Silence Protect Me

Days passed.

That’s the only way I can describe the aftermath. Time moved on. Hours blurred past. Nothing happened. Or at least- nothing as horrific as what Deedee and I had witnessed. For once, no details leapt out at me from day to day. It was all the same.

All the same, but not the same. Organised, but pure chaos. Smooth yet rough.

God, I was bored.

Not much happened after Deedee’s outburst. I went back to bed, woke up the next morning and had breakfast with everyone else. Alex was getting the third degree when I finally made my appearance at the table. Apparently he had sneaked out to go walking around the suburbs while we were watching the movie. It amazes me no one noticed he was gone! I didn’t even notice- and by now, everyone should realise pretty easily that I notice a lot. But he managed it- rocking up to the house casually at the disgraceful time of 6 AM. He woke a lot of people up in the process too. I gathered from his argument with Adie that the door was locked so he tried to get in through the window, setting off an alarm. Luckily for Alex Billie managed to turn it off before the police were alerted.

Not that Alex deserved any luck whatsoever.

After breakfast us Wright’s returned home, the only sound in the family imprisonment vehicle coming from a very hyperactive Tyler. Adie had served waffles for breakfast, and stupidly put the syrup in easy reach of my disgusting little brother. It took him about five seconds to grab the bottle, flick the top off and drink half the contents. I didn’t understand how he couldn’t have thrown up. Such an amount of sickly sweetness- it makes my throat close up just to think about it.

And then… Nothing.

I confined myself to my room willingly- only ever making trips out to make myself some two-minute noodles with the aid of my best friend, the microwave. Two minutes is hardly enough time for conversation, thank goodness, so I was rarely bothered on these recon missions. However, a couple of times I was forced to share the same room as my father, blanking out his lewd humour while waiting an eternity for my noodles. As I tried to block out his voice, the same thoughts ran through my head over and over. The scene from that terrible night flashed through my head on a continuous loop.

She was right about you… You are nothing but a lying, faithless worm…

How can he just stand there, making jokes with his children like there is nothing happening in the shadows? Is he still thinking about her, of her lithe sweating form draped across his frame, of slipping his loathsome lying tongue between her plump lips in a dark back room? Doesn’t it prey on his mind constantly, does he not feel guilty when he talked to us, knowing fully well of his destroying actions?

He brought us into this mess so we wouldn’t be screwed up. Obviously he has a different definition of what screws things up then what I do.

I don’t know why it preyed on my mind so much. I had come to terms with my mother being a complete slut years before. But with him- what is it about my father that forces me to condemn? Is it because I’m looking at him as the good balance on the scale of neutrality? Or is it because he was the one that always promised that he was all for the family?

Good and evil is not as simple as it looks. There are so many grey areas- maybe that is why I find it so difficult to categorise my actions. It would help if I had a little voice in my head, just like so many others are freely born with. But then again, what if that voice were evil and not good? Would then my judgement fall by the wayside?

What judgement? How could emotionless neutrality like myself possess any form of judgement?

I think I had been in my room too long. These thoughts were starting to drive me insane. But it would be suicide to try and leave at the moment. My mother was back from her retail therapy, the cute shoe spa, changing room massage- whatever the hell you want to call it. I personally found it amazing that anyone could stand looking at garments for more then a couple of hours, let alone almost a week! She rocked up the day before, around 10:30 PM, dropped off by her giggling minions. Drunk as a skunk, like always. My father had to call me downstairs to help him get her and her stuff into the house. She was so pissed she could barely walk one step in front of her, so navigating her way to the door carrying a heap of shopping bags would be impossible.

I won’t pretend that getting her inside was easy. Not for a second. When my mother is drunk, she turns manic-depressive. But not manageable manic depressive, like from super euphoric to suicidal in the space of 5 seconds. No, it was more like cold and snide to violently abusive. Unfortunately for me, the switch was on the “violently abusive” side. Thank God that it was summer break. I shudder to think what kind of attention I’d get if I went to school looking like half a panda.

By some joint effort, we managed to get her in bed without losing any teeth. And then… Back to my room. Back to the sameness.

Or, so I thought.

The next morning, the first thing I heard was a shriek from downstairs. Startled, I stumbled out of bed, wondering blearily who was being murdered and whether I should help or not. I must admit my brain isn’t exactly whizzing from the minute I open my eyes. Otherwise I would’ve realised my mother was calling me to get my “scrawny ass” downstairs before she “came up there and dragged me down by my girly hair”.

