deBroglie
May 27th, 2014, 05:06 AM
So this was something I threw together about a week ago, had set away for a few days, then edited it a bit, and I figured I'd share it. It's the first coherent piece I've written in awhile.
- - -
“Stop trying to act like you understand, like you care, about what we thought of mom dying.” Timothy looked at his father, exasperation on his face.
His father’s jaw went slack as silence fell between them, filling in the spaces between the kitchen furniture. His son looked down at the chair underneath his hands, his palm and fingers clenching the smooth wood.
Caleb stared at the boy for a moment, his eyes searching over the knitted brows and smooth chin before he clamped his mouth shut and pulled his hands away from the counter. He raised his hand defensively. “Now, don’t you ever-“
Timothy glared at him, the overhead light glinting off his eyes. “Now, no,” he stuttered. “Don’t you start, Dad. We all know you cheated on her, we all know what you did.” His hands dropped from the chair and his teeth grit. His father opened his mouth and Timothy continued. “She knew it, we knew it, we all knew it. We all knew she knew, you knew she knew, and you didn’t, we didn’t, you couldn’t,” he stopped and took a breath, his body shuddering. “That didn’t stop her.”
A heavy feeling lay on his father’s chest, nestling into the crevices in his chest and settling on top of his heart. A sickly feeling started at the back of his throat, his stomach churning. “Now, don’t you ever,” he started again, his voice low and thick, desperation at the back of his tongue. Timothy glanced at the linoleum tiles at the counter top. “Don’t you ever tell me what I did and didn’t do.” He paused. “Your mother meant the world to me, and I’m not going to have you,” his voice rose. “Your grand mother, your aunt, not no body, tell me what the fuck your mother meant to me, you understand me?”
Timothy looked at him.
“Boy, I said, do you understand me, and I expect a god damned answer,” His voice shook, his words were hollow and Timothy could tell.
“Yeah,” he said as he pushed away from the chair and towards the back door.
“Timothy –“
“Yeah, Dad, I said yeah,” he breathed, pushing open the white door and walking over the small wooden steps that lead to the backyard. The door slammed shut behind him, punctuating his sentence and leaving his father to stand there alone in the kitchen. His father glanced down at the floor tiles, listening to the buzzing of the light, and stared at the wooden chairs, taking in the sight of the empty dinner table.
- - -
“Stop trying to act like you understand, like you care, about what we thought of mom dying.” Timothy looked at his father, exasperation on his face.
His father’s jaw went slack as silence fell between them, filling in the spaces between the kitchen furniture. His son looked down at the chair underneath his hands, his palm and fingers clenching the smooth wood.
Caleb stared at the boy for a moment, his eyes searching over the knitted brows and smooth chin before he clamped his mouth shut and pulled his hands away from the counter. He raised his hand defensively. “Now, don’t you ever-“
Timothy glared at him, the overhead light glinting off his eyes. “Now, no,” he stuttered. “Don’t you start, Dad. We all know you cheated on her, we all know what you did.” His hands dropped from the chair and his teeth grit. His father opened his mouth and Timothy continued. “She knew it, we knew it, we all knew it. We all knew she knew, you knew she knew, and you didn’t, we didn’t, you couldn’t,” he stopped and took a breath, his body shuddering. “That didn’t stop her.”
A heavy feeling lay on his father’s chest, nestling into the crevices in his chest and settling on top of his heart. A sickly feeling started at the back of his throat, his stomach churning. “Now, don’t you ever,” he started again, his voice low and thick, desperation at the back of his tongue. Timothy glanced at the linoleum tiles at the counter top. “Don’t you ever tell me what I did and didn’t do.” He paused. “Your mother meant the world to me, and I’m not going to have you,” his voice rose. “Your grand mother, your aunt, not no body, tell me what the fuck your mother meant to me, you understand me?”
Timothy looked at him.
“Boy, I said, do you understand me, and I expect a god damned answer,” His voice shook, his words were hollow and Timothy could tell.
“Yeah,” he said as he pushed away from the chair and towards the back door.
“Timothy –“
“Yeah, Dad, I said yeah,” he breathed, pushing open the white door and walking over the small wooden steps that lead to the backyard. The door slammed shut behind him, punctuating his sentence and leaving his father to stand there alone in the kitchen. His father glanced down at the floor tiles, listening to the buzzing of the light, and stared at the wooden chairs, taking in the sight of the empty dinner table.