User:Orian57/12 Days of Cristmas/Day Four
I plod into the kitchen at half past ten.
“You’re up late!” Step-mother snaps.
“What? It’s Boxing Day! It’s designed for sleeping in and digesting yesterday’s meal.”
“Don’t you take that tone with me! You know that in this house we get up at seven thirty prompt – no excuses.”
Dirty-gold-digging-whore-motherfucker! “But...” Not my real mother. Can’t tell me what to do.
“You’ve missed breakfast. There is a sink full of dishes there to teach you a lesson in punctuality.”
I am Cinderella I realise as I pick my way through the luke-warm water and congealed gravy, trying not to cry, the salt might erode something precious.
I’ll leave straight after Boxing Day Chinese. I’ll say my flatmate took an overdose—no I can’t say that, yes it’s plausible but they don’t have to know that. Or I could say he has AIDS! No wait that’s a terrible idea. AIDS is the gay disease, they’ll say I gave it to him. Need to find an illness they can’t criticise.
I slunk away from the table early and made my way upstairs to pack. Instead I struck gold. A repeat of yesterday’s Dr Who on BBC3, fantastic! They’re all too busy imagining that polish people are responsible for the credit crunch. I was just settling into the story, when Step-mother’s skeletal cat poked its head around the door.
Fucking hell is that thing still alive? It should have died years ago.
Much like gran, the malicious little turd hasn’t changed. It’s still conspiring to make my life miserable by parking itself in front of the TV.
“I haven’t forgotten you know.” I tell it. It looks at me with a face as blank as the man on the Pringles tubes. “You told them didn’t you. That I was looking at porn – they couldn’t have known otherwise—you were the only other person that could have seen!” In a fit of rage at the suppressed memory I slam the remote against the cat’s skull.
I guess I’d expected it to move.
SHIIIIIIIIIIIT!!! Oh come on Mr Schnookums, move! You’re not dead, that would make me a murderer! I’ve never murdered anything before! Maybe I should give it mouth to mouth? Oh SHIT!
I hear footsteps on the stairway outside, without thinking I throw the corpse into my presents sack just before Dad creaks his way into my room.
“Oh I see you’re watching that fag show—”
“It is not a fag show!”
“Said that a little too quickly didn’t you?”
“No.” Somehow I attract attention to my gift bag.
“What do you have there, your cum rags?” Dad demands.
“It’s just rubbish from the Chinese.” I counter-lie, wishing to seem helpful
“The Chinese the family is still eating downstairs, you mean?”
“N- No. I had one earlier.”
“You had that huge bag of food all to yourself?”
“Yes. Yes I did, sir.”
“You fat bastard...”
That’s it David, keep selling your dignity in chips and hunks. Soon you will be rich.
Clothes and cat safely in the boot and I’m almost down the drive. I’m on the run. I’m actually running away from the scene of a crime, never to return! Haha! In your face Mr step-mother! Maybe I shouldn’t have told them that lie about Gerry but it’s not like they’ll find out...
For the next two hours things go smoothly. No police at any rate, probably too busy dealing with domestic violence. Although my mood continues to swing between suicidal guilt and fits of manic giggling. The whole affair can now be filled away in that memory box labelled ‘do not open’.
And then the car breaks down. I slide onto the hard shoulder to loud protests from the drivers I cut in front of. The car stops with a death rattle in front of a sign saying ‘Moto stop five miles’. “Never more that five miles away from a moto stop.” I remember hearing that somewhere.
I try calling the AA but as luck would have it they’re fully booked until tomorrow morning.
“There must be a motorway stop nearby you can go spend the night at, you know it’s not really safe to stay in your car.” the operator tells me.
So several thousand calories and what feels like a hernia later I stumble – gasping for oxygen – into the motel. The porter, clearly unsympathetic, shows me to one of the grottiest rooms I have ever seen. Even Hotel Inspectors wouldn’t sink this low. My senses are violated like catholic children. (No, children of catholic parentage.)
Sight: stupid, plastic, foot tall Christmas gesture with lights.
Touch: eww, wet grime.
Sniff: is that shit?
Oh Christ I can taste it too!
Somewhat weirdly, the orgy I can hear next door is the only comfort; it reminds me of home.