; it’s done. She checks the potatoes; they are still warm and ready to go. Dishing up the potatoes and the peas, she puts the meat on a platter as well. Cutting into the tender meat, the smells wafting out, she smiles, for a moment, and then it fades. Tonight, she and her husband will sit down at the worn old table, on the worn old chairs, and eat this meal their son loved.
Their son would be somewhere, hopefully alive, hopefully not going hungry, and hopefully thinking of the family he left behind. It is all she can ask for as she takes her first bite of the savory dish. It is her dream; that if he cannot come home, that he is alive and well and well fed. Her dream is fleeting; she wants her boy to come home.
***
In an effort to appease her volatile son, she caters to his wishes. She knows that things are going downhill, but she’s doing her best. Her husband has already reached his breaking point; she can hear the fighting in the living room. Her son came home drunk again, and he is only sixteen. Sighing, she opens the hot oven, checks the meat, and pulls the blue roaster from inside; supper is ready.
“Come on guys!” she calls, pretending that nothing has changed, that her son is still the cheerful boy he used to be.
“Fuck you dad!” her son shouts and she flinches; things have gotten worse.
The front door slams and she fights back tears. As her husband enters the kitchen, a perfect picture of what her son will look like as he gets into his 40s, she moves toward the front door. She is not stupid; her son is fast and he will be long out of sight by now. But surprisingly, she finds him on the front step, smoking. She doesn’t ask what he’s smoking, she just waits for him to finish. When he turns, stamping the stick into the ground, she can see his dilated eyes…he’s high as well.
“Come eat,” she says, turning to open the screen door. “I made your favorite.”
Her voice has turned hard and she knows that her breaking point is near. She’s doing her best to be strong, to hold it to together, but he is pushing the wrong buttons. As her hand turns the brushed-nickel handle, her son stands, swaying a bit on his feet; he is conflicted, she can tell.
“Or not, it’s your choice. But I’m going to eat.”
To her surprise, he follows, sitting at the table, minding his manners. There is no conversation, no ‘how was your day?’, just the silent sounds of a meal in progress. Outside, the sun shines on their backyard, the pool glinting a bit in the light. Out of habit, her husband closes the shade a bit, until the sun has moved further west. It’s a hot summer this year, but she enjoys the heat.
“Thanks.
Her son stands, placing his plate in the sink and soon his bedroom door clicks shut. The meal continues silently, and she wonders what will happen now. Both she and her husband are at their breaking point, but she knows that something must be done. For now, though, meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas have to be eaten; decisions can be made later.
***
“You’re thinking again.”
It’s a simple observation, something her husband has become good at. His fork scrapes his plate as he finishes his meal, and he wipes his mouth with a flimsy paper napkin. The napkins were green, something else she does for her son; he loved green.
“I am.”
They didn’t talk much these days, avoiding the topic both needed to speak about. Both had accepted that their son wasn’t coming back, but both clung to the hope that he might. In recent years, they’ve tried to disappear from society. Their son’s disappearance was picked up by local media and after two years, neither wanted to be interviewed. False alarms poured in over the phone, trips to the morgue, but nothing ever panned out.
“I’m sure he’s okay.”
It was the same thing her husband always said, but she had stopped believing him. “Of course he is. He’s a strong boy.”
They were just words, but they brought her comfort. They made her think that, even though she and her husband had made a mistake, that things were okay. Her son was safe, alive, and well cared for, somewhere in this world.
“I miss him.”
It was said without emotion, the emotion implied in the words. She nodded, wiping her mouth, standing to collect their plates. She had stopped setting the table for three, and it seemed emptier now. The shade was pulled to protect their eyes from the glare of the pool like usual, and now they’d load the dishwasher.
Everything was robotic, everything was by rote. They’d made their mistake and now they had to live with it. She’d never forget the day it all went down and she wishes now she could take it all back.
Looking at her son, noting that he was high but not drunk this time, she sighed. He was fighting with her husband again, hurtful words flying through the air in rapid fire succession. She flinched at each word, her hands shaking with anger; she was tired of the fighting.
