Fraying the Edges

                                                                    Fraying the Edges




                                                The paper felt real in his hands. Soft but firm. He sat down. He stood up. The clock ticked. He had forgotten time. It was still early, perhaps. His results. A whole future before him, exactly what he wanted. Wondrous eyes rested on his mothers' face. Nodding at her, she beamed. He would be a teacher of english and spanish. All those years of applying in pained expectation and the crush of rejection never took his hope. A career of endless possibility. The clock ticked. His expression turned sober. He would be home soon. Not enough time to get away. The same words would pass between them. The old familiar strain. Sometimes he returned the antagonism just to provoke reaction. In a perverse way it was fun.
                                                In the shower, he allowed the water to flow over his body. His fingers gingerly touched his lower back. That persistent ache had returned. It was easier to ignore health. As he waited for the news he rarely ate. Sleep lingered in the distance. Pressure made breathing difficult. He wondered if it was worth it. Then the voice reminded him of what he was trying to escape. Resting his head against turquoise tiles he listened. The lock clicking and the slam of the door. Nothing changes. A briefcase for his verb books and poetry for the younger ones. A suit wouldn't be believable, not at his age. Yet, he knew what would look well.
                                              'Matthew, I made bolognese', his mothers' voice travelling through the hall. His stomach clenched. He needed to take better care of himself. Interviews made him nervous. The door to the study was closed. He couldn't smell the whiskey, but it would come. The sauce tasted of ripe tomatoes and herbs. His mother bandaging his knee when he fell on ice. The pain had slashed at his kneecap relentlessly. Ugly red drops spattered his uniform. Her cooking always made him recall the past. His mind replaying the memories without hesitation. He wished they would stop. The journey to the study was a known and pointless one. Three knocks to announce his presence.
                                              'Come in', the baritone voiced beckoned. Closing the door, he went to the desk. The room was filled with books. A library that stretched ceiling to floor. Flames growled in the hearth. He swallowed the urge to retch when the scent of the cigar assaulted his nostrils. Words hung in the poisoned air. His father sat with his hands tucked behind his head. He wore an expression of detachment. The green slip of paper passed hands. The pull had begun. Feeling the air thicken, Matthew averted his gaze to the slate coloured carpet. The paper was left on the desk. 'So, you're going to be a teacher', his father stated. Matthew nodded woodenly.His ears waited to hear the laugh. Spiteful and condescending, but it never came. Not meeting the cold eyes, Matthew refused to hope.
                                            When the time would come, this would fade away, but he needed to know the reaction. A breath and he raised his head. Contempt shadowed his fathers' face. It was not surprising. Matthew was the disappointment, since the day he rode his bicycle without the stabilisers. The front wheel passed over a large stone and Matthew lost his belief. Balance gone, he sat on the grass, stunned. 'How slow are you? Most kids your age can ride their bikes without help. Guess you're special'. Isn't it amazing how words can burn. Matthew never responded. A fly struggled with the lightbulb overhead. The pull was becoming unbearable. 'I thought you would be pleased', he murmured hesitantly. Blue eyes turned to ice.
                                              His father rose and walked to the bay window overlooking the lake. Blue clouds and the stench reached everywhere. A spark flew up from the embers, landing on the fireplace. 'I won't congratulate you, what would be the point?, his father replied calmly. He felt as if he were being dismissed like an incompetent employee. Fixing his courage, Matthew prepared himself. 'Considering how I achieved this without your guidance or support, your congratulations would be somewhat hollow, don't you think?' This was never done before. When he was younger, Matthew simply accepted that he was average to his father. However, being average meant beatings with the buckle of a belt, humiliation in front of his peers and the knowledge embedded in his mind of how his future would be if he ever had children of his own.
                                              'Don't act like you have a backbone, Matty, it doesn't suit you', his father snarled. Wincing at the nickname, he steadied himself to continue. 'I'm moving out. I'll be staying with some friends', he replied. Looking somewhat taken aback, his father leaned on the bureau. 'How will you make rent?', he asked. 'I have savings', was the hushed response. Strings were weakening from the strain. It wouldn't be long now. That old laughter boomed in his ears. The laugh that told him without words that he'd never amount to much, he was the mistake. His father had envisoned him taking over the company as managing director and continue the glory of the empire. Instead, he wanted to work for pittance teaching mindless adolescents. Then he could endure the consequences without assistance.
                                              He felt it snap. It was finally over. He simply turned on hie heel and walked out without waiting for more. The shadow looming over him had disappeared. As he eased himself out through the doors, he paused. His mother sat on the stairs, nodding her head. Her eyes were a glassy red but her voice was the same. 'Will you ring me and let me know how the first day went?' He hugged her frail frame to his. 'Of course I will, Mum', he whispered. Her hopeful expression made him clench. The string had snapped. Finally. His future was visible for the first time. He pushed the piece of paper that held his address into her pocket. Outside, the bus was pulling up.