Tit for Tat
By: RDV
She was screaming ostensibly. Her voice rose over the disturbing sound of the boom box which was playing Slipknot’s Prayer. He could tell by now that the usually passive neighborhood had been woken up by this commotion. Not quite annoyed, but intrigued rather. Lights from across the street switched on, heads peaked stealthily from windows that were otherwise clouded by curtains; nonetheless, silhouettes of their neighbors who didn’t want to miss out on the action could easily be made out. They were listening, of course, to augment his embarrassment further.
“Why are you doing this to me, why are you doing this to me?” She repeated again and again. Her face was now smeared with tears, her mascara running, her hair thrown in disarray out of wringing. She was rested on one of the dining stools, exhausted and miserable. In front of her was her husband, standing motionlessly as he got lost in amusement.
He, the son, continuously tapped his mother on the shoulder. She went on crying, as though they’d never stopped hurting her, as though they were using a cane on her.
“Tell me, why are you doing this to me?” She wailed once more in maximum volume.
None could find the answer. None could tell what it was she obstinately referred to. The son couldn’t understand why she plunged into this fit of hysteria over a broken plate. He could hear his mother as she went on with her bout; his father, lulled into speechlessness, stood staring at her. Did he know from the start?
Then suddenly he motioned for his son. They went to the kitchen, out of her earshot. The son could read discomfiture all over his father’s face now. He was shaking his head in clear display of frustration. It took him a few minutes before he could start, as if rehearsing what to say.
“Your mother needs help. I’m so sorry; I should’ve told you this long ago. She needs to be locked up.”
The son didn’t say anything. An immediate realization came over him, unbidden however; yes, it was plain to see. In silence, he tried to absorb its enormity. He had always been different from his peers, he noticed. There was something awry with the way he was brought up by this mother of his. It was in her where the screws were loosened up, where the behavioral code took on an entirely different phase. He was different from the rest because of her.
Looking at his father, he nodded quietly. It was time to return the favor; he should be the one looking after her now. He fetched the car keys from the master’s bedroom and gave it to his father who was now transporting his mother to the family car. Tonight, when they returned, it would be a vacuously peaceful night for father and son.
She was screaming ostensibly. Her voice rose over the disturbing sound of the boom box which was playing Slipknot’s Prayer. He could tell by now that the usually passive neighborhood had been woken up by this commotion. Not quite annoyed, but intrigued rather. Lights from across the street switched on, heads peaked stealthily from windows that were otherwise clouded by curtains; nonetheless, silhouettes of their neighbors who didn’t want to miss out on the action could easily be made out. They were listening, of course, to augment his embarrassment further.
“Why are you doing this to me, why are you doing this to me?” She repeated again and again. Her face was now smeared with tears, her mascara running, her hair thrown in disarray out of wringing. She was rested on one of the dining stools, exhausted and miserable. In front of her was her husband, standing motionlessly as he got lost in amusement.
He, the son, continuously tapped his mother on the shoulder. She went on crying, as though they’d never stopped hurting her, as though they were using a cane on her.
“Tell me, why are you doing this to me?” She wailed once more in maximum volume.
None could find the answer. None could tell what it was she obstinately referred to. The son couldn’t understand why she plunged into this fit of hysteria over a broken plate. He could hear his mother as she went on with her bout; his father, lulled into speechlessness, stood staring at her. Did he know from the start?
Then suddenly he motioned for his son. They went to the kitchen, out of her earshot. The son could read discomfiture all over his father’s face now. He was shaking his head in clear display of frustration. It took him a few minutes before he could start, as if rehearsing what to say.
“Your mother needs help. I’m so sorry; I should’ve told you this long ago. She needs to be locked up.”
The son didn’t say anything. An immediate realization came over him, unbidden however; yes, it was plain to see. In silence, he tried to absorb its enormity. He had always been different from his peers, he noticed. There was something awry with the way he was brought up by this mother of his. It was in her where the screws were loosened up, where the behavioral code took on an entirely different phase. He was different from the rest because of her.
Looking at his father, he nodded quietly. It was time to return the favor; he should be the one looking after her now. He fetched the car keys from the master’s bedroom and gave it to his father who was now transporting his mother to the family car. Tonight, when they returned, it would be a vacuously peaceful night for father and son.
posted by Ria D. at
11:52 PM
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