dining with monsters

I stared at the fibres of the 'welcome home' mat and immediately regretted my decision. I hadn't seen these people in years and the prospect of spending an entire Christmas lunch with them filled me with dread.

The street was just as I remembered it; row after row of identical bungalows all with outdated roofs and cream coloured walls. All identical apart from one crooked letterbox which I had backed into years before. They never fixed it; perhaps they kept it as a souvenir. I knocked and she appeared in flurry of over- bleached hair and lipstick teeth.

"Hello! Merry Christmas..." She was using her phone voice but stopped abruptly at the sight of me. It was impressive how quickly my mother's face changed from cheery optimism to disappointment. Her lips disappeared into her mouth like she'd trodden in something disgusting. Without saying another word, she beckoned me inside.

As I followed her down the smoke stained hallway, it was like returning to the scene of a crime. This had been a bad idea. Twice on the way over I thought about turning around. Thought about putting my car into reverse and speeding down the narrow lanes, back on to the safety of the M25. But it's Christmas and I couldn't give her the satisfaction.

"Tim," Mum hollered, "your son is here."

I smirked. She couldn't even say my name. The problem child is back. My father popped his head out from the kitchen, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Unlike my mother, his face grew into a black-toothed grin and pulled me into a bone- crushing hug. He smelt like the walls.

"Mattie! It's been ages. How have you been?"

My mother flashed him a withering look, her intention clear. Dad's smile faulted like a television switching off, his face becoming blank and robotic. He took a drag from his cigarette and stared at the floor.

"Very good of you to show up today," He paused, while my mother nodded encouragingly "Considering the circumstances..."

I glared at my mother, horrified. She stared back; she still had lipstick on her teeth.

"Matthew go say hello to your sister. Don't be rude."

We waited until the clink of her heels disappeared down the hallway before either of us moved. I let out a sigh and leaned against the counter. My Dad glanced up at me.

"Ignore her. She's happy to see you," He said.

"Is she?" I muttered, picking at my nails.

"Matthew!" My mother's voice sent a shockwave through the kitchen, making Dad's hair stand on end.

Dragging my feet, I entered to the dining room.
My sister was sitting in the middle of the table rearranging the cutlery. Her doe eyes blinked at me as I took the seat next to her. She grinned, her face glowing and poked my hand with the nearest fork.

"Hey!" I exclaimed.

"Hey idiot" Amy said, wrapping her tiny arms around my shoulders. I forgot how small she was. I held her tighter, burying my face in the crook of her elbow. She was the only thing in the house that didn't smell like smoke.

"Merry Christmas!" Dad burst through the door, carrying a burnt roast chicken. It bubbled, oozing gravy on to the blood red carpet.

We mumbled a response and my mother served herself a miniscule portion while Amy loaded her plate.

"Wine anyone?" Amy cheered, waving the bottle in our faces.

Without waiting for an answer, she filled our glasses right to the very top. Nobody spoke after that. We just moved chunks of overcooked chicken around our plates, drowning them in gravy; pretending to enjoy each other's company.

"Can someone pass the potatoes please," I ventured into the silent conversation.

My mother threw them at me, the bowl clinking on the timber. Amy spat her chicken into her napkin while Dad poured himself a second glass of wine, readying themselves for battle.

"Thank you" My voice was almost as hard as the potatoes.

"Pleasure," She paused, chewing on her painted lips "Where have you been?"

I gripped my knife and fork harder to stop my hands from shaking, "Around."

"Where have you been?" her voice was acidic.

"Mattie?" Dad's voice was warm and smoky.

He reached over and stroked my hand. I flinched. They were all looking at me; three sets of car headlights trained on a piece of road kill.

"Well? Say something!" My mother barked. Amy wrapped her twig arms around my shoulder, glaring at her.
I stared at the ornate 70's ceiling. This had been a bad idea. Another Christmas ruined.

She rose from her chair and I realized how tall she was with heels on. She towered over me, all lipstick teeth and bleached hair. She plucked her fake eyelash off in frustration. I was on my feet too, my shoes stepping in gravy.

"You were the one who decided leave!" She exclaimed, pressing her index finger into my chest.
"We didn't want you to go. He didn't want you to go!"
I saw Dad rise from his chair, ready to spring into action. Amy did the same.

I took a step closer, "You made me leave. It has nothing to do with him."

For the first time that night, my mother's face softened. She finally licked the lipstick from her teeth.

Her breath got caught somewhere in her throat, "It has everything to do with him, Matt. It was your fault that he left and it's your fault that he didn't come home."

She let out a small sob and gestured towards the table, "Its Christmas for god sake. He should be here."

It was only then that I realized that Amy had set the table for five instead of four. An empty chair and plate sat alone, untouched as if my brother would walk back into our lives.