Welcome To My World, Stranger
My Mother: Rhiannon
I receive a haughty slap on the face and I wince.
“Chrisssy, why’d you take so fucking long to get home?” My Mum slurs at me, obviously already drunk.
Now, normally I don’t like to call my Mum, ‘Mum’; she’s known to me as Rhiannon. And she’s perfectly OK with that. I don’t tend to call my Dad, ‘Dad’, either. He’s just Jack.
I inch backwards, dragging my bag along with me. Unfortunately, she too, steps forward aggressively, her greasy, brown chestnut hair framing her pale face. Her pursed lips are dry and cracked, and her teeth are stained yellow.
“Answer me, dammit.” She says, her blood-shot emerald green eyes trying to focus on my face etched with fear.
“I SAID ANSWER ME!” She screams, stamping her left foot and also startling Chas, who is in my pants pocket.
Of course, my brain was racing, and my heart was beating faster than ever; I had to get upstairs somehow.
I decided to tell the truth:
“I… I stopped in the corner shop to buy something to eat, I was hungr–”
“HUNGRY? HOW CAN YOU BE HUNGRY WHEN ME AND JACK GIVE YOU EVERYTHING YOU NEED?”
Suddenly, she began to flap her arms around dangerously, her over-sized t-shirt appearing to be breathing; I drop my bag and get as close to the door as I physically can, and shut my eyes, once more.
When I open my eyes, everything is silent; Rhiannon has gone somewhere.
I stay rooted to the spot and look longingly at the staircase just meters in front of me; if only…
In the kitchen I can hear the clink of glass bottles: alcohol.
I then make a break for it; I grab my bag and begin to climb the stairs, two steps at a time. Rhiannon bursts out of the kitchen, two beer bottles in hand. I risk a quick glance over my shoulder and quickly yell:
“WORLD PEACE, RHIANNON!”
I run into my room, lock the door and throw my bag on my bed.
Clearly, I can hear Rhiannon:
“DAMN YOU, CHRISTOPHER HALEN!
SCREW WORLD PEACE;
SCREW IT, YOU HEAR ME?
COME HERE, YOU BASTARD!”
I sit on the edge of my bed and look across the musty room: there, is a mirror.
In the mirror, there is a boy.
He looks about 15 years old; he’s got dark eyes and dark hair; also a pale face with a red hand-mark upon it.
I watch the boy as a single tear rivers its way down his face, leaving a glistening trail of his sorrow behind.
“Chrisssy, why’d you take so fucking long to get home?” My Mum slurs at me, obviously already drunk.
Now, normally I don’t like to call my Mum, ‘Mum’; she’s known to me as Rhiannon. And she’s perfectly OK with that. I don’t tend to call my Dad, ‘Dad’, either. He’s just Jack.
I inch backwards, dragging my bag along with me. Unfortunately, she too, steps forward aggressively, her greasy, brown chestnut hair framing her pale face. Her pursed lips are dry and cracked, and her teeth are stained yellow.
“Answer me, dammit.” She says, her blood-shot emerald green eyes trying to focus on my face etched with fear.
“I SAID ANSWER ME!” She screams, stamping her left foot and also startling Chas, who is in my pants pocket.
Of course, my brain was racing, and my heart was beating faster than ever; I had to get upstairs somehow.
I decided to tell the truth:
“I… I stopped in the corner shop to buy something to eat, I was hungr–”
“HUNGRY? HOW CAN YOU BE HUNGRY WHEN ME AND JACK GIVE YOU EVERYTHING YOU NEED?”
Suddenly, she began to flap her arms around dangerously, her over-sized t-shirt appearing to be breathing; I drop my bag and get as close to the door as I physically can, and shut my eyes, once more.
When I open my eyes, everything is silent; Rhiannon has gone somewhere.
I stay rooted to the spot and look longingly at the staircase just meters in front of me; if only…
In the kitchen I can hear the clink of glass bottles: alcohol.
I then make a break for it; I grab my bag and begin to climb the stairs, two steps at a time. Rhiannon bursts out of the kitchen, two beer bottles in hand. I risk a quick glance over my shoulder and quickly yell:
“WORLD PEACE, RHIANNON!”
I run into my room, lock the door and throw my bag on my bed.
Clearly, I can hear Rhiannon:
“DAMN YOU, CHRISTOPHER HALEN!
SCREW WORLD PEACE;
SCREW IT, YOU HEAR ME?
COME HERE, YOU BASTARD!”
I sit on the edge of my bed and look across the musty room: there, is a mirror.
In the mirror, there is a boy.
He looks about 15 years old; he’s got dark eyes and dark hair; also a pale face with a red hand-mark upon it.
I watch the boy as a single tear rivers its way down his face, leaving a glistening trail of his sorrow behind.