Friday is the day Ronovan allows us to get busy with a flash fiction prompt. There were no word limits to the previous prompts, but, as Ronovan says this week, the true meaning of flash fiction is to keep it succinct. Short and sweet. Trim the fat.
That is always hard for me. I talk too much, hence I also write too much too!
Now for my attempt this week. Any opinions are welcome!
It’s Not Happening
When will it stop?
It doesn’t matter how far under the covers I go, I can still hear them. They think I’m asleep. They think I’m too young to understand.
But I’m not so young that I can’t work things out for myself.
It happens all the time.
The shouting. The slamming of doors. Then the next morning, the frosty glances at each other, but these huge smiles, and eyes brimming with love, looking at us.
They are fighting all the time nowadays, mum and dad. But not in front of us. My younger brother, he really is too little. He hasn’t a clue. But I am not stupid…
This is what happens before…
I don’t want to say it.
But my friend at school, he had parents who fought all the time, and they, well, they aren’t together anymore. He says he’s happy, he gets two of everything nowadays, two birthdays, two Christmas Days, and whenever they are having more disagreements, he gets one off presents too, it’s like they are buying him.
The thing is, when I look at him, really look at him, there is way too much sadness in his 11 year old eyes. I’ve seen him, looking at other friends of ours, with their parents at school functions, and he might think he can hide it, but there is that sense of longing for peace, and happiness in his own parent’s life.
Back to now.
Is this what is happening here? Why are they fighting so much? Are we doing something wrong? Is it me? I didn’t mean to get that detention the other day, but I overslept in the morning, after being awake, listening to them argue, and because I was late, the teacher just slapped me with that yellow note… One hour detention.
Mum was livid when I got home, she didn’t know why I was late, and then she told dad, and later that night, they were at it again…
Or was it when I asked for the new X-Box? I didn’t mean to get stroppy, but when I stomped off, because Dad said no, the murmuring started again. I knew they would be fighting before long.
Maybe I’ll get my homework done faster, do all my reading, before mum says. I’ll tell my brother to tidy up with me, and we can even make them breakfast, or do the hoover.
That’ll show them we love them, and that we aren’t bad. I’ll even say sorry.
As long as it stops the shouting… the fighting… the possibility that….
