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Keeping A Straight Face | Chapter 2

Taylor's Perspective

With a tiny creak, the chipped wooden front door falls open, dim-white streetlight spilling into the house's front room, casting awful shadows on the shoe rack next to the floor-mat. Taking in a deep breath and noticing the quiet and stillness of the house, I step inside.

On good nights in the Ferguson household, you would see Dad in the lounge-room watching an episode of Highway Thru Hell, his steaming cup of tea warming his hands. Ana wouldn't be far, either jamming to some punk-rock song through her headset or calling her best friend Lola to talk about school. I'd either be texting Darko or thinking of a song I'd want to practice on the piano. Even though we weren't all interacting with each other, it was always nice to just do our own thing in the same space. The company made the house feel warm and alive.

Tonight's not a good night. The house feels dead.

"Ana? I'm home!"

A tired hum sounds from the kitchen. Locking the door behind me and kicking off my shoes, I pass my unkempt and unvacuumed lounge-room and enter the kitchen, dropping my schoolbag on the dining table. Ana stands at the far end of the room, her head poking inside the cupboard.

"Welcome back--just got your text. What takeout are we getting?" She says, plucking a mug from the shelf. Fingers as pale as the piano keys in my room grab two Earl Grey tea bags from a nearby tea-box. A thick, black cardigan clings tightly to her chubby body.

It used to be so loose on her; she's at least double the standard weight for sixteen-year-old girls now.

I sigh quietly to myself. "Never mind the takeout, where's Dad? Are things okay?"

Ana shrugs, waving a dismissive hand in the air. Her focus is on the slow rumble of the kettle's bubbling water, the steam rebounding from her inky hair. "He woke up briefly and went to bed. I wanted to check on him, but... yeah. I guess things are okay, considering."

Understanding, I nod. Ana went on to explain everything that happened--Dad had come home after work and Ana was in her room when she heard smashing in the kitchen. She went out and saw what the commotion was and saw everything. In tears, he ditched a dining plate onto the floorboards, sending chips of ceramic flying everywhere. Before Ana went to her room, she saw a nearly empty bottle of whiskey behind him, precariously placed on the couch arm. He was shouting profanities by the time Ana locked herself in her room, but a few minutes later when things went quiet, she got out and found him passed out on the couch, face-first into a cushion.

While drinking isn't anything new, smashing things is. Maybe bills angered him? Money? Unclean dishes? I don't know. The alcohol's melting his brain, and the smallest of things tick him off now. The medicine he takes should be preventing this behaviour to begin with, so I don't know what's wrong.

By the time she's done recounting, her hands are visibly shaking. "Look in the bin. Dad smashed something else."

I cock an eyebrow. "What?"

She nods towards the trashcan in the corner of the room.

Getting up, I open it and I feel my heart twinge. Looking at Ana, she frowns before resting her forehead on her palm. Mum's favourite mug, a huge soup mug with a watermelon pattern painted on it, lay splintered amongst the trash. Dad, why?

"Why the heck did he..." I trail off, shaking my head. Closing the trash can, I look at the kettle.

"Why're you making tea? Thought you swore only by coffee, of the chilled kind."

The kettle began to whistle. Getting up, she grabs the handle, pouring the boiling liquid into the mug.

"I figured Dad would appreciate that--you know how much he loves it. Was going to bring it up to him. Could you grab the milk?"