Chapter 22 #2
“What on earth have you been doing?” the final sibling said.
Mal mostly ignored Inva; they weren’t as mean-spirited as Brode and were nowhere near as aloof as Pelonie, so almost everything they said could be taken either way.
It was like they were trying desperately to be mean, but couldn’t quite muster the strength to do it.
“Using your powers, I bet …” Mal’s dad said, slicing through the melee. Mal heard someone whisper the word “freak”; he gave himself no points for guessing who.
“Come on now, I’m sure Mal has a wonderful explanation as to all this. Don’t you, Mal?” Mal’s mum said from the kitchen.
Before Mal could respond, Pelonie chimed in.
“Don’t tell us now, I don’t want to lose my appetite.”
“Good thinking. We can eat first, then Mal can explain.” And with that Mal’s dad ended the conversation.
Mal stood around for the next ten or so minutes as the others continued on like he wasn’t there; all except for Jocea, who made her way over and stood next to him as the others sat about.
“You doing okay, brother?” she said in hushed tones.
“I’m still kickin’.”
“You gave us all a bit of a scare there for a minute.”
“Yeah, they all seem terrified.” Mal smiled and rolled his eyes.
“Well, I was worried,” Jocea said, giving him a sisterly punch.
“I’m okay. I’ll try not to disappear like that again.”
“You better not, though I don’t blame you.”
Mal gave her a lopsided smile, and the two shared a look that seemed to commiserate the state of their family.
Several very long moments later, the food was ready and the family moved to the dining room.
The room wasn’t particularly special; it mostly contained a large, square wooden table with two settings on each side, except for the far side, the one facing his parents, which had been specially laid for one person.
Mal’s seat, facing his family. For all his parents’ faults, they could cook a mean Sunday roast. Small, crispy potatoes; steaming-hot cauliflower cheese; a big slab of beef that was just the right amount of pink in the middle; roast carrots; boiled broccoli; and Yorkshire puddings as big as your fist. The family rushed in and the vultures descended.
Mal enjoyed the meal, all things considered.
His family didn’t tend to talk with their mouths full (except for Brode), so eating was the best time he spent with them.
It was the bits before and after he was anxious about.
Unfortunately, it was now after, and as people finished up, their eyes were drawn to Mal.
A silence grew that made Mal shrink. He knew what would happen; it’s what always happened when they wanted to “talk” to him.
He knew there wouldn’t really be much talking.
“Go on then …” Mal’s dad prompted.
“Yeah, go on, fucknut,” Brode eloquently added.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Mal felt the family eye him, each waiting for their moment to strike.
“Explain why you think it’s acceptable to kill your parents for three days,” Mal’s mum said. “What could possibly be more important?”
Mal knew that actually telling them what he’d been up to would be a huge mistake. They either wouldn’t believe him—which, given everything he had been up to, was kind of understandable—or they’d try and take it over and make it about themselves. Mal found himself saying:
“I was just living my life.”
This was, in retrospect, also a mistake.
“That’s all you have to say for yourself?!” Mal’s mum said.
“You evil, arrogant little shit,” Mal’s dad roared, standing up to begin his tirade.
Yelling and screaming ensued, as was tradition, with various accompaniment from his siblings:
“Monster.”
“Why?”
“Freak.”
Jocea remained silent, a look of disgust on her face; thankfully the look didn’t seem to be aimed at him. Mal had learned that interjecting during these tirades resulted in much worse outcomes, so he sat there as the pressure mounted in his skull.
“We put food in your belly, a roof over your head, clothes on your back, and this is how you repay us?”
Ah, his dad was playing the classics. This guilt trip always confused Mal a little; the things he listed were the bare minimum needed to physically raise a child.
A decision that he had made, not Mal. If he didn’t do these things, then presumably someone from a government agency would have come and taken Mal away from them.
The worst part was Mal did feel guilty; he hadn’t wanted to let his family down, but it just happened. Not that they would listen, of course.
As the yelling continued, Mal wondered if any amount of explanation would have been enough.
Mal remembered years and years of family meals that ended this exact same way.
Sometimes over the most trivial things. Mal didn’t finish his food, Mal took too much food, Mal doesn’t want to keep his entire family alive indefinitely, Mal mentioned how tired he is from the siphoning, etcetera, etcetera.
You name it, Mal needed yelling at about it.