“ENOUGH!” she shouted, storming into the living room.
The feuding pair stopped to look at her, her son’s face pulled into a laughing smile. Jabbing her finger at the door, she seethed, her shoulders shaking; she’d never been this angry.
“I’ve had it!” she shouted, her hands balling into fists. “You get your shit together or you’re out of here!”
Her son’s smile faded, and she wondered if she’d finally gotten through to him. Her husband’s face was red, and his anger still simmering, as they faced their son.
“Excuse me?” he smirked, his attitude back as quick as it had faded.
Her husband glanced at her, and she nodded. “You heard your mother.”
The words no longer held anger; they held anguish, regret. But something had to be done. His face was a mask of attitude and shock, as their son reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. Before he could get it lit, her husband took it from him and took her son by the arm.
“Get. Out.”
Their son’s troubled blue eyes softened and he looked at his parents. “What?” he whispered, those blue eyes now brimming with tears.
“We can’t take it anymore. Get out,” she seethed and jabbed a thick finger at the front door. “And don’t come back.”
That was the last time she’d seen her son and she regretted her words now. As she finished rinsing the dishes, putting them in the dishwasher, she looked out the window over the sink. The neighbor’s kids were home from college for the weekend, the family sitting outside, having a cookout. Wiping the tears from her face, she closed the dishwasher and joined her husband in the living room. Another night of silent TV watching would go by, another night where she wondered about her son. Another night of regret at her words and actions, hoping her son was still alive and well and well fed.
***
Tonight, she’s making his favorite meal: meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas. She doesn’t drink, but she still has a couple of bottles of beer in the fridge for him. She knows that he is never coming back, but that doesn’t keep her from believing that he is. She is simply waiting for one phone call, one person to call and say “we found him”; she knows this is a dream. She knows that the chances of this happening grow smaller as the weeks go by. But she clings to this dream, this hope, that someday, her boy might come home.
He is not a causality of war, he has run away. He has a problem, several problems, and rather than help him, as she and her husband should have, they kicked him to the curb. She saw him around town here and there, now and again, but soon, that stopped. She would see him here but never there, now but never again. She wanted to say she was sorry, but she could never seem to find him. Soon, she stopped seeing him all together.
Now, she pulls the battered blue roaster from the oven and inspects the contents inside; it’s done. She checks the potatoes; they are still warm and ready to go. Dishing up the potatoes and the peas, she puts the meat on a platter as well. Cutting into the tender meat, the smells wafting out, she smiles, for a moment, and then it fades. Tonight, she and her husband will sit down at the worn old table, on the worn old chairs, and eat this meal their son loved.
Their son would be somewhere, hopefully alive, hopefully not going hungry, and hopefully thinking of the family he left behind. It is all she can ask for as she takes her first bite of the savory dish. It is her dream; that if he cannot come home, that he is alive and well and well fed. Her dream is fleeting; she wants her boy to come home.
***
In an effort to appease her volatile son, she caters to his wishes. She knows that things are going downhill, but she’s doing her best. Her husband has already reached his breaking point; she can hear the fighting in the living room. Her son came home drunk again, and he is only sixteen. Sighing, she opens the hot oven, checks the meat, and pulls the blue roaster from inside; supper is ready.
“Come on guys!” she calls, pretending that nothing has changed, that her son is still the cheerful boy he used to be.
“Fuck you dad!” her son shouts and she flinches; things have gotten worse.
The front door slams and she fights back tears. As her husband enters the kitchen, a perfect picture of what her son will look like as he gets into his 40s, she moves toward the front door. She is not stupid; her son is fast and he will be long out of sight by now. But surprisingly, she finds him on the front step, smoking. She doesn’t ask what he’s smoking, she just waits for him to finish. When he turns, stamping the stick into the ground, she can see his dilated eyes…he’s high as well.
“Come eat,” she says, turning to open the screen door. “I made your favorite.”
