Family Business

[Some say that the pen is mightier than the sword. This is definitely a more peaceful way of revenge. :)]

He hated it when they yell at each other. The things they say to each other were so precisely crafted, they hurt like a slow knife, carving deep into the heart. Of course they would always call a truce few days later, but he often wonders how they can look each other in the eyes and accepts each other’s overused “I didn't mean it”. He knows that they meant it in some ways. He is certain that they know that they meant it too. Moreover the truces they've ever called were just rest spites during which they rearm themselves with even more cruel statements and the setting of moral traps for each other.

The fights are not easy for him to endure. When hostility commences, sooner or later, he would be dragged into it, assuming the position of a judge. He dreads the job, dreads to have to pick a side that is in the right. How can he? He loves his parents way too much to do anything to harm either one. Not to mention the fact that they both have very valid arguments that are, in their own ways, right.

He knew, of course, that if he is just brave enough to talk to his parents about it. Just by telling them how much their fighting upsets him, the ordeals would stop. He knew, also, that they both love him as much as he loves them. He knew that they would do whatever for him. Whatever that pleases him. He knew if nothing else, he can stop the arguments before they are passed the point of no return. Oh he knew, he is just not brave enough to take action, and he hates himself very much for it.

One night his worst nightmare came true. It was the war to end all wars. The most vicious one he has experienced by far from his parents. The volume of their voices stunned him. Not sure what to do, if anything at all, he locked himself in his room and crouched in a corner, and started shaking.

His mind was grasped by a sudden urge to run downstairs to stop them from going any further. It took a while, but he ultimately had picked himself up and dragged his body to the door. He cracked the door open, but slammed it shut almost as quickly as he had it opened. The sound of shattering glassware had hit him like a sledgehammer. He was knocked right back to the same corner where he was too slow to act.

“Coward!” he called himself as he plugs a pair of ear buds in. Feeling lost and not giving a fuck, he irrationally slides the volume bar all the way up.

His ears were pulsating with pain, but he could've cared less. A question drifted into his consciousness, he wonders if they are really oblivious to the fact that whatever they are doing hurts him. But he was too tired to think any longer. He soon fell asleep.

He woke up early next morning with a stream of blood running out of his ears. He laid there for awhile until he noticed the familiar sound of his mother making breakfast was missing. He repeated the phrase “hopefully it’s just my ears” as he dresses to check on his parents.

It was a cold February morning, quite beautiful too. A snowstorm came through just the night before, leaving the neighborhood a smooth white complexion. Outside the children awoke early building snowmen and making snow angels. Everything looked so serene and harmless, but if one was to look closer, he or she would've noticed the two freshly made tire tracks in place of the usually late waking Haldemans' van and a hint of red was splattered on the windows of the master bedroom. And perhaps one would've also noticed the emptiness of the house from which a faint but definitely audible scream came.

But the children were busy having fun and the adults even busier preparing for the long day ahead of them.