sometimes I worry I’ll never leave my mothers table.
1.7k words, implied childhood abuse, very much just john price centric angst, dissociation, implied (c)-ptsd etc etc
price is greeted with the unexpected news that his mother has passed on. and the news was shared by none other than his father. faced with a shit-ton of conflicting emotions and a funeral to attend, price makes the decision to visit home for the first time since he was sixteen.
“Your mothers passed on, son.”
John would’ve scoffed into the phone at the irony of the word, if he wasn’t so minutely conscious of the man on the other end. Son. Something that was meant to sound comforting. Reassuring, almost. As if he were a little boy who needed succour. The word son had always been cold, coming from his fathers lips. Something murmured following a lesson about what it took to truly be a man. Something spat whilst he nursed the bruise growing on his cheekbone. Maybe it was the grief that had softened his heart– but John wasn’t sure the man could feel anything at all. He’d only ever watched his father prey on his own wife growing up. There was never any feeling. Grief couldn’t be love wrapped in a trench-coat if there was never any love to begin with.
This wasn’t the kind of call he was expecting- nor exactly wanted on a day like this. He’d been managing, if you could call it that for the majority of the morning. Going about the same schedule he always did. The same loop he’d become accustomed to. Living like a well-trained dog, tipping his head at the old frame of his windowsill in his office like he’d never experienced the outside world before. But in truth, he hadn’t- not to the full extent of any normal human, anyway. John knew he’d never be able to have that experience, and he’d accepted it a long time ago.
There was a small part of John that felt bad. A little worm, wiggling in the back of his mind. Telling him he should be feeling bad. He should be gasping and sobbing over the phone. But it was hard to feel sympathy for someone who’d failed to protect him. Someone who’d just stood by and watched it all happen. When John had been younger, he’d always been under the impression that his mother hadn’t cared at all. Her being dead didn’t feel as jarring as he thought it’d be when he was just a little boy. It didn’t splinter his heart into pieces, or make his chest feel heavy.
The only feeling his brain managed to conjure up was something physical- something familiar. A twist in his stomach, a practiced somersault. He swallowed down the nausea that burned his throat, the noise thick in the silence. The quiet felt as though it had gone on forever.
“Okay.” The murmur was quiet. Impassive. Something that must’ve rattled the old man on the other end. And it did.
He could hear it in the way his father inhaled. Could almost imagine the man lowering his out-of-date, beat up phone and pinching the bridge of his nose. A sharp inhale gave him away.
“That’s it?”
A pause. John kicked a stray leaf away with the toe of his boot. Staring at the orangey-hue, taken over by the autumn season.
“That’s all you got? What are you, fuckin’ heartless?” The man spat. The irony left a sour taste in his mouth. He didn’t give his father the chance to continue. Not today.
“What d’you need me to do?” His voice felt smaller in the moment. Like his brain had subconsciously shrunk his being down into a pathetic boy. Like he knew what was coming.
“Well, for one, you can straighten up and rid yourself of that attitude,” His father hissed. Spoken through his teeth. John tried not to imagine the look on face.”You have any idea how hard this is for me, boy? I just lost my wife, and you have the fuckin’ audacity–”
“Ah, here we go.” The confidence in his own words didn’t surprise him anymore. If it’d been the early 90s again, he would never have dreamed of something like this. He’d be much more keen on cutting open his insides and offering his guts to his father as an offering. Similar to the way one begs God for forgiveness. John had spent so much of his life seeing his father as God.
Not anymore.
“Look, I- don’t want to have this conversation anymore than you do,” John continued, much quicker to get his words out as opposed to the man on the other end. Still sputtering over himself at the sudden display of assertiveness. But he found his footing quick, it seemed.
“You don’t want to have a conversation about your mother’s death?”
The question sounded so simple in the grand scheme of things, but it made a muscle in John’s jaw twitch underneath the scruff of his beard. The underlying accusation that he could practically feel sizzling on his fathers tongue- do you even care? And in truth, a big part of him didn’t. But the rebuttal swimming around in his mind sounded useless when he realised how shitty it sounded. I have work to be doing.
