Soothe

Alan sat on the porch; a half empty plate of food lay next to him. His parents’ voices could be heard even through the closed doors. He could picture his mother saying spiteful things, her face turning an angry red. He could picture his father crushing his yellow stress ball while screaming back. Initially, his father used the stress ball after a particularly long computer session. “Don’t want to get carpal tunnel, now, do I?” his father had said to him. He didn’t know what carpal tunnel was. He hadn’t asked, either. Now there was no time to ask. His parents were so caught up in their own complicated worlds they had no time for him.

Now that his parents fought a lot, he spent a lot of time on the porch. In all his 8 years, he had never witnessed such a tense atmosphere at home. He couldn’t even bear to be around his parents. Meal times were the worst. They either yelled at each other or maintained a cold silence. He wasn’t sure which was worse. Sometimes, he would slip away with his plate and no one would notice. The last time his mother had given him so much as a concerned look was when he had come home early one day from school with a stomach ache. The minute he felt better, she had zoned out again. 

Today’s fight was about her unkempt her. His father had made some snide remark about how her hair was so untidy. She had retaliated saying with all the stress that he gave her she had no time to tend to her hair. Alan had picked up his plate and walked out. He could still hear snatches of the conversation. The fight about unkempt hair was now about unpaid bills. Alan’s young mind couldn’t keep up with the bitter verbal blows that his parents were exchanging. He stuck his fingers in his ears and wished that they would stop.

He thought of the time when his parents still loved him and each other. He missed falling asleep between them. He missed his mother ruffling his hair at breakfast; while his parents sneaked a kiss which he pretended to not notice. If he was sick, his mother would stroke his hair till he fell asleep. He craved their attention. In a selfish way, he wanted them to stop fighting long enough to look at him.

Alan realized soon enough that sticking his fingers in his ears wasn’t really helping. He got up and started walking around in his backyard. He wondered what he could do to make his parents stop fighting. Finally, he had his answer. He walked over to an old rickety table where his father kept his toolbox. He picked up a rusted hammer and toyed with it. He placed his small hand on the table and brought down the hammer on his hand with all the force he could muster. There was lesser blood than he expected but the pain was beyond belief. His scream pierced through the afternoon air. For a split second there was absolute silence. Then his parents came running. His father saw his hand and ran to get ice. His hand looked like it was broken. His mother, shocked to see him in pain, started kissing his head, his face, his injured hand. Tears ran down her cheeks. His father returned with the ice. They both tried to hold him close. They both tried to comfort him. Between their stricken faces and his immense pain, he felt a sense of calm. His aching hand has soothed him. Standing there, his parents hugging him, he realized that despite the streaks of blood on the front of his shirt, he was happier than he had been in a while.