Honestly, I miss being woken up by the sound of birds chirping.

Allowing myself ten seconds to get changed and brush my hair, I almost fell downstairs, dashing into the kitchen like my life depended on it. Which, looking at my situation, most likely does. Mother “Dearest” looked up from the counter, giving me her trademark death stare. Her carefully styled crimson locks bounced as her head turned to face me, reminding me (inappropriately) of Shirley Temple. Creepy.

“Took you long enough,” she growled hoarsely, her voice ragged from three days of non-stop binging. “I need coffee. Now.”

I was sorely tempted to say “What? No please?”. Very tempted. But it was too early in the morning to take any suicidal leaps, so instead I complied with her wishes and starting making her beverage. My mother, surprisingly enough, is a fairly good cook when she’s not drunk or hung over (yes, sometimes she is almost completely sober. Hard to believe, isn’t it?). Of course, since she’s rarely awake without one of the two applying, Deedee and I had to teach ourselves how to use the kitchen appliances. I usually cook dinner- for breakfast we eat cereal and there’s no such thing as lunch unless we’re going out. Dinner is usually pasta, cheese-on-toast, rice with vegetables or microwave meals. That’s basically all I can make, although I’ve been looking at other recipes lately to see if I can broaden my horizons. I’m not about to let Deedee take over cooking! She’s smart- extremely smart- but some of her culinary ideas are just plain disgusting.

My mother groaned impatiently over my shoulder, poking me in the back while I poured the strong-smelling mixture into her cup.

“Jesus Christ, it’s a cup of coffee, not a freaking piece of art!” she complained, snatching the cup out of my hand as soon as I finished pouring. A few brown droplets sprayed on the counter, a product of my mother’s carelessness. I sighed, grabbing the paper towels. A “thanks” wouldn’t be that much effort. Then I remembered who I was thinking this about and immediately corrected myself.

I haven’t heard my mother thank me for anything since Deedee was born- and that was a sarcastic thanks, anyway.

“Actually, a cup of coffee can be a piece of art, Mom,” I heard Deedee say behind me. I turned to see her seated at the table with Tyler, munching on a piece of toast slathered with peanut butter and carrot slices. Ew.

“No it can’t. Don’t be stupid,” my mother mumbled, blowing on the coffee.

“No, really, it can!” Deedee insisted, having to be right, as usual. “There was this famous artist in the 60’s called Andy Warhol who painted soup cans. He would probably think cups could be art too.”

“What? Why would anyone want to paint soup cans? And Andy Warhol painted people, like Marilyn Monroe- although, he wasn’t that good at painting. Wrong colours.”

“Mom, he painted the soup cans as well- plus, he did the wrong colours on purpose-“

“Mommy,” Tyler interrupted, sick of being ignored, “’O is Mary-Lyn?”

“Marilyn, Tyler. God, I’m starting to think you need a speech therapist. She was a famous movie star ages ago- very pretty. Lots of men liked her.”

“Oh,” Tyler mused, picking up some cereal on his spoon and crunching it noisily. “’Ou mean like ‘ou?”

My mother didn’t reply- too busy frowning into her coffee cup. Oh no. What was wrong? I took a couple of nervous steps back. My mother never had much patience, especially not for mistakes. Especially not for my mistakes.

“What sort of shit is this, Ivy?” she hissed, spitting into the cup. “I’m not getting a buzz.”

By that she meant the caffeine. She doesn’t take drugs in her coffee, however much she seems like an addict. I glanced over to the coffee pot, trying to figure out what I’d done wrong. I had put in the coffee mix, right? Stupid. Of course I did, otherwise she’d be asking why her coffee was clear! The jar of instant coffee sat by the pot innocently, daring me to find something wrong with it. I read the label quickly-

Decaf. Shit. I gave my mother decaf.

“Uh,” I stumbled, fight or flight responses kicking in alarmingly quickly. “I- er- I-“

“Goddamn it, Ivy! I asked you a simple question!”

Funnily enough, that statement didn’t help me in the least.

“I… I might have put in decaf instead,” I whispered hurriedly, eyes super-glued to the floor.

“WHAT? Decaf! Why the hell would I want FUCKING DECAF?” she screeched, perfect teeth bore in a lion-esque snarl.

It wasn’t my fault. She was the one that took the decaf out of the cupboard and placed it there. How was I meant to know it wasn’t the correct coffee? Would you have checked it on impulse? Would anyone notice the difference?

