  I can’t take it anymore. Can’t handle it. It’s the same thing every day; the same it’s been for over seven years, and I’m sick of it. I guess it’s stupid that I hold on to the hope that one day she’ll leave, but wouldn’t that at least end the fighting? You’d think at her age that she’d know you can’t always have your way, but no. Instead, the clothes go in to the bag and she walks to the door where her sister is waiting.
The worst thing is that Dad gives in, blabbering some excuse that it’s not fair on the kids. The truth is that he’s been living in her pocket since they met. I’m sick of it. I guess I could just leave like Lucy did, but that’s what she wants. No. I’ll just smile for one more day… Pretend it doesn’t hurt.
9:30A.M, Saturday The door slammed shut, sending a resounding tremble throughout the whole house. It wasn’t the first time that morning – nor did it seem that it would be the last – but it certainly did seem to be the loudest. With a start, Chris’s eyes opened, and almost as if he’d been awake for hours, he kicked the covers off of his body. The familiar sounds had invaded his dreams; and he knew it wouldn’t stop any time soon, so he grabbed his towel off the ground, and walked to the shower. Each step was followed promptly by the next, as Chris tried his best to avoid his father’s wife. With a sense of relief, his foot crossed the threshold of the bathroom, and he closed the door behind him.
His mind was a vagrant wanderer. Door’s bolted shut. Bathroom’s full of toys from the kids’ bath last night. It must be great for a mother to wash you… great to have a mother. Ironic how I didn’t know her, and yet I miss her the most. Ironic how he knew her for 25 years, and yet he was the first to move on.
And to what? All he gets is fights and criticisms. All they get is false smiles and cheap humour. All I get is cold looks… False hopes… Here in this rainy oasis, I’m in my purest state, but any second now she’ll conveniently start making her tea, or she’ll wash clothes, or she’ll rinse out a cloth with hot water… No she can’t wait fifteen minutes until I get out, she prefers her hot water routed away from me. There she goes. I could say something to her, but she’d only deny it.
When my back is turned, she’ll smile her crooked smirk. No. I’ll just smile for one more day… Pretend it doesn’t hurt. 9:45A.M, Saturday Behind his closed bedroom door, Chris was slipping on his shoes. His radio was on, but he wasn’t listening. Through the cracks in his door, he could hear nothing, just silence.
The kids were out with their mother and his dad was at the office, so he was alone until about two. Alone with his thoughts and misconceptions until about two. He tied up his shoelaces and walked out of his room to the kitchen. The bench was a smorgasbord of cups, plates and spilled foods, but he’d get around to that later. The stereo was a cruel parody of his family’s life, playing sweet love songs that echoed more amiable situations. He stopped the tape and switched it to the radio.
It was playing, but he wasn’t listening. Craning his neck to the top shelf of the pantry, he could see the box that he needed. He reached up and brought it down, dropping it on to the table. He walked over to the cupboard and grabbed a bowl. The milk was already out, so like a drone, he prepared a breakfast of champions. It wasn’t that he was hungry, nor that he felt he needed it, but having his routine was what kept him sane.
The spoon entered his mouth, but the flavour was wasted on him. His plate was empty, his stomach was full and his mind was occupied with other things. Gathering together all the mess on the bench, he began his task of tidying up. Plate upon plate, cup within cup, and anything else on the table were stacked away. The radio played his favourite song, but he wasn’t listening. He couldn’t hear it amongst all his thoughts.
I don’t know why I bother. She’ll just find something wrong with it anyway… Funny how some people are so set on cutting you down. Pretty soon, it doesn’t matter how hard I try, she’s just going to find something wrong with my job anyway. Something wrong with me. Why does it feel like I’m the stain? Like I should be wiped away?
Funny how the more she pushes, the harder I pretend. Funny how the harder I pretend, the less I feel. The beauty is in the irony that the less I feel, the more it hurts. Maybe she’s got a point: maybe I should just give up. Maybe I am the stain. She doesn’t care.
I’m smiling… I’m pretending. 2:10P.M, Saturday The zip opened as Chris shoved his soccer boots in to the bag. He was getting ready for his game, but it was no longer the focal point of his weekend. Nothing was. He knew the crowd would be devoid of familiar faces; familiar voices. The game itself didn’t even excite him anymore – it was just an excuse to get out of the house.
It was just his way of showing the world that he hadn’t faded yet, although he barely believed it himself. He walked over to his shelf and grabbed his shin pads and drink bottle. He knew he wouldn’t feel the thirst, but his body would need it. Carelessly, he shoved them in to his bag and zipped it up. With a faint creak, the front door opened, but the house was still silent. His dad was home.
Chris’s door opened slightly, and his dad’s face peeked through the gap. Chris looked at him, but didn’t say anything. “Is she home yet?” His dad’s voice barely broke the silence. Chris shook his head, “you coming today? We’re playing at three,” “Can’t. She wants me to take her shopping,” “ok.” Chris knew his father wouldn’t be there; he knew before he asked.
But he also knew that if he let go of the hope, it would be giving up. He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked towards the back door. Grabbing his helmet off the hook and strapping it to his bag, he opened the door. He knew he wouldn’t wear the helmet, but his dad used to insist that he take it with him. It was his way of holding on to the memories that he had. Memories that wouldn’t return, but memories that didn’t hurt.
He used to ride with me… Used to watch every game. I wonder if he knows we’ve won every game in this season. He mustn’t care, because he doesn’t even ask the scores anymore. I wonder if he knows that my game is slipping… that I’m slipping. She doesn’t realize. She doesn’t care… Does she care?
Does she realize that every look she gives me hurts more than the last? I guess it’s stupid that I hold on to the hope that she’ll change, but wouldn’t that end the pain? I wonder if she realizes that every tear that falls down my cheek is because of her. I wonder if I can smile for one more hour. I can’t pretend that it doesn’t hurt. Fin 
