It's not often that I move away from the Fantasy forum, but we had to do this for GCSE exam practice for school. The actual work we had to do had a limit of two pages. Practically impossible to put any detail in that short amount of space. Anyway, the title for the work was 'My Greatest Regret,' but while re-writing this the story went in a different direction.
* * * * * *
It all started with the book. It was a bad idea, getting that book. I had been to the library after school, to take out said book, which explains why I was later than usual in arriving home.
I got home on a late Friday afternoon. Home was a claustrophobic, badly pebble-dashed terraced house, set in the middle of a council estate. Not ideal, but it did the job. Walking up to the front door, I had no anticipation of the coming events, mainly for the reason that I had no idea that they were coming.
I pushed open the cracked and peeling front door, and the smell of burnt burgers and chips wafted out. I could hear Mum and Dad - Irene and Steve - in the kitchen, giggling like two love-struck teenagers. Steve Jr., my elder brother, would be out with his mates, probably having a few fags and some booze. I get to share a room with him. Lucky me.
Angela would be upstairs, as usual, running up long telephone bills. I threw my bag down in the corner, and turned to go upstairs when the Twins arrived. The Twins. George and Georgie. I don't know whether my parents had had a little too much of the drink when they were born, or whether there had been a serious lapse of imagination on their part. Some people call it cute, but, I can assure you, there is nothing 'cute' about the Twins. I frequently think of them as the spawn of Satan. Evil in its purest form. Little blonde-haired, blue-eyed walking nightmares. Loving relatives call them the "Terrible Twosome," usually with a sweet smile and a five-pound-note each. Little do they know.
Anyway. I was anxious to read the doomed book, and so attempted to make my way upstairs.
"Where you goin'?" asked George. Did I mention they were nosy too?
"None of your bloody business," I replied.
"What you got there?" continued Georgie, oblivious to my previous answer, which I repeated. "Give us that!" she demanded.
"No," I replied. Not the most forceful answer, but then I'm not particularly good at confrontation.
"Give it!" they squealed together. "Give it us NOW!" They made a sudden grab for the book, and, small as they are, it was all I could do to keep both of them from wrestling the book from my grasp. After a silent yet breathy scuffle, the sound of tearing paper could be heard, and suddenly the Twins and I were both in possession of the book. I stood in disbelief for a moment, before unleashing my wrath upon them in the form of angry shouts. Needless to say my loud and abusive language attracted the attention of my parents, who rushed into the hallway.
"What the hell's goin' on 'ere?" Mum cried. In the angry rush to get our stories out into the open, not a word could be deciphered from either the Twins or from me. "Shut up!" screamed an exasperated Mum.
About Mum. She is, to put it simply, a rather large woman. She has a strange habit that requires her to dye her hair a chemical blonde colour, about once a month, that is obviously not natural, and does nothing for her cherry coloured complexion. You mustn't think from this that I don't love her, I am merely stating fact. She also has quite a high-pitched Birmingham accent, which can be quite comical at times. In her anger, though, this was no laughing matter.
Mum's yellow hair was dishevelled, her face redder than usual. "Now," she continued, more calmly, "what's goin' on?" Again our pleas for attention drowned out all other sound, forcing our tired mother to resort to shouts again. "For Christ's sake, one at a time!"
We were neither good listeners nor the most obedient of children, and we shouted each other down yet again. Mum was preparing to scream the house down another time when, at the most spectacularly awful timing imaginable, Steve Jr. chose to stumble through the front door, obviously quite drunk, and stinking of cigarettes. Mum stood speechless. But it was Angela that really put the icing on the cake. It was at this moment that she came downstairs, complaining about the noise we were making, and thus provoking the big-mouthed George to say, "But you've been on the bloody phone for three hours." Needless to say, Mum was not pleased.
During the course of these chaotic events, Dad stood quietly to one side, listening eagerly but trying not to get involved. I'm sure the Twins get their nosiness from him. He is the complete opposite to Mum, in both build and character. His hair is mud coloured, which exaggerates his already pale face. He is quite withdrawn, and spends hours on the decrepit computer in the back room.
That fateful afternoon was what led Mum to believe that the family had a problem. She told us this, quite hysterically, and upon our inquiries as to what she was going to do, she answered, rather more calmly this time, "Don't worry. I have an idea." This sounded rather ominous to us, and it was with five blank stares that Mum sent us to our rooms. That night I had the delightful honour of making sure that my brother 'got the bucket' at regular intervals. I advise you never to get in that situation if you can help it. The sight of half-digested vodka is not pleasant.
* * * *
It was the next week that we discovered what Mum's 'idea' was. We were going to go to a family counsellor. Well, Mum called it a 'family friend,' but even the Twins, at ten years of age, aren't that stupid.
It was with a tentative air that we entered the clean, brightly lit waiting room. Mum and Angela were both looking distinctly dishevelled and sullen. There had been a slight disagreement between them as to whether the whole 'counselling' thing was necessary, which Mum had won. The Twins were already bored, and were beginning to chatter and giggle irritatingly, and to the annoyance of the few other people sitting in the uncomfortable chairs around the room.
It was with relief that our surname was called out by the receptionist, and we quickly, though hardly what I could call quietly, made our way to counsellor's office.
The office itself was massive, and very woody and leathery. A typical old-man's office. The counsellor himself was a typical old man. He was quite small, and looked somewhat out of place in the big room. He was balding, but what was left of his hair was very white. His voice was soft and quiet, as though like silk, but in the acute silence of the office he was easily heard. This silence would soon be shattered.
