Black Mist: Seedling

15. Cracks

Alastair got home Friday night for spring break, angry and disgusted. He could not believe that Sarah had given herself to someone who had such filthy things to say about her. Mason really was a pig, bragging about his successes with her. The thing was, he wouldn't have minded her going out with someone else. Really. He loved her, so if she had someone who made her happy, then it would be okay. But, she had chosen this schmuck, a total douche. She could have at least picked a respectful man, someone who would treat her right.

He slammed through his apartment door and threw his bags on the sofa. The cats scattered in fear. He stormed through the living room, kicking chairs. He pulled the fridge door open too hard, and several jars tipped out onto the floor, dripping from their newly-formed cracks. He swore as he reached down to clean up the mess.

He grabbed a pickle jar roughly, and it split, cutting into his hand. He threw it into the trash with a stream of cuss words. Cool water calmed him a little, as his blood faded into the sink. He took a deep breath and leaned against the kitchen counter. The cats poked their heads around the corner of his mom's room.

"Come here, Mungo! Jelly!" He called to them in a falsetto he would be embarrassed for anyone but his mom to hear.

He felt guilty for scaring them, so he opened a can of tuna for them to share. They mewed appreciatively as he cleaned up his mess. He went to his room and flopped on the bed. He buried his head under his pillow and pretended the world didn't exist.

His mom shook him awake hours later. "Are you hungry, Al?"

Pink dawn light dusted the room, causing disorientation, and he wondered what day it was. He rubbed his eyes as he sat up. It was Saturday, he reasoned. Sleep is the best medicine for just about everything, and he just had a double dose, crashing for over twelve hours. And while his anger had subsided, he nonetheless was still in turmoil.

"I broke a bunch of jars," he mumbled sleepily. A pit-bull of regret barked at him, chastising him for how stupidly he had behaved yesterday. It reminded him of his father's rages. He was ashamed.

"Oh. Well, that's okay, honey. Are you hungry?" She pushed his hair out of his face. It was such a familiar gesture. He knew it meant love. And now he remembered their awful encounter at Christmas. Alastair was filled with self-loathing. He was an ass.

He whispered, "Yeah. I didn't eat dinner. I just crashed when I got home."

"I can tell," she patted his boots with a tight-lipped smile that personified their tension.

Alastair followed her into the kitchen. His bags were still strewn on the couch where he left them. He pulled out his art kit and sketch pad, making his gut somersault. He had believed Sarah bought these for him, but she made it clear she hadn't. He looked at the easel propped in the corner his mother gave him for Christmas. The cherry wood was a pretty good match for his box of paints. It must have been his mom.

"Mom, are we okay, financially, I mean?" he asked, trying to find out if she bought the paints without asking directly.

She was still in her blue nurse scrubs, fussing around in the kitchen. "Alastair, I told you to leave that for me to worry about."

He stepped closer, not willing to let it go. "I do worry about it. I freak out over breaking pickle jars, like, 'will we not have anything to eat now?' So, I need to know. Are we okay?" he pressed.

She turned toward him. "Well, we're not the Warners. But we can afford a new jar of pickles. We have plenty to meet our needs, okay?"

Alastair gauged the serious look on her face and nodded. She must have bought it for him, but left it unsigned, so he wouldn't worry about the cost. He marveled how they could have one less income but be more secure financially. He sat at the dining table and thought about when his father had lived there. He was an architect at a big firm in the city, but he was just about as low on the totem pole as you could get. He always griped about how everyone else passed him up for promotions. Maybe if he hadn't been drunk literally every day, he could have risen to the top.