before hell starts
I'll begin by clarifying that this will not change anything, and the only reason I am writing this is because you deserve to know the whole story. And because I’m sorry.
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“Chap, darling, come and eat your dinner.” Every word she spoke, the tail of it would wind down as if it was absolutely unnecessary and tiring just to put together some comprehensible sounds. Just the sort of thing that makes serial killers twitch and cock their guns at people’s heads. Not that I was thinking that. I mean come on, I would have already done it if that were the case, I’ve lived with her for what... 17 years of my life?
The smell of fried, processed, mounds of dead cow came wafting through my door, inducing a type of nausea-esque migraine to my stressed brain. “No thanks, ma, I’m not hungry.” Covering my eyes with the back of my forearm, I attempt to block out the gut-wretching aroma of what most of the town would call ‘heaven between two buns.’ I don’t even care for whatever innuendos that entails, my head is killing me.
“Chaplin Dunham, get down here this minute!” Groaning like most teenagers my age would do when asked to do something we do NOT want to do by our dear and caring parents, I tumble into my sea of various articles of clothing, clean or dirty, by this point, I don’t even care. My sock snags on a miscellaneous object under the layer of clothing, yanked off half way as I trudge across my tiny room, through the small hallway into what doubles as our living room, dining room and occasionally bedroom. Everything balances on my mother’s mood that day or night and it’s just about as predictable as the position of a wave in the Pacific ocean. Always moving, always changing, always a hint of danger lurking beneath the surface.
Timing my arrival very carefully, I pinch the bridge of my nose, obviously expressing my innate dislike for the menu that particular evening. And no, don’t tell me it’s soy meat with a bit of food coloring because soy never smells like ground up blood and guts thrown in a greasy oven, no matter how much dye you put into it.
I notice Dad’s place is spit spot clean. I say dad only because I don't the other one I had. He was gone before I could even say my name. Or at least that what my mother wails to me on the nights when I'm being 'bad' and she complains how I might have been a better child if I had a father when I was younger. I doubt it, but I don't fight her. It's futile to do so. Anyways, guess he’s not home yet. “Ma, I’m not hungry.” I grimace at the plate in the middle of the table. To me, it looked more like a shoe, poorly blended and then thrown on a plate with some bread slapped up onto it. Here comes the puke. I can feel it bubbling.
Her green eyes look at me like some kind of creature who’s about to have their head blown off by some ruthless poacher, as if it's her life at stake if I don't shut the hell up and eat the 'food'. “Chap baby, please don't do this to me right now.” Her voice is light and airy, death crawling around the edges of them. But death isn't actually anywhere near her, no she's too stubborn for that, she just likes to pretend she is the victim of the world and all of catastrophe.
Crumpled shoulders and all, her long spindly arms stretch out across the table to wipe my younger sister's dribbling mouth of brown and orange goop. Sighing, I grab the bowl of heated out of the can green beans, and dump a spoonful down. Grabbing my fork in a fist I scoop them up and hurriedly swallow them, skipping the chewing in between for the sake of time and sanity. Not great, but not bad in comparison to the Abnormally Sloppy Joes, over buttered instant mashed potatoes, and the plastic fake cheese covered macaroni noodles.
I continue to watch out of the corner of my eye as my mother chides the gurgling baby, telling it how cute it was, how good it was, babbling nonsense. Really, I can't help my lip curl in disgust sometimes. Who would ever think something that disgusting and uncivil be anything close to cute. And the way their arms jiggle uncontrollable with every movement, they even suck their toes for goodness sakes. Tell me that is not out rightly gross. But it is my dear sister. Even though she is about.. oh 16 years younger than me, not counting the days and months in between of course. Just an approximate figure.
With her almost blonde hair, bright hazel eyes with flecks of green, rosy cheeks, two tiny front teeth, she is the spawn of the late Satan. That’s a bit harsh. I don’t really mean that. It’s just that she gets so much attention. And well... I don’t. But that’s probably because I don’t do much to elicit any inkling of praise.
I chew quickly on the last bite of green curd I have left on my plate. Nice, warm and mushy then suddenly I bite something fleshier and pain swamps my tongue. Hissing, I clamp my hand over my mouth. “Ow!”
Gosh that hurt. And it hurts more because I wasn’t expecting it. Maybe if someone would tell me before I bit my tongue that i’d bit my tongue it wouldn’t be as painful. But if that was the case, they might as well tell me when I’m going to die, what movie I’m going to see next and if I’m ever going to get a date. The latter of the three being the most important and urgent.
My mother on the other hand thinks the world blew up and the chair clatters to the thin carpet as she fusses over me in the most obnoxious way possible. “Chap! What happened? Did you hurt yourself?” Her hands scramble across mine, trying to pry them away.
I gently push her away. “Nah, Ma, I’m fine, I just bit my tongue. Nothing big.” She should get a react-o-meter to constrain her freaking out levels of intensity. Right now, everything was in the red zone. A paper cut equates the same amount of decibel levels and panic as an gaping flesh wound.
