Shorts

Hold

TW: references to bullying, self-harm

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Thomas purposefully stepped in all of the puddles on his way home, relishing the way the dirty water sank through his new school shoes to his socks. Swash swash swash.

“Will you stop doing that?” his brother Isaac asked. “It’s fucking weird.”

Thomas didn’t look at the taller boy, merely stomping with extra enthusiasm in the next puddle they encountered, splashing his brother’s trouser leg.

Isaac groaned, moving away from him. “I’m not your carer, Thomas. Stop pissing about or I won’t walk back with you anymore.”

The younger of the two shrugged, his dark hair falling over his face as he stared at the ground. “Don’t care.”

Stifling a torrent of curses, Isaac picked up his pace and walked five metres in front of his brother the whole way home.

At dinner that night, their mother sighed disappointedly at Thomas. “Why did you have to ruin your shoes, Tom?” she asked, running a thin hand over her face as the rest of the family sat in silence, eating the cottage pie as quickly as they could to get away from the heavy, uncomfortable atmosphere that hung about the table.

Thomas merely shrugged, pouring himself an orange juice. “Don’t like them.”

Frustrated, Isaac got up from the table and put his plate by the sink.

Their mother turned in her seat. “Wait, are you-”

“I’ll be upstairs,” the older boy said, shooting a glare towards his younger brother. “Eric’s coming over later - if it’s alright, that is.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

Once he was gone, they descended once more into silence. Thomas’s father finished his food quickly, turned down seconds (“It is good, love,” he’d said, “Only I’ve got to watch my waistline.”) and sat back in his chair. His son couldn’t help but feel like he was being watched. If his mother was too clingy, too emotional, his father had long ago become frustrated by Thomas’s reticence and disregard.

Soon, Thomas’s little sister Rachel was finished, sliding her knife and fork together neatly on her plate with a little clink.

“Would you like to get down, Rachel?” their mother asked, the deep lines on her forehead speaking volumes. The happy family dinnertime was over - it had disappeared the minute they all sat down and weren’t what she hoped for every day, it had disappeared three years ago when Thomas changed.

Rachel nodded, her ponytail bobbing, and hopped off of her chair. She pecked her mother on the cheek. “Dinner was lovely, thank you Mummy.”

The woman nodded, smiling a worn little smile.

Before she left the kitchen, Rachel shot a thin-eyed glower Thomas’s way. Idly, he thought that she must have been practicing it in the mirror. It was uncannily good.

After several more tense minutes, Thomas pushed his plate away and stood up. “I’ve got homework,” he told them as he moved his plate and glass to the draining board, not meeting the worried gaze of his mother or his father’s unspoken accusations. You’re tearing this family apart. Look at your mother.

As he walked out of the room, Thomas’s father called out, “Are you going to bloody do any of it?”

The boy paused, not turning around.

“Graham-” his mother started, her voice choked, pleading. Don’t start a fight. I can’t bear it when you fight.

Thomas walked on, but he still heard his father’s reply. “He never does anything, and if school keep ringing us up, I’ll tell them it’s not us, it’s his own lazy backside…”