Author's note: I hope people will think about the working's of a dark mind, of how our society puts a grave... Show full author's note »
ExpectationsThere was no time to dwell on his hair. He quickly and nimbly flew down the stairs on the tips of his toes into his large dazzling kitchen. His mother had made breakfast for his father. Clayton cast a glance at her, stomach twisted. A stay-at-home-mom, her robe still wrapped around her shoulders. He thought it sad to see her living a 1950’s stereotypical submission to her groomed husband (who wore a blue tie tumbling down over his lighter blue business shirt). Sometimes he even saw her as selfish, feeding off his father’s income. But she kept the entire house sparkling clean, a deed worth commemoration.
“Honey, do you want some breakfast? There are some eggs cooking on the stove now,” his mother said, looking at him with a glint of motherly affection in her eyes, bustling around the table to pick something up or drop something off, as if her family were restaurant guests.
“No, I’m not hungry.” His mother continues to scurry about, but her face twists into a look of innocent confusion.
“Are you sure?” she asks, dropping dishes in the sink. The clatter or porcelain drew Clayton’s eyes to the sink.
“Yeah.” His eyes never meet with his mother’s.
Backpack hanging from one shoulder like a sloth from a tree, Clayton sulks out the door, each step another thought: why? He wished that the bus had already left, he would walk somewhere, anywhere with no people.