“Come on, let me see.” She grabs me by the cheeks and squeezes them till my lips are about as protruding as a guppy’s. Determining there is no blood drawn, since I only nipped the tip of my tongue, she scowls. “You’re not even bleeding. You didn’t have to freak out about such a trivial thing.”
I stop myself from rolling my eyes till she turns her attention back to the awe-stricken baby in the highchair. After successfully ridiculing her by thoroughly making mocking gestures and faces, gurgles sprout from across the table. Clapping her hands clumsily, the baby mush flings onto Mrs. Dunham’s face, landing squarely on her Monroe mole. My cheeks puff up, bottling up the laughter and utter victory. High five, kiddo. Maybe we could be friends after all.
Settling with a long heave, I push my plate of questionable remains towards the center of the table, signifying for me, the termination of my interest in food. Universally, perhaps not, because no sooner did a pile of mash potatoes stack up the plate. Groaning, my brows furrow together in a peak in the middle of my forehead, pushed together by tectonic emotions of grief and disbelief. “No, Ma, I don’t want any more. I’m full. Really I am.”
When it comes to feeding, my mother is worse that Stalin with the Iron Fist. She’s a complete, fully-equipped, infinitely stocked barrack of resilience towards anything relating to feeding. If she had a private jet, the FDI and all the farms in America, world hunger would have been solved before the Internet could have crawled its first steps. She’s a hunger totalitarian except the other way around. Punish the world by feeding it. That’s how she rolled.
Her eyes shoot me down like the RAF on a good cloudy day. I don’t even stand a chance against her RPG stares.
Perhaps if she were any other person with a Monroe mole, bisecting the line that connects the corner of her mouth and the edge of her nostril, I would half-ass my way through a poor constructed argument hoping she wouldn’t have had her daily evening cup of coffee and allowing me to slip between her choking grip. But, this is not an ideal world, and I cannot choose who my mother is. I wonder if anything would be different if she wasn’t my mother.
Eh, that’s a bit too much of hypothesizing for me.
With a flutter of her mascara coated lids, she dismisses my protests, simultaneously forcing me in some odd way in which I feel like I am not in control of my actions, to stuff my face with Insta-potatoes or some generic brand like that. Every bite equates to another chunk of guilt. Why can’t she just conveniently forget to add the butter and make life easier for everyone.
Times like these, I wish I had a dog or something, maybe a pig or goat. I’ve heard goats will eat just about anything, and I would never have to worry about unintentional cannibalism like with pigs, because we never eat anything with goat. But that would also mean either hundreds shots over the duration of our pet’s stay, thousands of Claritin pills, or millions of sneezes, itchy eyes and itchy ears. Not enough benefit for so little gain.
Besides, a little bit of butter and other… animals and animal byproducts won’t kill me, right? Maybe if I don’t puke my guts out first, which is exactly what I intend to do. Though I don’t like that option neither.
Anyways, I always feel somehow, if I eat anything that is animal, that a part of it is potentially growing then in my stomach or something. Logic is unnecessary. That’s just how I feel.
I glance over at the dear and precious angel at the same moment the hazel pupils dilate in that manner babies seem to manage with little effort. Like a telepathical exchange of agreement, we come to a brief alliance.
In a split second the pudgy hands reach up innocently. Halfway through a bite and a chew, I watch intently, waiting for the exact moment of precise escape. The inch long fingers curl around a lock of hair. For one thing, as fragile as a little child can be, they sure have a grip when they need.
It all happens in a second. The moment my mother’s glossed lips part in a pained snarl, I stand up from my seat, hurriedly excusing myself to the bathroom as her bangs are momentarily playing a tug-a-war with a highly amused baby. Score: Baby-1 Mom-0.
Victor- Me.
If I weren’t a couple hundred years late, and not born on the other side of the world, I bet I could be considered as a half decent ninja. With my super silent step that wakes only the lightest of sleepers and my opportunistic instinct, I could be at least a good amateur.
But obviously, not quite enough since Mrs. Dunham’s impeccable hearing caught my heavy footsteps rounding the corner, bee lining to the bathroom. First to empty what I had sitting in my mouth into the toilet bowl, then to brush my teeth. “Chap get back here and finish your dinner!”
“I need to go to the bathroom, Ma!” The irrevocable response. The flawless plan B when all else fails. Just claim you need to go the bathroom and you can escape almost every situation.
“If you aren’t going to eat your dinner, then make sure you clean that pitiful pigsty of yours. And you better have it done or flush your camera down the toilet along with the rest of your crap. Don’t think I won’t. Oh, and don’t forget it’s the first day of school tomorrow, Chap!” Her voice echoes down the hall, squeezing right passed my door as I shove it shut. Sighing, I slide down, my back against the door. It’s the last day of freedom and guess what I’m doing, cleaning my cubby hole room. Fun! Yeah, just like looking for a grain of rice in a vat full of barley, about to be crushed into fine flour.
Seriously though, I need a life. Quick.