Cold and white, flurries muffle the air like clouds of frigid dust. Hurry on, persistent child. Wind stings, raw, bitter, like father’s loving caress. Abstain, willful young man.
Brother throws his keys on the table just inside the door and shakes the snow from the shoulders of his jacket as he takes it off. He goes to the kitchen to find boy sitting at the table, drawing a picture by the dim afternoon light.
“How’s mom?” asks boy.
“It was a miscarriage,” answers brother.
Boy looks up at brother and narrows his eyes.
“You wouldn’t know, you weren’t there!” brother disclaims.
Boy goes back to his drawing.
“What are you making?” brother asks.
“Nothing,” boy answers.
Brother peers over boy’s shoulder to behold a well detailed account of the previous night. Father stands over shattered mother, his mouth agape, his fist raised. Brother cowers, twitching in the corner, his knees to his chin. Below the drawing boy has written, ‘Father’s Love‘.
Brother, snatching away the drawing, shreds it with his teeth before eating it.
To go to the beginning of this series click here
Disclaimer: This story (and series) is semi-fictional, and is in no way connected to persons alive nor dead. Apart from certain facts, it is a product of the author’s imagination.
lindaghill.com 