Behind Closed Doors.

It's like a graveyard in here, Zach thought, and it wasn't far from the truth. The four bodies, all considerably pale, were stiff, their backs rigid to the wood supporting them. All were expressionless and each body was more decayed - mentally, rather than externally - than the one before it. Zach's jaw was clenched as he waited for his mother to serve dinner. Despite the clang of pots and pans and the drumming of his brother's bones on the table, there was a stony, suffocating silence. Nobody said anything, each left to their own individual thoughts.

Zach's mother placed a water-streaked plate in front of each of them. Zach muttered a 'thank you', but his mother gave no sign that she heard her younger son speak. She then piled weak pasta onto the badly washed plate. Zach robotically picked up his fork and began to eat. The pasta was undercooked and difficult to chew - not to mention tasteless - but he didn't say anything. It wasn't like they'd acknowledge his opinion anyway.

He felt a pair of eyes on him and knew who it was without needing to look up. He pushed another forkful of pasta between his lips and chewed slowly and deliberately. He knew that the eyes weren't on him anymore, and there was a sharp sound of his brother's fork tapping against the china plate that was supporting his untouched food. He knew that his father would be close to finishing his meal and that in about three minutes he would push his chair back, it would make that awful screeching sound against the tiles, and he would depart without a word to any of them. He knew that his mother was eating her food slowly, stealing glances at her older son whenever she saw fit. He also knew that every time his mother turned her watery blue gaze on her older child his position would be the same as last time. Zach knew that his brother would have his head resting in his left hand and that he'd be running his fork through the cooling food as if he was looking for some form of contraband. Zach had also mesmerised that pained look that would pass over his mother's face each and every time she saw her golden boy hadn't eaten anything. He knew it all without having to look up from his plate. His brother was looking at him again, Zach grinded the mouthful of pasta against his teeth in the slight hope that exerting his anger in such a way would urge his elder to remove his brown eyes from him.

His father pushed his chair back, Zach had taught himself not to flinch when he did this, it would turn his father’s attention to him and there'd be this look in his eyes that resembled the way one would look at an animal that has done something forbidden to it. So Zach continued to eat and assumed that his mother would be looking at her husband with a pleading look on her face.

"Eat your food, Jacob," Zach didn't know if his father was attempting to be assertive, if he was it didn't reach his vocal chords. His voice was hoarse from chain smoking since he was fourteen years old and that was the most emotion in it; he always sounded like he'd screamed his throat bloody and raw. He always sounded tired, even though Zach knew the most he had done all day was get up from behind his desk to take a leak.

"I'm not hungry," although Jacob's stomach disagreed and emitted a audible, ignorant snarl. Zach pushed some more pasta into his mouth, chewing quicker to avoid the argument that was soon to be ignited. Dinnertime was like a well rehearsed play in the O’Neil household. It rarely changed - except on those few days when Jacob decided to eat what his mother had cooked for dinner.

"Dammit, Jake!" Zach's father slammed his hand against the birch table, this time, Zach did jump and his mother let out a tiny squeak and spilled wine all over her skirt. She didn't move to clean it up, even though it was going to leave a nasty stain if she didn't. Zach picked the spirals of pasta of his legs and placed them back on his plate. There were a few orange-red marks left behind from the sauce his mother had used, but they'd be dealt with in the wash.

"Please, honey," came the tiny, weak voice of his mother, "please eat something."

Zach looked up and across the table at his brother, who met his emotionless gaze. Jacob's lips were set into a thin line, as if struggling to hold back the words that threatened to spill past them. He watched Jacob stab a few spirals with his fork and put them into his mouth. He was chewing the food as if it actually hurt to be nourished. He looked at Zach when he put another few into his mouth. Zach heard his father leave and knew that his mother would probably stay for a few moments before cleaning off the red wine that was tainting her skirt.