"Get off! Get off! GET OFF!" Georgie was being held in a head lock by her twin, and they were both rolling about on the floor as though possessed. Angela and Mum were arguing once again, Steve Jr. was asleep, and Dad was sitting tensely on the edge of his seat. The counsellor, I think he said his name was Dr. Doctum, or something like that, was sitting behind his desk with his head in his hands. I, however, surveyed the scene calmly, and with a sense of pity. The Doctor finally looked up again, his eyes red, and a vein throbbing in his forehead.
"I cannot work like this," he stated, getting to his feet. "Your parenting skills are completely ineffective," he said, catching Mum's attention for the first time since her argument began.
"What d'you mean? You're s'posed to help us, especially at these prices."
"There is nothing I can do. This family is beyond help. You are completely dysfunctional." I found this rather unprofessional, and being told we were 'beyond help' was, I found, highly insulting and untrue. The Doctor was fixed in his decision, though, and we had to leave. It was rather more upsetting for Mum, I think, as she had to pay a large some of money for this 'treatment.'
It was as we stalked out of the hostile waiting room and into the glorious, sunny day, that Dad had a very stupid idea.
"Why don't we all go for a walk?" he said. A superb display of ignorance. The atmosphere was heavy with belligerence. Desperately trying to unite our unstable family, Mum was quick to agree, saying "Yes, a nice family walk. Something we can all do together."
So, it was with a reluctant air that I followed my parents and siblings down a nearby footpath. We walked in silence for a while. Eventually, we followed the path to the side of a shallow stream. It rustled and bubbled, moving quickly in a winding path through the trees. I think, had we not come across this stream, we might have come out of the walk unscathed.
The silence broken by the rush of the water, the Twins began to talk. Soon we were all chatting away. It was now late in the afternoon, and the sun was low in the sky, bright and cheery, but making visibility difficult. Angela had her mobile phone with her, and in the middle of a conversation between her and Mum, it rang. Being enslaved by her phone's every command, she answered it immediately, interrupting Mum as she was trying to explain something involving apples.
"Please put that away, Angie," said Mum. Angela ignored her, and continued to talk to whichever friend it was that had called her. The conversation didn't seem to be very interesting: a series of "I know"s and "Oh my God"s. I always wondered why she was so popular. She was not intelligent, and hardly ever had anything useful to add to a discussion. It must have been her good looks.
"I said put it away, Angela," continued Mum, an annoyed tone beginning to rise in her voice. Yet again, my sister ignored her.
"Put it away!" Mum demanded.
"Mum, shut up, can't you see I'm talking," argued Angela. Mum was bristling. We had come to a halt by now, and I was apprehensive over what was going to happen next.
All of a sudden, Mum grabbed Angela's phone, and threw it into the stream. It bobbed on the surface for a second, before sliding down out of sight.
"And if you want a new one you can get it yourself," finished Mum triumphantly. Angela was speechless. Never before had anyone taken such drastic action to discipline her. It was Dad, however, that really made the afternoon a total disaster. It was the first time Mum had properly disciplined any of her children, and doubtless she was proud of it. Dad chose to 'burst her bubble,' as it were.
"I paid good money for that," he said indignantly. "What d'you think gives you the right to throw it away?" He stared angrily at Mum, who gazed back, open-mouthed.
"I was disciplining our daughter," she replied.
"You stupid cow, y' don't throw away expensive equipment like that away." There were tears in Mum's eyes now.
"Don't speak to me like that," she said, quietly.
"Like what? Y' fat-arsed crow. I wish I'd never married you." It appeared that Dad was not as withdrawn as everyone believed. Mum was crying silently at this, but she is not a quiet woman. She rushed at Dad, intending, I'm sure, to push him in the river, but the sun's rays blinded her, and she missed completely, tumbling into the water. Her hair was wet and bedraggled, hanging off her head like thick string. Her make-up was smudged with both water and tears. Dad merely stood on the bank laughing.
What I did next was probably not the best idea, but I was not aware of it at the time. I simply strode over and pushed him into the stream as well. Dad can't swim, and it was with a great deal of thrashing about that he realised the water was only ankle-deep. As I said before, he's not the brightest of people.
We made our way back to the car in utter silence. Half-way home, Mum and Dad started to argue. They continued like this even when the rest of us had gone to bed. We could hear them screaming through the floorboards. That night Dad slept on the sofa. The next day he packed his bags and left. He never said goodbye.
I remembered how, just over a week ago, my parents had been giggling and hugging in the kitchen when I arrived home. We stopped that. Me and the rest of my siblings. I can't help feeling that we are responsible for them separating.
The night Dad left, I was thirsty. I went to get a drink in the middle of the night, and could hear Mum crying in the living room. She never cries. She's always been too stubborn for that. It shook me slightly. I went into the room, and gave her a hug. She sniffed, and tried to hold back the tears.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Alright. You?" It was a stupid reply, but it was good at the time.
"Ah, I'm okay. Don't you worry about me." She hugged me a little tighter, and we stayed like that for a while. I smelled the faint bleach scent of the hair. Though not natural, it was comforting. Some things would never change, I knew.
"Come on, up you go to bed," she said, getting up and wiping her eyes. We went upstairs together. I went to bed, and fell asleep.
I think it's interesting to say that that was the last day I ever saw Dad. None of us ever heard from him again. Except for Angela. She got the odd birthday and Christmas card, once every couple of years. She was always his favourite.
