brigits_flame: Dinnertime
Title: Dinnertime
Word Count: 525
Warnings: The topic was thought of while watching MTV and singing The Beatles. Warning enough? I think so.
Notes: This was written for the June contest atbrigits_flame; the topic is "Oil and Vinegar."
Every dinnertime, I sit at the table, wondering if they can tell. Fear courses through me, and I think resentfully that this should be a time of family and togetherness. But all I can do is sit and sulk in anger, wishing that they would just love me as I am instead of who they think I am.
I look to my mother, my father, my sister, and all I can see is their happy suburban lives: each hair is perfectly placed; each piece of meatloaf is eaten with the perfect amount of relish; each conversation topic flows perfectly to the next. I sit apart from it all, glaring sullenly at plate, which is laid with the perfect amount of food to satisfy the rest of my food-pyramid-required servings for the day.
I angrily stuff half a slice of beef into my mouth and get up from the table. My chair squeals across the floor and my mother looks at me, alarmed. I say nothing as I walk away.
I hear my dad whisper with humor in his voice, "It's just teenage angst," and I want to scream that it's not just teenage angst! It's what they've done to me! But I know it doesn't matter, because that's all they see, and it's really my fault.
__________
It's dinnertime again. Reheated food is eaten in morbid silence as my sister looks uninterested, my father displeased, and my mother in pain. Guilt washes over me, and I'm the first to leave the table again, as I do most nights now.
__________
The time for dinner approaches inevitably, and my mother asks me for help in the kitchen. I sigh, wondering how long this charade would last until she broke down, but get up and walk over. She asks me to help her mix oil and vinegar for the salad. I laugh in derision at the irony. She just looks at me curiously, but silently hands me the fork to mix with while starting to pour the oil.
"I wanted to tell you something, sweetheart," she says. I knew she would.
"What?" I cringe at my own rudeness, but defiantly look at the dressing instead of at my mother.
"I just wanted you to know that we'll always be your family, your dad, your sister, and me." I bite my lip and stare hard at the fork. I contemplate the oil and vinegar and watch as they emulsify into not-quite one, but as close as they could be, given the circumstances.
I furrow my brow and glare at the oil, as if it's the source of all of my problems. I know it's not, but blaming something is better than blaming myself. Then I think that maybe it's time to let things go.
"I'm gay," I admit, voice just above a whisper. My hand starts shaking and I stir faster to cover it up. Some of the mixture spills out onto my shirt. I frown, but see that they're melded together now, bonded by threads stronger than the repulsion between them, and eternally stained.
I realize then that this is the first time I've smiled in forever.
Word Count: 525
Warnings: The topic was thought of while watching MTV and singing The Beatles. Warning enough? I think so.
Notes: This was written for the June contest atbrigits_flame; the topic is "Oil and Vinegar."
Every dinnertime, I sit at the table, wondering if they can tell. Fear courses through me, and I think resentfully that this should be a time of family and togetherness. But all I can do is sit and sulk in anger, wishing that they would just love me as I am instead of who they think I am.
I look to my mother, my father, my sister, and all I can see is their happy suburban lives: each hair is perfectly placed; each piece of meatloaf is eaten with the perfect amount of relish; each conversation topic flows perfectly to the next. I sit apart from it all, glaring sullenly at plate, which is laid with the perfect amount of food to satisfy the rest of my food-pyramid-required servings for the day.
I angrily stuff half a slice of beef into my mouth and get up from the table. My chair squeals across the floor and my mother looks at me, alarmed. I say nothing as I walk away.
I hear my dad whisper with humor in his voice, "It's just teenage angst," and I want to scream that it's not just teenage angst! It's what they've done to me! But I know it doesn't matter, because that's all they see, and it's really my fault.
__________
It's dinnertime again. Reheated food is eaten in morbid silence as my sister looks uninterested, my father displeased, and my mother in pain. Guilt washes over me, and I'm the first to leave the table again, as I do most nights now.
__________
The time for dinner approaches inevitably, and my mother asks me for help in the kitchen. I sigh, wondering how long this charade would last until she broke down, but get up and walk over. She asks me to help her mix oil and vinegar for the salad. I laugh in derision at the irony. She just looks at me curiously, but silently hands me the fork to mix with while starting to pour the oil.
"I wanted to tell you something, sweetheart," she says. I knew she would.
"What?" I cringe at my own rudeness, but defiantly look at the dressing instead of at my mother.
"I just wanted you to know that we'll always be your family, your dad, your sister, and me." I bite my lip and stare hard at the fork. I contemplate the oil and vinegar and watch as they emulsify into not-quite one, but as close as they could be, given the circumstances.
I furrow my brow and glare at the oil, as if it's the source of all of my problems. I know it's not, but blaming something is better than blaming myself. Then I think that maybe it's time to let things go.
"I'm gay," I admit, voice just above a whisper. My hand starts shaking and I stir faster to cover it up. Some of the mixture spills out onto my shirt. I frown, but see that they're melded together now, bonded by threads stronger than the repulsion between them, and eternally stained.
I realize then that this is the first time I've smiled in forever.