Soccer And Silver

Unseemly

"It is not the strength of the body that counts, but the strength of the spirit."  J.R.R. Tolkien.

Chapter Six: Unseemly

M A X

I clench my fist tighter in my hand and continue to stare at my plate digging holes into the untouched food laid out. It's been nearly one week since school started and still Luke isn't home from wherever it is that he took off to, this time. Which means, as usual, the dining table at supper is silent and cold as a tomb. A dead body would be preserved fairly well here.

I raise my eyes slightly, dragging my gaze across the dining table to where my mother sits next to my stepfather, Weston. The two of them sit in silence, my mum chewing cautiously and her husband scowling as usual. His face set into a regular frown, lines slain his wrinkled forehead. They make an odd couple. My mother with her tan skin, slender body, and thick black hair. Weston, with his tall, imposing figure, blonde hair, and pinkish, fatty skin like blubber.

"Why did you put so much salt?" Weston demands, slamming his fork on the table.

My mother winces. "I didn't think –"

"That's the problem!" He bellows. "You never think! Why don't you listen? You can't do that at least cook a decent meal!"

Mum looks down at her plate. Neither of them glances in my direction – I'm ignored as usual, and I don't know if that's a good or bad thing.

"Well?" Weston continues with a growl. "What have you got to say, woman?"

"I'm sorry," Mum whispers.

"I can't hear you, learn to speak up!"

I drop my fork, my appetite long forgotten, my stomach curling like sour milk. My mouth is dry and bitter as if sandpaper has been forced down my throat. I hate the way he talks to Mum. I hate her passiveness. I hate that Luke is not home to stop the incoming fight. I hate it here.

Mum's shoulder hunch in defeat. "I'm sorry."

My eyes burn. I hate myself for not saying anything.

"Don't do it again!" Weston continues, swiping the plate so that it slides over the side of the table in a blink it crashes to the floor. Food spills all over the tiles and fragments of the plate scatter like broken leaves.

"Okay," Mum croaks, already rushing to get a broom. "I'll make it something else."

Weston swears and pushes off the chair roughly. "Don't bother. I can't tell anymore of this shit" I hear the door slamming as he walks out. No doubt going to the bar to get himself wasted on beer. I emptied the rest of my plate before getting a cloth to help Mum.

"Don't worry about it, Max," Mum tells me as I help her clean up the mess. Again. "I can handle this."

I keep quiet, focusing on cleaning the table. When I'm done, I race upstairs to my room, shutting the door behind me. I should comfort my mum; I know that's the right thing to do. But it's hard to feel sorry for her when she listens to Weston when she takes his shit. Luke would know what to do, how to handle the situation. He always does. I'm a lost cause.

I drop onto my head, clutching the bedspread. The first time Weston yelled at Mum; I stood up for her. Afterwards, she'd shouted at me for getting involved with what I couldn't understand. I didn't listen. By the fifth round, however, I'd gotten the message. My help wasn't wanted, wasn't needed. I stayed out of their affairs, kept quiet, and minded my business.

And seeing my mother's broken, fallen expression I vowed I wouldn't end up like her. I wouldn't be weak. I wouldn't take that male dominance shit.

After washing my face and cooling off, I ended up calling my brother. Because right now, I need him most.