Strangers 2 - by Ink Horizon

When the divorce happened, it wasn’t loud and on paper like in the movies I’d seen. It was in the absences that grew more frequent. The gradual emptying of Dad’s wardrobe. The way he slowly disappeared, becoming less a resident and more a visitor who had decided he’d overstayed his welcome. I think it happened the night the arguments turned from shouting to a glass hitting the wall — Mom cried for hours, and Dad left. After that, he came home even less. And when he did, they’d behave like the other didn't exist. They didn’t want to address it, probably because they’d end up yelling about everything and communicating nothing. But then Dad got a new house. A little one in an estate with cute little windows I could sit at for hours counting passing cars. A picket fence, and not nearly enough space in the front yard for his car. He’d said, “You guys can stay over whenever you want.” I think this marked Joshua’s dawn of awareness. His grief — because, you see, Joshua had grown, and his eyes had begun to see things that frayed the fragile corners of his innocent world. “Stay over?” Joshua scoffed as he arranged and rearranged things in his room that night, pushing things out of place and then putting them back. “How about you stay home?” I stood at the door, the margins of my toes at the threshold, unsure if I should go in. I wasn’t sure he wanted me there. He tried to make a crayon pack stand in place, but it wouldn’t hold, its corner creased. He rubbed at it, but it only got worse. Still. Refused. To. Stand. His breathing got rough, bated. His lips trembled. His ears, red. The crayon pack went flying across the room into the wall, breaking into bright, jagged pieces. His eyes glistened, tears welling and overflowing. With a calm fury he pushed all the contents of the table to the floor, kicking at his toys so they clattered and crashed against each other. I stepped in then, reaching for him. “Joshua—” “Leave me alone.” He veered away from me. “Stop behaving like it’s the end of the world,” I snapped. “It should be.” His voice rose with every word. He turned to me then, eyes crimson and pitifully swollen and full of scorn. “Look at you — you don’t even care.” “Of course I do,” I shot back. “Then why am I the only one that feels like shit?” “Don’t say that word,” I said, sharper than I intended. “Shit!” he yelled, the word cracking in his throat. “Shit! Shi—” “Joshua!” Mom’s voice came from behind us — curt, final. Her eyes met mine, dark and tired. Behind that facade, she looked as though she no longer knew what she was doing. “Excuse us.” I turned to Joshua. His hands were fisted around the hem of his Spiderman shirt. He was looking anywhere but at us.

Strangers

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