Miles from Home - Max and Harvey Mills FanFiction

Miles from Home

CHAPTER ONE

      I shift uncomfortably on the white faux-leather chair as my hand squeaks across the glass-like surface of the white dinner table before me—a well-done steak, a pile of cloud-white mashed potatoes, and a puke-puddle of mushy peas frown at me like a nightmarish rodeo clown—yesterday's leftovers for breakfast. The square plate of white ceramic fails to contrast against the table, giving the appearance that my food is floating on nothingness. The walls enclosing me into the dining room are similarly devoid of color—barren, undecorated, and empty. Across the table, the high-pitched clink of steel against porcelain rings across the silence of the room as Mother sets down her steak knife onto her plate.

     "Have you given any thought about what I said earlier?" She forks a tiny sliver of well-browned steak to her teeth, listlessy staring towards some unknown spot on the empty wall behind me. I wince involuntarily as the light of the single-bulb fixture over the table flickers—I haven't slept a wink in days, ever since the last, few friends I had left just stopped responding to my texts—and when I called each of them, I'd go straight to voicemail, leave a message, and never get anything back. As the bulb flickers, Mother's pale ice eyes twinkle like some distant beacon. She runs her finger along a stray lock of her salt and pepper hair, tucking it behind her ear—the blackness of her hair on her pale skin gives the impression of an ominous, floating rag-doll against the white background of the wall behind her.

     "To which part do you refer: the part about you moving to England for a promotion and a raise; or the part about you dragging me here without having even once made the effort to discuss it with me?" I carefully maintain a purposely flat and matter-of-fact tone, but the fire rising into my cheeks threatens to undue me—I brace myself for Mother's sharp response.

     "The latter one, dear," she says rather plainly as she returns to slicing another piece off of her steak. "In regards to your future, that is. I can put in a word with my corporate head for you. They will be interviewing for a few basic positions in the media branch. I know that you have expressed interest in working in social media—or will you be applying to university?"

     "It took a full year for me just to get through applications—at home—in California. I had to throw all that away when you said we were moving." My mind is in a fog, trying to figure out why my friends won't talk to me, why Father left us, and this is what she wants to talk to me about— right now. The overhead light flickers again—wincing as my eyelids spasm, I swirl my fork within the green glob of mushy peas on my plate—my food otherwise remains untouched. She continues to casually regard her food without issue, eating as if I'm not even in the room. Normally, I would be happy with a steak, but Mother hasn't made steak since the night Father didn't show up for dinner—or ever again—and now this one is dry, ridiculously well-done, and obviously not the medium rare she knows I like. Obviously, I didn't want it last night, so I certainly don't want it this morning.

     "We've all had to make sacrifices, dear," she says, her tone still devoid of emotion as she blandly wipes a knifeful of mashed potato upon a thin forkful of steak. Heat rises to my cheeks. Her words manage to add more fuel to the flaring temper raging within me, reminding me of having to skip out on attending my own graduation ceremony—unceremoniously leaving to nobody-cares-where, England, and leaving everything and everyone I knew for good—her lack of sympathy fries my last nerve.

     "Sacrifices?" I ask rhetorically—the pitch of my voice rising noticeably to my ears—as I pop to my feet, the back of my knee thrusts my chair back behind me, the low grumble of its steel legs scraping against the white tile floor. "Like my friends?"

     I wait long enough for her to react, long enough for her to respond, and long enough for her to finally look up and acknowledge me, but none of that happens—whatever it is I'm hoping for from her, it doesn't come.