"Very good, Jacob. Thank you," his mother said while standing up. Zach could tell from the clicking of her high-heeled shoes against the wood floorboards that she was now in the living room.

"Stop looking at me," Jacob commanded.

"When you stop looking at me I'll gladly return the favour," Zach said, pulling the corner of his lips into an empty smirk.

"Hold up there, Zachary, you actually let a little emotion slip through."

Zach gritted his teeth together and placed his permanent glare on the plate in front of him. His brother let out a little chuckle; Zach balled his right hand into a fist and resisted the urge to fling the plate across the table. Instead, he stood up and put his plate in the sink along with the rest of the dishes littering the table.

"Enjoy your meal, Jacob," Zach said as he left his brother in the kitchen. His brother's name was like a bad taste in his mouth, it had been dirtied by all the wrong he'd done to him and his family. Zach tried to clear his mind as he made his way upstairs, focusing on the thin layer of dust that coated the wooden banister instead of all the troubles plaguing his mind. He thought about the History assignment that was due in next week and he hadn't even started yet. He thought of everything that would keep his mind away from his brother, but somehow, that was where every strand of thought led.

Zach was about to push open the door to his personal haven when he heard a gentle weeping coming from his parent's room. There was a horrible twist of hurt and helplessness in Zach's chest. He could see his mother sat there in the dim, her lovely face pressed into the palms of her worn hands. And it hurt. It hurt a lot. He wanted to go in there and place an arm around her tiny, sobbing figure, but she'd push him away. How many times had she pushed him away?

Zach drifted over to the door of his parent's large bedroom and placed his ear against the painted wood. He could hear every little hiccup that came past his mother's lips. He felt sick. Children weren't supposed to hear their parents like this. But how many times had Zach walked in on his mother weeping violently into her pillow? He was sick of counting, sick of counting all the times he had attempted to be noticed by his parents, sick of counting how many times he had heard his father screaming in the face of his brother. He was sick of it; sick and tired, yet he couldn't pull himself away from the door. Even when he heard his mother inhale deeply to calm herself down, he didn't move. He only stepped back when the door handle turned down.

Zach stared at his mother with the guilt of a child. She started back at him with little to no emotion. Her once beautiful thick black hair was now thin, greasy and littered with silver streaks. She wore no make-up, and her skin was red and blotchy from crying. She had changed out of her dinner clothes and wore a thick, dirty blue bathrobe that Zach was sure belonged to his father, as it hung of her delicate frame as if it were dragging her down.

"I'm sorry," Zach said in a tiny voice he did not recognise as his own. But his mother was gone. She'd probably been gone for quite a while. Zach stared straight ahead into the dark abyss of his parent's bedroom. He wondered if the picture of himself, his mother and Jake was still on the table beside her bed. He didn't dare go in and check, because he had a gut feeling that it wasn't.

He was only vaguely aware that he was crying. He absently brought his hand up to wipe the liquid off his cheeks. It didn't help, nothing helped much anymore. Zach threw himself onto his bed and his silent tears turned into loud, shaky sobs. His stomach muscles contracted with each breath he took; and this was often, as he felt he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. Zach pushed himself up off the bed, still sobbing, and grabbed the photograph with was framed on his bedside. Why had he saved it? It was just a stupid reminder that things used to be wonderful and now they were so horribly bad. He flung it across his room, as if blaming it for his momentary relapse into the crying mess he used to be. He pulled his knees into his chest and buried his face in his folded arms. He tried to steady himself, hating every hiccup that shook his body. He didn't know what time it was when he fell asleep like this or at what point he had lay down on his side and placed his thumb against his lips. He woke up with tear tracks dried on his cheeks and a sickening ache in his knees. He pulled up his jeans to find streaks of dried blood on his legs. He pressed his fingers lightly against the wound, but it wasn't bleeding anymore.

Zach sighed and made his way over to the computer, he slumped down in the swivel chair, which creaked when he leant back, and switched the machine on.