age

WRITING- Short Story 'Untitled' Part two

Thursday, 17 July 2014

Part two of the short story that I begun in my last post.

“I’m sorry Pol, it just wasn’t working.” Those were the words my father chose to explain the scene as I entered the living room. My mother was curled up on the green sofa, wrapped in a patchwork throw. Her dark curly hair had gone out of control, like she had been rubbing her head repeatedly, and her eyes were red and swollen with dark circles. He was standing, one hand leaning on the fireplace. His tie had been loosened and a few strands of hair had fallen over his forehead, escaping the usual slicked back style I had grown used to.

I didn’t know what I had expected, sitting in my bedroom a few minutes before. I had heard Violet return home from an evening out somewhere and then go into the living room. Shouting then exploded from behind the closed door, muffled, but no doubt coming from Violet. My heart started to thud, I slowly got off my bed and tried to make noiseless steps across the room, to try and get a better listen. Then the living room door was angrily wretched open, I suddenly froze, and a pair of platforms clumped up the stairs. She stormed in to our bedroom and kicked off the shoes, murmuring something like “don’t worry about me then” and threw herself on her clothes cluttered bed, facing away from me.

Anticipating she wouldn’t tell me what’s going on, I made my way downstairs. And there it was, my parents marriage crumbled in front of me on a January Sunday evening.

The silence had become unbearable, so I blurted out “wait, what? What’s he talking about?” She slowly lifted her head.

“He’s leaving.” She replied, in a quiet, dead voice. He began to pace up and down the room, removing his pale blue tie and throwing it on one of the leathers chairs.

I didn’t know what to say. I was lost standing in the living room I had grown up in, the loud crimson wallpaper being my only comfort. Everything suddenly seemed tainted now. Everything in the room was now bittersweet. The peachy china trinket box, a Christmas present from him to her, all his records on the coat rack, his huge brown oxfords I trip over everyday, why were they all staring at me?

He suddenly let out a huge sigh, and threw his head back, a universal action to show “I’m bored of this now”

The initial shock of hearing the news had now faded, and I was scrambling for something to say, to feel.

 
Words by Alice Beatty do not copy or steal.

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