Cobalt

1:2

Cobalt

1;2

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(Original playlist in external.)

        "Brett?" I call as I walk into my house, feeling suddenly empty. Almost like the house is missing something - or someone. From the back left side of the house, I hear a muffled shout.

        I make my way past the coffee table - which I always stump my pinky toe on when I'm in a rush - and manage to find Frances sticking her head in the freezer, storing away months worth of groceries.

        "Is Dad home?" I force myself to ask, even though I already know the answer.

        "Aw, hon," Frances says as she frantically re-straightens her hair and caresses my cheeks with her stone-cold hands. "You've just missed him, I dropped him off at the airport a while ago." After a few more seconds of her giving me a puppy dog look of pity, it turns into a strong grimace.

        I roll my eyes and jerk away from her. I'm not quite sure why she's frowning, but whatever it is, it's normal for Frances. I swear, I see her turn up her nose and draw back her teeth in disgust at least twice a day.

        No clue what Dad sees in her.

        "We agreed. No piercings till you move out," she hollers, taking a step closer to me. Now, her nostrils were flaring and her eyes as wide as those bubble gums you get from the dispensers at hockey arenas.

        "No, actually, you and Dad agreed. I didn't," I smirk as slide my finger against the hoop swirling around my left nostril. The comment angers her even more, almost to the point of steam shooting out of her ears.

        That's the thing with Frances and I: we both fight for power, which I never give to her. She thinks she can rule my world, but only three years ago she was scrubbing tables at Uncle Benny's till my dad found her. Okay, that may be a little exaggerated - I have no clue where she worked before she became a secretary last year.

        Suddenly, Nina, our maid, comes into the picture, then quickly disappears as she notices the shouting match in development. The lady, as self-centred as she is, hates drama. Besides, Frances and I argue on a daily basis, and by now, she knows that there's nothing she can do to stop us.

        "Take it out," she orders, keeping her usually perky, lacy tone dangerously low.

        "You're not my mom, you can't make me," I return, my voice meeting hers. By this time, I usually would've stormed out. I don't have near enough patience to deal with her and her strawberry blonde curls which she flips over her shoulder everytime she thinks she makes a good point.

        "For the moment, I am, because your real mom is crying enough tears to support the Niagara Falls for the rest of the month over a man who was probably cheating on her like your father was," she shouts at the top of her lungs so loud that the chandelier hanging over the island counter begins to shake.

        No one says anything for the next few moments. The words are still registering in my mind. Those last four words were so uncalled for. I'm not sure if I believe them.

        My dad's a buisness man. He's constantly away - he'd never be able to two-time my mother like that. Maybe he's constantly away screwing other women, my mind tells me in a sing song, schoolgirl voice. I just wanna go see Mom at this point. Go up to her and hug her in silence.

        I know how bad it would be for me, how the memories would come flowing over the walls I've built. Although, I didn't care. My mom is worth it. She deserves something good in her life.