Writing Prompts

Writing Prompt #9

Your father taught you a strange language when you were young. On your eighteenth birthday you find out why...

"What's on your mind, Shion?" Mom asked, her eyebrows furrowed contorting her expression to something between confusion and near-sightedness. She stared at my face with big unwavering eyes that didn't ease up until I answered.

"I'm just thinking." That should suffice, right?

"About?" She encouraged me to continue but I didn't have the energy.

Right now forcing fake smile on my lips and pushing a passable excuse through my teeth were strenuous. I didn't want to talk but Mom still waited until I spoke. Her eyes were patiently watching my every move, the way I shook my leg anxiously, my left hand pulling on my earlobe and my throat, the way I gulped down the need to vomit. Mom watched for a minute, absorbing my actions as if like detectives in a serial killer documentary.

There was a shroud of defeat surrounding me, weighing down my shoulders until they had no choice but to shrug and our chipped tiles under the dinner table were all that was left in my field of vision. Invisible hands forced my head down to my neck. I couldn't even struggle against it. How did she expect me to speak under all this pressure?

"Okay, it's fine. I won't force you to talk," Mom said as if it were the end of it. I knew it wasn't. A few spoonfuls of oatmeal made it to her mouth before she addressed me again. "All I ask is that you at least eat your breakfast. I only made it since you asked."

Gray eyes, dull like the world I live, looked up and scrutinized my breakfast. It was sloppy and unappealing. If this were an indie movie with an eccentric pre-teen protagonist in their middle school cafeteria, a bubble would form at the center of the bowl emphasizing its nastiness. Beside it was orange juice with someone's greasy fingerprints on the side of the glass and a granola bar. The oddly shaped bowl with crystalline fruits at the center of the table looked more appetizing than sloppy oatmeal. But I couldn't tell my Mom that so I remained silent and turned my attention back to the chip tiles on the floor.

It was a half a day at school and I had permission to stay home but Mom insisted on having breakfast together every morning before she went to work at the office so that's why we're here, forcing this fiasco.

Her curly hair tumbles over her shoulders in thick spirals. They were very 'look-at-me' kind of beautiful. Each curl had its own destination. Mom always liked looking good while I preferred staying comfortable. Her suit was clean and pressed as her leather briefcase sat on the island as she ate. Mom managed a firm downtown. At work, she's usually very bossy but here, she tones it down for me and Dad who- it's not that we don't listen, it's more like there's no need to tell us what we already know.

"You're not going to take a bite?" Spoke her red lips. Mom was so put together, she never looked like the world was collapsing in on her at all times like I did. God, she made me so jealous.

"Obviously I must not be hungry." Laced with spite, these words tumble out my mouth. I didn't intend to sound sarcastic but it came out that way. I'd blame my friends and their bad influence if I had any.

No parent likes to get sassed by their child. Mom sat for a minute trying to figure out how to react. Before maybe three years ago, she would have snapped and asked me who I thought I was talking to but lately she's been focusing on meditation and releasing anger in a healthy way. That's not to say that she lets my disrespect slide, she just had to find a different way of going about it.