Of course, none of these excuses would ever be good enough for my mother, even if I dared to argue my case. She still would find some flawed logic to punish me over. Once she made me run around the house for three hours because she couldn’t find her lip-gloss. Now, why on earth would I know where her lip-gloss was? Unless she thought I had stolen it because my lips were feeling dry. It turned out she had left it in the bathroom. Oh well. I can’t complain that I never get any exercise.

Beside me, I heard Tyler give a small shriek. In what felt like slow motion, I lifted my head, expecting to see demons cavorting around the kitchen. What I saw instead was a hovering brown cloud of liquid, spinning in the air like a drunken astronaut around a satellite. It took a moment for me to realise that the cloud was hot coffee, heading straight for my unprotected figure. That moment was when the coffee actually hit me, drowning my skin in disgusting-smelling liquid. Real mature, Mother, I thought to myself, sounding as bitter as the beverage I was covered in. Just go ahead and throw the coffee at me, like a two-year-old…

I guess I should be counting myself lucky that she didn’t throw a punch instead.

“Fix me another coffee- this time with caffeine in it,” my mother ordered, her lip curling as I dripped onto the kitchen floor. Deedee got up from the table without another word, fetching the paper towels and dropping down to mop up the puddle like a scullery maid. My mother treats all of her family like servants- excluding Tyler. For some reason, she thinks that Tyler is the sole reason why the sun shines every day. Parents aren’t meant to have favourites, but it’s pretty clear she would push us into the path of an oncoming train to get Tyler off the tracks.

“Mommy, is ‘ou da same age as Mary-Lyn?” Tyler asked innocently, undisturbed now that the coffee had found its mark. He poured himself more lard-bits from the cereal box, waiting for the milk to consume them before he dared to stuff his face. My mother, not in the mood for patronising, shrugged.

“I don’t know. She’s dead now, anyway.”

“’Ell, is she da same age as ‘Eeta? ‘Eeta’s ‘eally purty too!”

Deedee and I froze simultaneously, looking at our younger and stupider sibling in horror. What? How did he know about her? Unless- no. I would have seen him if he had been watching. Right?

“Hmm?” my mother asked, dragging her eyes upwards. “Who’s Eeta?”

“Oh, dat’s not ‘ow ‘ou say it!” Tyler chortled. “Nah… It’s an ‘Rrrr’ word. Uh… Rrrreeta. ‘Ike dat!”

“Rita? I don’t know any Rita’s.”

“Oh, but Daddy does!”

It was almost as if Tyler had taken out a slingshot and pegged a rock at my mother’s head. She jerked around, turning to face her youngest son. Suddenly coffee wasn’t an issue. My mother is very possessive about my father, however much she hates him. He is her main source of income, her supply of shopping money and hallowed credit cards. Without him, she is nothing.

“Really?” her teeth ground together, her voice filled with broken glass and abandoned razor blades. “He knows a pretty lady called Rita?”

“Oooo yes!” Tyler giggled, slapping a doughy hand on the table. “’E does. And ‘e tinks she’s ‘eally purty too! ‘E said so, when dey ‘ere hugging in da laundry. ‘E called ‘er bootiful!”

If I could’ve moved any muscle in my body at that moment, I would’ve pushed him off his chair mid-sentence. But seeing as I was stuck in premature rigor mortis, I could only watch in dismay as the soap opera unfolded. Hopefully Deedee could handle things. She’s smart- and very capable.

“What?” my mother hissed, her Delilah-esque eyes narrowing. “He was hugging her in the laundry?”

“Uhuh!” Tyler nodded, unwittingly signing his own death sentence. “’Ut I tink she ‘ad a booboo, ‘coz she was making funny noises-“

CRASH! The coffee cup flew from her hand, exploding on the opposite wall with a shower of porcelain. Tyler ducked, whimpering loudly under the table. He didn’t know that he’d said anything bad, of course, being a complete infant. Deedee let out a dry sob, her knuckles turning white as she clutched at her forgotten toast. Carrot slices and breadcrumbs covered her fingers.

“YOU!” my mother screeched, thumping the top of the table, causing Tyler to whimper even louder. “WHAT ELSE DID YOU SEE? TELL ME NOW!”

