Small Comfort


  “They still love each other,” I say, squeezing her shoulder. She’s scribbling doodles onto her pink princess desk with a permanent marker. They’re not violent or angry, just doodles you’d expect a ten year old to scribble. Flowers and suns with faces – frowny faces but faces nevertheless – and what I assume to be her in a superhero costume flying past it all. 
  “I’m not six anymore Cody. That doesn’t work anymore.”
  “Yeah. Sorry…”
  We continue to exist in silence. The voices from the next room make no effort to get any quieter as the time passes into the realms of ungodly. I’m genuinely surprised our neighbours haven’t said anything, it’s that loud. Living next to our parents though I guess you get used to it.
  I wish I could say this was a one off occurrence; me and my sister holed up in her room and pretending our life is the perfect commercial we’d like you to believe, with whiter than white grins and dubbed, out of sync voices. Yeah. I wish our life was like that. Our favourite game is Guess Who? with a twist: we each have two cards that represent the mom and dad we dream of; the kind that don’t scream at each other until their throats run raw. Cara always insists on an interracial couple. I don’t quite understand the psychology behind it, but hell – I’m not going to complain – as soon as I guess  the wife half the remaining cards go down by proxy.


~ by Joseph Blame on December 14, 2010.

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