Her voice has turned hard and she knows that her breaking point is near. She’s doing her best to be strong, to hold it to together, but he is pushing the wrong buttons. As her hand turns the brushed-nickel handle, her son stands, swaying a bit on his feet; he is conflicted, she can tell.
“Or not, it’s your choice. But I’m going to eat.”
To her surprise, he follows, sitting at the table, minding his manners. There is no conversation, no ‘how was your day?’, just the silent sounds of a meal in progress. Outside, the sun shines on their backyard, the pool glinting a bit in the light. Out of habit, her husband closes the shade a bit, until the sun has moved further west. It’s a hot summer this year, but she enjoys the heat.
“Thanks.
Her son stands, placing his plate in the sink and soon his bedroom door clicks shut. The meal continues silently, and she wonders what will happen now. Both she and her husband are at their breaking point, but she knows that something must be done. For now, though, meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas have to be eaten; decisions can be made later.
***
“You’re thinking again.”
It’s a simple observation, something her husband has become good at. His fork scrapes his plate as he finishes his meal, and he wipes his mouth with a flimsy paper napkin. The napkins were green, something else she does for her son; he loved green.
“I am.”
They didn’t talk much these days, avoiding the topic both needed to speak about. Both had accepted that their son wasn’t coming back, but both clung to the hope that he might. In recent years, they’ve tried to disappear from society. Their son’s disappearance was picked up by local media and after two years, neither wanted to be interviewed. False alarms poured in over the phone, trips to the morgue, but nothing ever panned out.
“I’m sure he’s okay.”
It was the same thing her husband always said, but she had stopped believing him. “Of course he is. He’s a strong boy.”
They were just words, but they brought her comfort. They made her think that, even though she and her husband had made a mistake, that things were okay. Her son was safe, alive, and well cared for, somewhere in this world.
“I miss him.”
It was said without emotion, the emotion implied in the words. She nodded, wiping her mouth, standing to collect their plates. She had stopped setting the table for three, and it seemed emptier now. The shade was pulled to protect their eyes from the glare of the pool like usual, and now they’d load the dishwasher.
Everything was robotic, everything was by rote. They’d made their mistake and now they had to live with it. She’d never forget the day it all went down and she wishes now she could take it all back.
Looking at her son, noting that he was high but not drunk this time, she sighed. He was fighting with her husband again, hurtful words flying through the air in rapid fire succession. She flinched at each word, her hands shaking with anger; she was tired of the fighting.
“ENOUGH!” she shouted, storming into the living room.
The feuding pair stopped to look at her, her son’s face pulled into a laughing smile. Jabbing her finger at the door, she seethed, her shoulders shaking; she’d never been this angry.
“I’ve had it!” she shouted, her hands balling into fists. “You get your shit together or you’re out of here!”
Her son’s smile faded, and she wondered if she’d finally gotten through to him. Her husband’s face was red, and his anger still simmering, as they faced their son.
“Excuse me?” he smirked, his attitude back as quick as it had faded.
Her husband glanced at her, and she nodded. “You heard your mother.”
The words no longer held anger; they held anguish, regret. But something had to be done. His face was a mask of attitude and shock, as their son reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. Before he could get it lit, her husband took it from him and took her son by the arm.
“Get. Out.”
Their son’s troubled blue eyes softened and he looked at his parents. “What?” he whispered, those blue eyes now brimming with tears.
“We can’t take it anymore. Get out,” she seethed and jabbed a thick finger at the front door. “And don’t come back.”
That was the last time she’d seen her son and she regretted her words now. As she finished rinsing the dishes, putting them in the dishwasher, she looked out the window over the sink. The neighbor’s kids were home from college for the weekend, the family sitting outside, having a cookout. Wiping the tears from her face, she closed the dishwasher and joined her husband in the living room. Another night of silent TV watching would go by, another night where she wondered about her son. Another night of regret at her words and actions, hoping her son was still alive and well and well fed.
Last edited by Aightball on 4/12/2012, 12:55 am; edited 1 time in total