“T-T-Tyler’s m-m-mistaken,” my brave sister stammered, taking a step in front of the table. My mother faced her like an angry bull to a matador, her nostrils flared in rage. Deedee gulped. Her hands trembled as she stared up at our mother.

“H-h-he means Rita, his, uh, teacher!” she finally spat out, her mouth having trouble keeping up with her whirring brain. “Er, D-d-dad went to pick Tyler up, a-a-and the teacher said she was a fan, so Dad h-h-hugged her…”

She trailed off, realising her story made absolutely no sense. School was out, for one, plus my mother knows that Tyler’s teacher is a young “cute” male from a parent teacher meeting. Venom poured out of my mother’s eyes, paralysing Deedee instantly.

“You know something,” my mother said quietly, her voice laced with cyanide.

“N-n-no-“

“You do. You know something, and you’re lying to protect your scumbag father.”

“Mom- please, I’m telling the-“

The infamous claws shot out, grabbing Deedee by the shoulders in a bear-like grip. My mother jerked Deedee closer, her mad eyes inches away from Deedee’s shocked face. I could only watch helplessly as my mother shook my little sister mercilessly, curls bouncing as she screamed into her face:

“WHAT DO YOU KNOW? TELL ME, YOU LYING LITTLE BRAT! WHAT HAS YOUR FUCKING FATHER DONE NOW, HUH? SCREWED SOME WHORE IN THE LAUNDRY? TELL ME!”

Deedee’s head bounced dementedly, spit flying in her face. I heard her scream back, skin turning pink from the effort of squeezing out words past my mother’s verbal barrage.

“I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING! I DON’T! DAD HASN’T BEEN DOING ANYTHING! I DON’T KNOW! PLEASE, I DON’T KNOW!”

From under the table I saw Tyler dash on his knees for the door, going on a mission to alert our father about Mother’s psychopath rampage. He had realised I wasn’t going to do anything, most likely. I just couldn’t. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I was completely frozen, and no amount of family violence was about to thaw me.

When my father finally burst into the room, my mother had her hands buried in Deedee’s hair and was pulling cruelly. She would stop at nothing to get the prised information. It was lucky our father made an appearance when he did, otherwise my mother may have spotted the kitchen knives and gone to work with those.

“What is going on?” my father yelled over the racket, grabbing a pan off the counter and slamming it against the wall. The noise had the same effect as the pause button on the remote. Everyone froze, embroiled deeply in their dramatic actions. Only, it was reverse for me. I unfroze- and wisely took a couple of steps back.

“Teresa, let go of Deedee. NOW!” my father thundered, taking a step towards my mother. She immediately let go of Deedee’s blonde locks, letting my sibling fall to the floor in a sobbing heap. She then straightened up, giving my father an ugly smile as she picked the blonde hairs from beneath her nails.

“Hello Frank,” she hissed, sounding a lot more intimidating then when she had been screaming like a bloodthirsty harpy. “I heard an interesting story about you today.”

“I don’t give a damn- what I’m interested in is why you were trying to scalp our daughter!” my father said angrily, helping Deedee to her feet. She sniffed, clutching at his arm unsteadily. My mother didn’t notice. She was too intent on trying to burn my father’s face with her eyes, stepping closer as the heat notched up.

“Well, you see, this little story wasn’t a very nice little story. It involved you, fucking some cheap slut behind my back in a laundry. And Deedee, well, she’s never quite grasped that lying just gets you into trouble. Especially if you’re lying for some lowlife SWINE!”

My father paled for a second, almost merging with the cream walls. He looked at Tyler dazedly, and then down at Deedee, who was nestled under his arm. My mother noticed this and laughed manically, her voice smashing against the walls like her flying coffee cup.

“Oh yes, I know about Rita. Your regular whore, or were you just cruising the neighbourhood and picked her off up the street-“

“Oh look who’s fucking talking. You, the former groupie, for crying out loud! Don’t worry- the only whore I’ve ever picked up is you.”

This was new. Usually our dear protective mother was the only one that ever forgot to censor herself in front of us. Not father- oh, who am I kidding? It feels odd calling him “father”- I’m too used to the over commercialised nickname of “Dad”. Dad usually controlled himself better in an argument. But this time, something had snapped. Whether it is the fact that Deedee’s hair pulling had been one step too far, or that my mother had called his beloved a whore, I don’t know.

The only thing I did know was that I wasn’t about to stick around to see where this all ended. I think the rest of my family released that too. I wasn’t too inconspicuous when I darted out of the kitchen door.