Branson

BRANSON

SHORT STORY BY:

BY JOSEPH

EL

HER SCREAMS

Tim sat on the chair as his mother talked with the lawyer, the living room was filled with the wafting reek of adorn the lady sporting the white blouse along with an opague blazer draped around it had splashed around her this morning. Her stained lips with an extravagant amount of lipstick moved and let out vague words I couldnt interpret from atop the stairs. I could just assume that it wasnt good news, mums disheartened expression gave it away, as well as her uncontrollable knee which bounced off the floor repeatedly. I was caning out of the corner and over the stairwells banister when I wheeled around behind the wall; the lawyers blue eyes flinted to me, sharing a smile I could not comprehend as affectionate, it was pretentious, and said many things like; I am sorry, but, your dad has full control over the house. And A divorce will result in the eviction of the both of you.

I am not stupid, as a fourteen year old I can quite clearly understand that a divorce will leave the other partner out of house, and that will be the one who is not accountable for the house - which, is my mum. And there is nothing we can do about it.

I hear the shaky sigh of my mother which then rapidly converts into a series of strangling coughs, soon, sobs reverberate around the plain walls, ones which not that long ago were embellished with a dozen of family photos, some from a zoo we went to when I was seven, eight, ten and finally twelve. Smiles engraved onto our faces I can never see smiling again, at least not together, not with that psycho I once called Daddy..

The lady embraced my mother and heaved her leather bag off the table, then, she clumsily ambled to the door, said her goodbyes and left. There, the enlightening hope that we could stay in the house flung past our eyes like her lavish Audi the job gave her.

I was now standing in front of the living room window, still having my eyes clung onto the now void curb her Audi perched on, hoping with all my heart that she will come back, that she changed her mind or realised how sick in the head Branson is. I can only sense the littlest of tad of joy that I will no longer share his surname, that loathing word. . .Jameson, causes my stomach to rumble.

Mum? I say. Is dad getting to keep the house?

She sniffs back tears and whispers; Yes, Adam, dad gets to keep the fucking house!

My heart jumps inside my chest, she looks pale and old. Mum is Christian and those harsh words leaving her mouth in a voice I can barely recognise make me want to cry, I never seen her like that.

That arrogant bastard dares to even compete with us, he doesnt even have mercy to help us settle down elsewhere, he doesnt give a damn about us, about you, Adam. She slams the oak table with her fist and then sags her head onto it, hair swaying down. I am sorry. . .Come here honey.

I shuffle to her as she sits up and extends her hands, nails rigid with bite marks and bruises on her shoulders I somehow became familiar with. I slump my body against hers and hug her firmly.

Mum, are we homeless? I say, she sort of recoils then squeezes me closer.

No - of course not, I will figure something out. . .My mum will sure let us stay for a little while until I can get us somewhere else to live.

Horrible, I think, seeing your mother so weak that she has to look up to her mother for any hope, for shelter she can no longer provide, I dont blame her, of course I dont, it is that bastards fault, everything is!

I promise Ad, everything will work out near the end, the good always happens for the ones who really deserve it, karma will one day bite that prick in the backside, God will make sure of that.