My father’s fist slams against the table and I avert my gaze from the crystal water-jug. The bubbles cease, though the handle has crazed.
I slump exhausted, anticipating further rebuke; there is none.
He retreats behind the gates of his despair, oblivious of my achievement, as he has been since the day Georgie was born.
My mother regards me strangely. Does she suspect, I wonder?
I willed little Georgie dead. And he died.
Would they love me if I willed him back again?
Their dilated nostrils, the napkins crushed against their mouths tell me this doesn’t work either.
OK – no apologies for this desperate piece of black comedy. It was either this or a no-show this week. I’ve struggled with this week’s Friday Fictioneers in a way that I haven’t for many, many months, totally bereft of creativity. Thanks to Rochelle for her leadership and to CE Ayr for a photo that deserved better from me.