While hordes of youngsters were swarming towards Arena, the local nightclub, I was sitting in a badly lit living room with my mom. We were silently eating the bread and honey-chicken, taking a sip of wine from time to time. We didn't dare to look at each other, most probably because we had discussed about that enough. Yes, the big plate of chicken had been divided into two, instead of the usual three. Even if the third portion would normally go into the fridge, it would still have normally been divided into three.
But now, it looked pretty much final. That was it. After one week of absence, we had silently understood that the chicken would almost always be divided into two equal parts from now on. One for me, and the other one for my mom. So would the bread - yes - we should buy less bread. We don't need that much anymore.
The meal was excellent, but there was this silence which loudly accompanied us throughout the meal. I wish we hadn't joked about it so much. Maybe we could've saved something for dinner: a joke about his new girlfriend, or a joke about his damn car. We don't care. Or we don't show that we care anymore.
My mom's not that good at hiding her thoughts. The constant questions she keeps asking always betray her brain activities. I have questions too, but I dare not ask them to the concerned person. It's not that I'm afraid of asking them, it's just that I'm scared of starting a conversation; I hate conversing with people who think they're always right. The whole purpose of conversation is to share experiences or convey new ideas. Not to force the other one to accept that his opinions are right, and that we should be adjusting to his school of thought. Hell no.
If I've been stoic to my dad before, now is the time to be even more. I sincerely don't want him back with us. Even if I have to go and live under a bridge for the next few years, I'm not willing to see him here again. Do bridges have broadband by the way?
My door's closed. My mom's in her room. It's been like that for the past few months. Each one of us dealing with his or her own life. Except that we meet, from time to time, in the living room, to discuss what happened.
Things like that happen to people all around the world, but I never really thought about this happening to us. Note that I've imagined impossible scenarios: Saddam nuking flic en flac (because he'd be pissed off with PePe's pizzas not having home-delivery schemes), or a huge tsunami wiping Flic out of the map (Women and chil... erm... Hard-Disks and RAM modules first), but not that.
Hold on, if you think this is affecting me emotionally, you're wrong. Financially - maybe. But not emotionally. Still, it's a bit weird to see the family size suddenly reduced. I have to find a way to kill this loud silence, ringing in our ears all the time. This loud silence, eating me away, very slowly. I want to stab that silence, and loudly exclaim that I don't give a shit about what's happening here. I want to slowly strangle it, and feel a new true wave of peace settle over the house. Murder the silence, in a very evil way; my eyes suddenly volcanically red, menacing to pop out of their sockets, while I press my hands harder and twist my face in an ultimate strangling effort: DIE, SILENCE! But no, those are just sweet fantasies... Isn't this when people decide it's time to move out? I don't want to think about that, but maybe it's time to try radiating ourselves with cheap radio music.
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