Serrated edges

Serrated Edges

The tight, compact room upstairs created a feeling of claustrophobia, and did nothing to smooth the serrated edges of two people, caught in a web of their own making.

A washer, dryer, and old cast-iron sink lined one wall. The other wall held a protruding, built-in painted dish cabinet, with a 40's vintage Frigidaire in the corner. In between, there was barely enough room for a narrow aisleway that aimed toward a sun-lit window, fringed with short, white laced curtains.

He stood with his back facing away from the sink, gulping glass after glass of tap water, while the continuous sound of the flow from the faucet created the only soothing effect in the room. The temperature was in the 90's, and the room was steaming. No breeze flowed through the wide-open window.

It was about four in the afternoon, and soon his eldest son, an inveterate delinquent, would be returning home from school. Standing by the sink he waited impatiently, his blood boiling, adding heat to the room.

From upstairs, you could hear the sound of the heavy entry door below pounding open and shut, as people entered, or left, to return back to the street.
The heavy door slammed.

The trudging sound of shoes hitting stair treads sent a cold chill through his father's spine, as he stood, one hand on the edge of the sink, the other, turning the cold tap handle in the off direction as though to help steady himself. He had an immediate urge to scream out to his son, but restrained himself.

Standing thin and slick at the top of the staircase, his son heard his father roughly shout to him, "come here, boy".
Grabbing his son by the arm, his father immediately questioned him, concerning another criminal act. His son shouted an expletive toward his father's ear, whose face turned as red as Georgia clay.
The torrid heat rapidly ignited their passions into a flare.

Suddenly, swiftly, as though from nowhere, the shine of silver appeared, flashing and cutting through the air above one of their heads.
Their bodies entwined. The boy's hand, reaching for the sky, like an olympian clutching a torch, clasped the thicker forearm of his father.
Thinking, "If I could only control him as he has controlled me these seventeen years, if I could briefly exert my power over his."

Their arms tensed into a locked position over the dryer, the blade stationary, just inches from his father's head.
Violent talk erupted, as they tested one anothers will, culminating in a subdued climax of relief.

The hard sound of metal hitting the old iron sink brought closure to their frustrations, as they clutched one another in a brief moment of atonement.



Copyright 2006/author131/