Animosity

Chapter 1 - The Draft

Photo: University students hold up a "End the War in Viet Nam" banner at a city-wide protest.

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Years Earlier

I looked strange in the mirror. My face was smooth, petite, more feminine than most, and my gaze was copied in the reflection as it ran over my features, scrutinizing them with a judgmental scowl. I brought up a steady hand, running it through the mop of curly jet-black hair that sat atop my head, shining slightly in the dim bathroom light. Lowering my arm, the skin of my palm touched down against the cool ceramic sink, a casual chill running down my spine as I dragged my blue-eyed stare away from the mirror.

The faucet was still on, faint humming from the water heater echoing through the room. Drops of water pattered against the bowl of the sink, and I turned the metal handle gently, remembering a poster I saw once warning of drought in distant, foreign countries. The bathroom was small but homely, quaint plaid curtains drawn up against the edge of the bathtub, the scrubbed-until-white gleaming sides of the toilet reflecting back in the light.

I dug my toes into the thick carpet of the bath mat before exhaling softly, dragging the warm gray shirt I had discarded on the towel rack over my head, the slacks balled up in a heap over my bare legs. They were much too big for me, pooling around my ankles as I slipped a belt through the loops of cloth guiding it, but I didn't pay any attention to my wear as my fingers curled around the door handle. It opened with a click and swung outwards gently.

The house was anything but silent. Downstairs, dishes clattered in the sink and music played loudly through the radio, filling the air with jovial guitar and lively tambourine. A second voice joined in with the crooning of the singer, a female voice, off-pitch and off-key and yet wonderfully delightful. An inevitable smile touched down on my lips, and I took the stairs two at a time, eager to reach the source of the joyful commotion. My feet thudded against the old oak wood, and I wrapped a hand around the open entrance to the nearest room, grinning as the song got louder.

Ma was standing up in the kitchen, apron tied around her waist, belting out ballad after ballad as her swift hands gripped the sponge, fingers dancing nimbly as she scraped at pots and silverware. A thick, bubbly concoction of dish soap and water was building up in one side of the sink, threatening to spill over as she danced from side to side, seemingly unaware that I was watching.

Bright, happy rays of sun shone through the blinds, lighting up the room cheerfully. A small yellow refrigerator was sitting on the far side of the room, newspaper clippings and grocery lists pinned to it, covered by more layers of news and reminders. A tiny round table lay in the center of the kitchen, decorated with a plaid tablecloth and a beige vase, filled to the brim with near-dying flowers. My eyes settled on the picture frame propped up carefully against the center of the wood surface, a grainy black and white photo of Ma and Pop, arms around each other, trapped between the panels of glass.

"Morning, Tommy-baby!"

I looked up at her quickly, smiling widely as she abandoned her dishes at the sink, crossing over the tiled floor to give me a quick peck on the cheek. She was a heavyset woman, dark brown hair curling in ringlets around her shoulders, eyes always laughing and crinkled around the corners. Bright yellow rubber gloves were shielding her hands from the hot water, and she peeled them off before pulling back one of the chairs and sitting down.

"Morning, Ma." I answered back complacently, padding over to the counter and plucking an overripe apple from a small woven basket. It was dark red, riddled with soft spots, and I gave it a quick look of disgust before setting it back down.