Kayla wanted to cry. Not because she was upset or hurt or anything of the sort. But simply because crying seems to solve many of life’s problems, especially the ones that we do not completely understand. The ones we can’t entirely grasp as a “problem,” those awkward feelings of confusion and bewilderment. Those moments when we don’t know what to do with our emotions. But, as if all-- or at least most-- of the queer hurting is temporarily released from our bodies when we cry; clinging to the salty bulbs, and riding the length of our cheeks and dribbling down our chins. Gone, at least for a spell.
Soft yellow light illuminated the darkness of the tiny kitchen where she sat, her fingers nimbly touching her forehead. It had been an especially long day, and the last thing she needed was a stack of dinner dishes waiting. She sighed. So many dishes. Rising from her chair, she took slow steps across the faded tiles, crinkling her nose at the stench that the dishes greeted her with. “Just lovely,” she mumbled to herself as she grabbed the rubber gloves from the bottom shelf, and turned the water on, hoping there will be some hot water left over. Then as she picked up a plate,
“Are you talking to those spoons? Might want to try the tea cups-- they seem more responsive out of the bunch these days.”
The voice startled Kayla, making her jump with a sharp gasp, as she dropped the plate she had been rinsing and causing a clamber and splash that mortified her. Anger bloomed in her chest. She turned around to confront the ridiculous intruder that so rudely interrupted her silence, a scowl already shadowing her expression. But then, just as her pale olive eyes encountered her attacker, her heart dropped, leaving a burning feeling of desperation and loss. Her eyes. She was looking right into her eyes. She gasped again, unable to swallow enough air, unable to do anything.
“I know, it’s pretty ridiculous how them dishes have been acting lately. All snobby and stuck-up,” the man continued, shifting his weight left to right, his hands entering and exiting his pockets, eyes-- the eyes that she had seen so many times in the mirror-- wandering her expression. He waited for a response from Kayla, but she was incapable of speaking. She simply stood there, unaware of the hot water running over the greasy dishes.
He cleared his throat, his hands once again disappearing inside his pockets. “Well… I guess I’m going to have to break the ice, since you clearly have no idea what to make of my being here.” A grin tilted the left side of his mouth, and almost instantly lit up his pale eyes. “You know who I am, I think it’s pretty obvious. I mean, you look just like me-- albeit much prettier.” A nervous chuckle shook his small frame, and he shook his head. “I imagined this would be easier, but I guess you take after Samuel after all-- from what I've heard of him, he was a mellow fellow, not given to much talk.”
“Yes, he liked to sit quietly whenever Mum would shoot into one of her rants... But, you call him by his Christian name.” It was more of an accusation than a simple statement.
Unaffected by her reaction, the young man merely shrugged, sliding the toe of his shoe against the tiles. “I mean, I didn’t grow up with either of them, so I guess it just never became real for me... still doesn't really seem to fit into my reality.” His eyes met hers, and she found a sorrow that squeezed her soul. He then shrugged again, and they stood in awkward silence.
Finally coming to, she turned quickly back to the sink, turned off the running water that was now cold as death, and removed her gloves. As if prompted by an unknown force, she looked back at the young man, and breathed out, “How can this be?” the question was so simple, and yet it left such a burning effect on her lips that she shivered. It was an odd inquiry, but anything else seemed unfit. “Is it... it is really you? After all those years, Mum thought... we all thought...”
Glancing quickly at his shoes, then back at Kayla, the man -- who now looked less like a man and more like a boy of sixteen years-- nodded his head of loose nut-brown curls. “Yeah,” was his simple answer. And yet, it seemed to fill Kayla with an emotion that had been held back for so long. She wasn’t even aware that her eyes had begun to water until the first tear leaked from the inner corner of her right eye. All of a sudden, as if that tear had started a whole rebellion against her nature, she let out a single squeak before she rushed across the floor and practically rammed into the boy before her, wrapping her arms tightly around his form-- his arms stuck to his sides. Now she was really crying, murmuring incoherent nonsense.
Although he did manage to catch one sentence out of all her blabbering:
“They were all lies, and you are really here, and now Mum and Dad will never know."
* * *
I know. This was... rough.
In fact, idek why I'm about to post it.
But anyways. I wrote the first paragraph as a start for a story I was going to write in the earlier part of last year (?), and I just found it in my virtual stack of old manuscripts last night, and decided it would be fun to write a little scene with it. (It's funny how when I find old writings, it's like seeing an old friend at the grocery store and I'm like, "how have you been all this time?" -- I'm not the only one, I swear...)
I literally have no idea what I'm doing with this, but I just wanted to show y'all. TELL ME YOUR THOUGHTS. I will listen, I promise. :)
Should I write a backstory? idk what I'm doing.