Today’s Prompt: Where did you live when you were 12 years old?
It was common for their neighbors to hear them have altercations. But attempts to help have not been returned kindly. Denial were all that met their ears when the neighbors acted out of concern. The doorstep was guarded by a grate, and what lies between had not changed for the past 12 years: an ordinary shoe rack, a red welcome mat and the umbrella stand.
It could be described as a perverse blessing for what lay behind the door to remain behind the door, for their neighbors to be fortunate to be spared from the family’s troubles. This was not a happy family. A temperamental father, a heartless mother were the ingredients to the unpleasant brew I call my family.
The front door opened to the living-cum-dining room. It was a rectangular room of warmth brightly lit by natural light, with a cozy ring of sofas with the TV on the side. The dining table was at the side nearer to the front door, and people who dined there had the unhealthy privilege of being able to watch TV while dining. Behind the TV was the corridor. It led to three rooms along the side and the final one at the end. One kitchen, one storage room, and lastly two bedrooms.
The bedrooms were awkward and their purpose were confused. Two people slept in the smaller one: the mom and her son. The father slept alone. He tried to repair the situation but
“It was the snores!” she exclaims, then she would retort, “I’m taking care of Fred!”
But it was the ultimatum that was never dropped; the key to unlock the marriage that was not twisted: “I don’t love you anymore.” But it was the truth. Here was where I lived when I was 12.