TWO.
After the hour-long dinner my father retired to the den, the only light illuminating the small room was the blue flicker of the television screen. In one hand, the remote; in the other hand, a bottle of beer. "Honey!" He would call every thirty, or so minutes; the one word got my mother out of her seat, into the kitchen, then into the den with a new beer. The process had become a precise art that now took her only eight seconds. Simon and I lounged in the living room, always, after dinner; we were working on a one thousand piece jigsaw puzzle that my mother found in the attic. The puzzle was of a greenhouse...All containing the same type of flower with a few tables scattered here and there. We had been working on it for two months and were only a mere quarter of the way finished.
"Do you have a stem leaf for this flower, Simon?" I didn't dare call Simon any of my lovey-dovey names, which I use around my mother or when we're alone. He looked at the puzzle, then at me, and then at the puzzle again.
"Are you insane? Look at the puzzle, Gabe! Look at it! All of the flowers are the same; all of the tables are the same. This puzzle is impossible! I don't even know why we're attempting it."
"Simon, we've been working on this puzzle for over two months...We're no longer ATTEMPTING this puzzle, we're LOST in it."
"Same difference."
A deep slurred voice from in the den: "Honey!" A fridge door opening, bottles clanking, pop!, fizz!, footsteps, silence. Eight seconds flat.
My watch beeped: 9:30 PM. "Are you ready to go to bed?" I asked.
"Sure thing," Simon said.
I found my mother. "Mom, Simon and I are going to bed."
"Sleep well, you two," she said. She kissed each of us on the cheek.
In my room, I turned on "who i am" by Andy Kuncl and stripped down to my boxers; I climed into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. The night weather was becoming chilly and goosebumps covered my bare skin. Simon turned the television on muted and stripped down to HIS boxers, climbed into bed next to me, and snuggled up against me, resting his head on my shoulder. His icy hand rest on my naked chest; I kissed his head and stroked his hair. "Alf" was on the TV, and even muted, we laughed at the funny parts; "Alf" was our favourite show.
Simon lifted his head and kissed me; a moment later, he rolled on top of me.
"Simon," I said, "I don't feel like it tonight."
"Don't feel like it? Why?"
"I can't stop thinking about dad and mom."
"What about them?"
"I'm pissed at my dad -- if he hits mom again, I'll snap, I swear."
"I know it sucks, but at least be glad that your parents are together."
"Yeah, but not willingly! My mother is afraid to leave dad because of what he might do."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, she told me, once."
"Gabe, we need to tell someone about this."
"I know we do, but mom said not to. She begged -- pleaded!"
"I know, Gabe, but if we don't tell, who knows what might happen!"
"I'm going to wait it out a little bit longer. Wait it out and see what happens."
"If you wait out much longer, you may not like what happens."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, let's face it: not to be mean, or anything, but your dad is a psycho --"
"Yeah --"
"Who knows what he's capable of doing. It could be anything. One day, HE might snap and do something drastic."
"Like what?"
"Who knows what! It could be anything."
"I want to tell, but I know mom will be upset with me --"
"How could she be upset with you when you may be saving her life?" He asked, his voice inflection raising and his tone become stern. He finally said what he had been avoiding saying directly the whole conversation.
My voice was whispery: "Do you...Do...Do you think that dad would kill mom?"
Simon looked at me and stroked my cheek. "I can't say one way or the other; I've heard stories, though. Plenty. Now..Stop worrying and get some sleep."
"I love you," I breathed, my mind racing.
"You too," he said.
Gunshot. Gunshot. Gunshot. Body fall. Thump! Thump! Thump! "Nooo!"
A scream. "Boy!" Slur. Slur. Deep. Deep. Gunshot. "Bastard!" "Nooo!"
"Your fault." Your fault. Fault. Fault. Fault. Your. Your. Fault. Your fault. You. You. You. Gunshot. Gunshot. Falling. Falling. Thump!
Thump! Down. Down. Down. "Your fault." Fault. Fault. Dead. Dead. "Ring around the rosie." Dead. Gunshot. Gunshot. "Pocket full of posies." Thump! Thump! Thump! Gunshot. Gunshot. Body fall. Down. Down. Stairs. "Ashes, ashes, we..." Gunshot. Slur. "Boy!" "Bastard!" Fault. Your fault. Thump! Thump! Fall. Fall. Body. Body. "ALL FALL DOWN!"
I shot up in my bed, my hair matted to my scalp and forehead with sweat. I looked at the clock, 2:36 AM; I looked at Simon, asleep. I laid back down and slept through to morning, the dream never coming back.