Breach

I try to think of a time when it wasn’t like this. The tenseness of the air, the hesitance in every breath, the sharpness of our eyes and double meanings behind our words. There’s grinding of teeth beneath chapped lips from my father and scraping of nails from my mother.

My heart races. It waits for someone to burst. Without meaning to I scrape my plate with my fork. Mother flinches. Her hazel gaze falls on me and that’s all it took for her to finally snap, “Bishop! What the hell was that?”

“I didn’t mean to,” I answer because in all honesty I didn’t. My hand just keeps shaking. I’m nervous. Having them both stare me down isn’t helping that. A lump forms in my throat because I know that she’s going to use this to turn into another argument.

“You see Howard, you’re never around to teach him any manners!”

Knew that was coming.

“You’re always at work and never home to teach your own son some simple table manners. At this rate he’s never going to get a girlfriend and who knows, he may grow up to be as useless a father as you are!” She’s spitting every few words. It’s pretty gross.

My dad scowls. His glare goes from me to her. It’s all out war now. “My own son? Don’t make me laugh! Bishop was born to another man, you whore! How dare you say I’m the reason he has no manners. It’s obviously from living in a house with you, a filthy whore!”

Is it sad that I can’t think of a time when it wasn’t like this? I go back as far as my brain allows me to remember. There is no memory of a pleasant dinner with the folks. Even as a child they would fight.

I stand from the dinner table. Neither of them notice my absence. They’re too busy hollering at one another to care.

I put my plate in the sink, head for the front door and leave without another word. They won’t care. Hell I’ll be surprised if they notice. The two will fight. Mom will get upset. Dad will leave. Mom will call one of her “friends” and spend the evening in her room with them.

That’s how it goes. It’s how it always goes.

I can’t stomach being in that house for too long.

“My, if it isn’t my favorite customer. It’s pretty late, isn’t it past your bed time?” Malcolm teases, the bartender at Frankie’s just a few blocks from my house. I come here often to play pool when I want to get my mind off things or more specifically my home life.

“Funny,” I respond with a snort. This brings a smile to Malcolm’s face. He doesn’t bother asking questions. That’s probably why I like him so much. He doesn’t try to pry. He’ll wait until you want to speak, if you want to at all.

“Go play a game,” he orders me, ushering me off towards the pool tables. “I’m sure someone will let you join in.”

Within minutes I’m engulfed in a competitive game of pool with a bunch of college kids. Only people under the age of 25 would get this hyped up about a game of pool. But hey, we can’t help it. Winning is important. If we don’t it hurts our pride and pride is very important!

It isn’t until midnight that I finally leave to return home. Malcolm wishes me a good night before kicking me out of the bar. If it gets too rowdy or late he’ll throw me out. This time both happened so I was ordered to head home.

Sighing, I shove my hands in my pockets. Mom is probably asleep by now with her “friend” right next to her. Dad is most likely at the office working, like always. I wonder if either of them even noticed I was missing…

By the lack of missed calls and text messages on my phone I’m guessing no…