It made sense in his own head. This line of work didn’t have time for grief. It didn’t welcome vulnerability with open arms, and it never had. And he was sure as shit his father would’ve agreed with the sentiment if he had the capacity to think before he spoke- but that wasn’t the case, and it never would be. The man just wanted to find any crack available and rip it open for the sake of his own ego. The process of being torn open from the inside out had stopped hurting after he’d hit double digits.
But either way, the excuse felt lousy.
“I do.” John forced out. Battling with the commiseration he had for his mother was a can of worms he didn’t feel like opening this morning. “I’m just– I've been busy.”
“You’re always too busy, fucks sake- look,”
“I need you to come up to the house.” His father finished, shifting in his armchair on the other end. John still remembered the blunt edge of the armrest digging into his shoulder when he was ten. His brain had blocked out whatever the reason was for his so-called punishment, he only remembered how it felt. Remembered the mental arithmetics he’d done to calculate how much longer he had to endure it all.
“What for?” The question might’ve come off as rather blunt, maybe even brave- yet for once, he was anything but.
The idea of going back to that house made his eyes slip shut in preparation for the oncoming headache this was about to be. He could barely remember his mother’s face anymore, but if you asked, he’d be able to walk you through the house with the confidence of an estate agent. The kitchen with no door, and the scuffs on the corner of the counters nobody spoke about. The plaid sofas in the living room down the hall, and the TV he had never watched properly for more than ten minutes. Thinking about it, the way he was envisioning it made it seem like it was still the nineties- but that was the only way he ever remembered it. His family were never the kind of people with the luxury of replacing things for the sake of looking modern. Nothing much had changed by the time he’d left at sixteen.
It took a total of two hisses of his name for John to finally snap back to reality. The old smell of the house still lingered for too long in his nose- but a swift glance around his surroundings reminded him where he was. Base. Outside. He inhaled a breath before looking back down at the ground, shifting his weight to his other leg. “Yeah- m’listening.”
“Well obviously you’re not, are ya? Didn’t even hear what I bloody said.”
John let his eyes fall shut again. Squeezing them tight to stave off the urge to hang up right there and then. Move on with his day and go back to what he should be doing- but he didn’t. Instead, he pushed himself back into the real world with a sharp bite to his bottom lip.
“Go on.”
A huff. Something akin to a scoff. For all his rambling about how much he missed his dear wife, he didn't sound all too sympathetic at all, but John kept that thought to himself.
“I need you to come up to the house so we can sort through Christie’s things.” His father repeated himself, slower, as if John were stupid.
Nothing about that sentence sounded right, and John didn’t have the energy to identify whatever it made him feel. Christie. Bittersweet in this context. Not ‘your mum’, or ‘Christina’. Just Christie. The nickname John vaguely remembered hearing a few times throughout his childhood- when his father was actually in a decent fucking mood. When he wasn’t shouting her full name across the living room just because she didn’t listen. He had to force himself not to soften at the memories of the so-called good times.
He nodded, despite his father not being able to see it. He wished his father wouldn’t see anything about him. It sounded like such an immature thought, but the idea of having to stand face to face with the man who’d taken part in making him as fucked up as he was felt like a bang to his entire nervous system. He wasn’t expecting anything good to come of it, but a smaller part of him felt he was obligated to. Despite him being a grown man. Despite him towering over his father and having the ability to beat the man within an inch of his life, like he’d done to John so many times- he felt small. He felt twelve again. He felt like curling up beside his bed, where he couldn’t be seen, until this was all over. Yet-
‘You’re a man, now.’
John swallowed. He felt as though his father could smell his fear through the phone.
“Alright. I’ll- sort somethin’ out, and pop down there when I can.”
“No, Jonathan, not when you can- as soon as fucking possible.”
“Nice talkin’ to ya.”
That was all John gave him before hanging up. Hastily pressing the button at the bottom of his screen a few times too many before the screen went dark. He groaned to himself- readjusted his beanie, and stood up straight.
Guess he was going home. For once.
