Heartbreak on a Sunday afternoon

heartbreak1A short story.

Tiffany and Mark took a detour and arrived at a shabby house in the country. The window panes were sealed with creeping ooze, and the overgrown lawn was dotted with weeds. Tiffany looked into the house through the smoky glass of the front door. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

Her brother Bob stumbled to the door. His eyes had a look of surprise about them; he struggled to figure out who he was letting into his house. He stared at Tiffany for several minutes before finally exclaiming, “Tiff! Tiff, how are you?’

“I’m okay, Bob, how are you?

“Hanging in there.” He forced the alcohol-soaked words out. The conversation droned on: the weather, what car are you driving these days, how is work.

Then the reminiscing began. The house. Their father. The fear. The abuse. Tears filled Bob’s eyes as he recalled he punches their father threw that pushed Bob to the ground as a small child.  Tiffany chimed in, saying she felt so bad that she was powerless to stop it. The time that Bob was sick, and held the vomit in his mouth, even after he fell onto the floor because he was afraid of getting hit if he made a mess. The time Bob got stung by bees and his father hit him for getting stung by bees.

The siblings agreed that some people should never have children.

No one should have their heart broken just for being born.

And no one should have their heart rebroken 40 years later when remembering their childhood. Especially on a Sunday afternoon.

 

 

 

 

 

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