The Boy

Torim sat on the navy blue floor of his bedroom and lapped his opponent for the fourth time on Diavolo Grand Prix II on GameStation.  The game had been a present from Stephen and bored Torim to death.  Racing round and round in circles, smashing up the other drivers and the pointless little on screen celebrations every time he got to a new level.  Torim had got through all twelve levels in two days.  If only mum or Stephen would buy him a strategy game.  He’d be in control then, of people’s lives, whole towns and cities.  He’d have all the power.  He’d be the total ruler of his own world.

No-one had called Torim for dinner.  It was nearly ten past seven.  He’d heard mum and Stephen giggling earlier, but now, apart from his game, the house was silent.  Torim stopped the game and climbed up on his cabin bed.  He knelt on his Arsenal pillow and looked out of the window.  It was pitch black already.  He hated this time of the year.  It would be darker earlier and earlier for months and months and months.  It would be dark for nearly a whole year.  Torim wouldn’t be allowed out.  He hardly went out after school anyway.  He was only allowed to visit Sebastian across the road and Rochelle who lived near school, but only when her nan was away because Rochelle’s nan didn’t like having too many children in the house.  Rochelle was eight years old had two big brothers, just like Torim.  But Rochelle’s brothers were 11 and 17 and they liked her.  Torim’s brothers, Matthieu and Jasper were much older than him.  They’d both been to university and got a degree. 

A degree of what? Torim wanted to know.

Jasper lived in a maisonette with Jemima.  They were a-career-couple-and-not-planning-any-children-for-at-least-ten-years.  Matthieu had packed a bag to Thailand or something.  Mum had got a postcard from him ages ago, before it had started getting dark.  Stephen said Matthieu had gone to Thailand to go cat-housing.  Mum had banged her wine glass down on the table and told Stephen to shut up.  Torim didn’t understand because Matthieu was allergic to cats.  Was it like if you got really close to loads of cats you’d be cured of your allergy?  Like if you’re afraid of mice or spiders and you sit in a tank filled with then you’ll realise that your fear is for nothing and then you’ll be cured.  Mum had just stared at him.  Stephen had laughed and told him to finish his dinner before it got cold.  It was twenty past seven now.  Torim was hungry.  He went to the bathroom, had a wee and washed his hands.  Then he went downstairs. 

Stephen was sitting at the kitchen table.  Mum was sitting on his lap.  They were snogging with tongues.  Stephen was moving his hands about under mum’s stripy blouse.

A plate on the counter was half filled with what looked like spicy pasta with chicken.  Torim wondered if he should help himself or wait for mum and Stephan to finish what they were doing.  In his red socks, Torim slowly walked over to the counter.  He picked up a fork from the draining board and tucked in.  The curly pasta was just the right temperature and not too spicy.  Mum’s tomato sauce (not from a jar) slid around his mouth making his taste buds sing hallelujah.  The chicken was cut to just the right size pieces, so Torim didn’t bother with a knife.  He didn’t even mind the little green bits.  What were they, basil? Spinach? Apple?  It didn’t matter.  Torim wondered what spicy was actually made of.  Did mum take grains of pepper and heat them up separately until they turned spicy?  Or was the spicyness found in a special kind of tomato?  Because beans on toast wasn’t spicy was it?  Torim speared some more curly, spicy, tomatoey, chickeny pasta with the fork.  He was still daydreaming about where spice came from and dropped the fork.  The sharp clatter of stainless steel on ceramic almost made mum fall off Stephen’s lap.
Mum buried her face in Stephen’s neck for a full two seconds, then sort of floated into a standing position. 
“You alright sweetpea?”
“Yeah” whispered Torim.  “Sorry” he said, fiddling with the fork.
“Go and sit down, I’ll bring this over” said mum spooning a bit more spicy pasta on to the plate.

Torim sat at the table and avoided eye contact with Stephen.
“You alright mate?”
Torim couldn’t be bothered to answer

“Don’t be rude Torim” said mum, putting the plate in front of him.
“I’m fine, I’m just hungry” he said.
“I was just about to call you down” said mum.

No you weren’t!  thought Torim.  You were too busy with your boyfriend.  Putting your tongue in his mouth!  Why would anyone do that?  And you forgot me last week when you were arguing with him and you were half an hour late picking me up from that stupid karate thing HE thinks is a good idea.  Toughen me up because I’m too quiet and girly?  If I was girly I’d wear dresses! 

Torim didn’t feel like eating anymore.. He wished mum would shut up.  He wished Stephen had never moved in.  He wished Matthieu would forget about cats and come home.  He wished Jasper and Jemima were just …nicer.

“I wish I wasn’t here” said Torim.