The silence to follow was wierd .
The clattering of utensils scraping against plates gone . Even my uncle's obnoxious breathing seemed to quiet within the room .
Silence was a visitor to my house full of noise. Never once did a day pass where the house didn't face the danger of collapsing. My father's insistent fists always banging and bashing , my mother's body a constant silhouette in the walls .
Shouting always gets the job done , and fists are the extra precaution to make sure it stays done.
Silence is an unwelcome visitor who's only welcome at night .
So whether it be the booming voice of my father with his Polish friends or the impact of his fist on my mother's face . All that noise helped to distract me from the paper-walls of this house that aimed to envelope me in thoughts I knew , if I strayed too near to would end all my built-up lies .
'Lies are badly built truths, '. Grandma always said , ' so make sure as bad as it is it won't fall apart nor come undone in the face of guilt .'
Getting up from the dining table , seeing as breakfast was no more interesting , I make my way to the bathroom. The hallway stretching endlessly as if the house was bigger than our problems .
If only it was .
The silence made my every step audible , the thinning carpet not much help to muffle the hurry in which I went with , stained with beer , sweat and blood that couldn't be washed out from the years of "love" demonstrated .
The only witness of my mother's pain would be our brown tinted thin carpet , not really the best to give a testimonial in court is it .
I quickly entered the bathroom and shut the door , the hinges rattling from the force . Making sure it was loud enough for my uncle to get the memo , 'I don't need your company ' , not in these small four walls .
Once sure of no incoming footsteps, I lock the door , letting the sterile scent of the freshly cleaned bathroom calm me . I look to the mirror.
My face a mess .
Depression in the living flesh .
I had purple eyebags from staying up late at night and my curls were in disarray, splaying everywhere onto my face , my freckles an ugly mess , dotting across the expansion of my face. My eyes-the typical American blue-if not a bit more brighter with a cold light . My hair was an outstanding ginger colour , " like autumn! " , my father would gleefully say.
Its his favourite season .
The season I was born .
Another reason he married my ginger-haired mother . He'd made jokes about doing all-night prayers in hopes I'd inherit it .
Always bragging , " You're eyes and ginger hair will make you a dashing young man!"
Another one of the things my father sought to impose his controlling nature on.....his wife and how his children would look .
A cruel joke between the two .
God .
Who so happened to adore my fathers Christian faith and tireless devotion , even added in freckles to top the look . How happy he was to hold me when I was born , or so I'm told by my aunt's .
Apparently I was his little strawberry, red hair , freckles and a scrunched up face , that every newborn has when crying.
' His perfect heir. '
I quickly look down . If I stare any longer ,I'll stop seeing my mother and start seeing my father more .
I wash my hands and flush the toilet , even if I didn't use it . I glance one last time at my reflection, only seeing his heir .......not his son .
Turning the tap to a close , I move to open the door , seeing my uncle in my peripheral vision. Back against the wall and arms folded in front of his chest , face bored from waiting for me .
He's frown says he's been waiting for for some time now .
Why ?
" What do you want ?" I say bluntly , leaving no room for politeness , were not close and he knows it . I won't spend more time on him than needed .
" Perfect boy with a pretty mouth but the words he always says are rubbish ? I don't think you're dad would appreciate hearing that ." He says getting off the wall and approaching me , his lips in an ugly pout.
Pretty .
Another jab at my masculinity. At some point you get tired of explaining yourself to the same person everytime .
Plus , it's a well known fact in the family he's just jealous of my looks.....I hope .
Because if it's not jealousy, God forbid I have another reason to commit suicide .
Then again , his sons - my cousin's , honestly with no offense to them , are quite 'plain' looking .
" Sorry , you don't have the same looks ." I throw back .Trying to end our conversation .
" Tsk! ..." , " you're father's calling you to the car . Time for a school with Daddy , little boy ." He mocks , whispering his last words near my ear. His breath carrying a horrible stench .
He moves heading back to the dining room .
Slow.
Like a predator biding it's time , waiting for it's prey to get out .
" Thanks for reporting." Like the little loyal dog you are . I say , keeping the rest to myself .
My uncle had been the stereotypical jock in highschool, well maintaining his muscle mass into his older years . I'd be stupid to try instigate a fight .
One I'm not confident I'd win .
It's too early for me to be reconsidering my life now .
Gathering all my non-existant courage , I grab my bag and my father's unfinished waffles, hopefully he sees my sincerity for his health , which in turn would appease his anger .
And maybe .
Maybe ?
Make our talk more pleasant.
But I know that's just my wishful thinking. My father would appreciate the gesture but he wouldn't feel sad enough to talk to me gently .
It would be rough as usual but he'd be gentle .
He'd try too .
I'm his baby boy .
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