A Thorn By Any Other Name

The twisted beauty of the chipped china teacup.

I had seen it many times before at that stage, yet I still wondered

What evil was?

Was it the hands stained red with blood?

Or the silhouette who made them crave the substance in the first place?

I didn't have an answer back then, I just knew that if I didn't get my act together, I'd be staring right at it.

It was a standard Wednesday evening in my house, I had just come home from a music lesson, the kettle was boiled and me and my mother were gathered in the kitchen. The lights had not been turned on and the lace curtains were drawn allowing only thin beams of light to see through our disguise.

I was standing with my back to the window, becoming one of the shadows it casted along the tiles that sat upon the floor. In front of me was the large oak dining table, my music folder was opened on its surface and my mother was sitting across from where I stood.

She was dressed up as always, her bleached blonde hair pulled back into a sleek bun with only a few strands of hair escaping it's grasp to frame her face. A face that was plastered in such a thick layer of makeup that I feared I would not recognise her if she ever boosted a natural look. She was trapped inside a tight black dress which despite the winter months we had entered, only covered a portion of her thighs. Her high heels matched her gold jewellery well and they tapped against the floor as she waited for a performance.

She had not gone anywhere that day and had no plans for that evening. Her pristine appearance was not for the postman or the cashier in the corner shop who sold her cigarette but for herself. Though she was out of her teenage years by a long way, the insecurity that marked it had followed her to adulthood. She couldn't stand herself and I had never seen her without makeup. Her cornflower blue eyes were the only part of her I could see, and they were beautiful. I hoped they were beautiful though, as they were the same eyes as mine.

That evening like many, her French tipped fingers were wrapped around the silver spoon. The one she used to stir the boiling water that spun inside her China teacup as if it was tea.

Like my mother did, that China teacup held such a twisted form of beauty.

The teacup was made from white porcelain and without a wedding ring to quench her thirst for the finer things in life, it had become my mother's pride and joy. It was hand painted with Coronation pink roses which were connected by mint-coloured vines and were greeted by baby blue mockingbirds. On the rim of the teacup, there was a thin line of gold that danced in a waving pattern but there was a chip taken from that rim. A small irregular triangle shaped hole missing. In other words, it was broken but my mother could not admit that. She couldn't let anyone know about the chip, so when she put it on the shelf, she always made sure to face that side against the wall and when she used it, she faced it towards herself. She did this like a ritual, so no one outside the red brick walls of our attached townhouse could have ever known it was broken.

I stared at the teacup for a moment looking at the birds that were forever trapped, until I saw how my mother was looking at me. She was tapping her high heels louder than before and her eyes forgot to pretend to be kind. She was awaiting a performance, not to see my progress or to admire the sound but to catch me out.

The last time she saw my music teacher, he had told her I was talented. Said I was the best in my class and that she should be very proud. She agreed of course but jealousy entered her eyes that day. She had never been called talented and grew bitter at it's sound. When she told him she was proud of me, she meant,

"we'll see about that".

"Go on then"

She ordered, sitting back in her chair, and tapping the spoon against the side of the teacup to get the excess water off. I nodded at her letting her know I was compliant.