Far Away From Here

Combat at the Dinner Table

My childhood home stood in front of me. From the outside, it is the stereotypical suburban house. With the white exterior and dark red shutters, the shrubs perfectly maintained, grass cut to a T and the two nice but not too flashy cars sitting in the driveway. If you lived across the street from this house like Mr. and Mrs. Jeighon have for the past fifteen years you would think we were the picture-perfect family. You would hear us celebrating birthday parties in our backyard, mother shuffling us into her station wagon for our many after-school obligations. You would smile when you saw my father teaching George how to ride a bike or mother teaching all three kids how to parallel park hours before we got our licenses. However, when you stepped into the house, your perspective would change. No, nothing would look out of normal, there would be school photos plastered in the front grand hallway, food in the kitchen, not a speck of dust; but the change wouldn't be something you see but feel. You would feel it in your bones.The coldness and hostility that trapped itself within every corner of the house.

This wasn't a home it was a movie set.

Of course, no one in my family could pick me up from the train station. I was promised that someone would be here to let me in but again I would not be surprised if no one did. I knocked on the large oak door, my knuckles piercing from the mixture of my freezing hand and the hard exterior. After at least a minute of no response, I knocked again, peering into the small window that was stamped in the middle of the barrier. I did not see movement for several moments until my brother Alfie's body looped around the corner. He took his time walking to the front door as if he had all the time in the world. To him he did.

"Hello." He said briefly, moving his body backward to allow me space to walk through. I walked in wheeling my carry on behind me.

"Hello Alfie, how are you?" I smiled slightly, feeling a usual uncomfortableness like I would chat with a stranger in line at the market. Alfie and I although closest in age were the farthest apart. We didn't have that much in common except for our blood relation. As a young child, I looked up to Alfie and wanted to be exactly like him. That was until I got to know him, I used to follow him around like a lost puppy for the first four years of my life.

"Good. Thank you." Of course, he didn't ask me how I was, he only asked questions he cared about.I decided just to ignore him asking where everyone was.

"Mother and father are at a function and George is sleeping. Do not wake him." He began walking to the kitchen.

"I wasn't going to," I mumbled, deciding against following him, I walked upstairs to my childhood room. My room that was my sanctuary for the first 17 and a half years of my life was no longer a reflection of me. This was the room that was the place I would cry my heart out reading 'Of Mice and Men' for the sixth time, the space I first masturbated to a poster of Justin Timberlake and the place I took one puff of a joint before coughing my heart out and flinging the lit stick out my window.

As soon as I left for Manchester, my mother ripped down all my boyband posters, the string lights over my bed and changed my fluffy pink duvet to a scratchy beige one. I'm pretty sure she began her renovation to a guest bedroom the second my train took off. Deciding I wasn't staying long enough to unpack, I rolled my suitcase to the corner of the room; grabbing my pajamas out. 

I tucked myself in, staying up a bit longer to hear the familiar sounds of my parents entering the home. Knowing they would not check on me, I closed my eyes letting the darkness consume me. When I opened my eyes, I prayed I could rewind time to have more moments in complete darkness. I stayed in the warm cocoon of the blanket for a few more minutes before getting myself ready for the day, physically and mentally.