The sound of laundry in the next room breaks me of my reverie. You are doing laundry, as you should. You’re good at it, you’re not good at a lot, but you’re good at that. The laundry. And as you finish you sit at the table, admiring your handy work and the mess about you only to be disgusted and pick up your book. Face forward slightly down I catch a glimpse of your profile. The great, fat lump that you are. Engrossed in your book your are oblivious to my eyes, looking at you. Trying to find out your motive, your reason to make us live in this house. You have the power to set us free, yet you are the one who holds us back. Your eyes glaze over and I suddenly know that you are thinking, much like The Beast, in your own biased way. How the place you once called a home is now simply a house, how you failed to make it a suitable place, how you continue to make us struggle. And how your ‘family’ turned out. Your common-law spouse, The Beast, intolerable and disgusting as ever. Your son who in your eyes, can never do wrong and will always have a high place in your heart. Your eldest daughter who seems to never please you and is always watching her words around you. Your middle daughter, who’s tantrums and back talking never seem wrong, your youngest daughter, unsure of herself, mimics those around her, your common-law daughter, you disowned and kicked out, and your common-law son you wish to categorize with the previous. Running back and forth now, between coffee, TV, and the kids baths, I wonder what goes through your head when you look at us. Do we disgust you? Us, your children, except the boy, have failed you. We are merely but things, lying on the ground, in the dirt, while you and the boy walk upon us, in your magnanimous manner. And sometimes, when I am feeling generous, I speak to you. Nothing big, but enough to let you know that I am still here, wishing for more. You sigh as I burden you with simple questions. New words and meanings I know nothing about. Your frown and exasperated sounds make me recoil, feeling sinned for disturbing your rest. A muttered ‘never mind’ from myself, you return to your television program like nothing happened. After a moment do I realize that I do not feel bad. I go unfazed as my questions go unanswered. Your sagging face looks around the room and sees me, in the corner, arm uncovered, bearing marks brought by my knife. I guess its time for you to bitch. Its been a while since your last outburst, it was inevitable. I sit here, unmoved as you say in a voice non-belonging to you that it’s wrong for me to do this. But underneath your false concern and touching words I can hear quite clearly what you mean, I disgust you. And as you scold I sit, and as I sit I type. I type of you scolding me while I sit and type. And now you’re angered. This plastic smile I wear widens the slightest with malice, and I tune you out, drifting to my world staring at the bridge in your nose. It seems you are done now, and I fall back nodding and replying with a simple ‘okay’ unaware that I had just agreed to something I cannot do. O damn, at least, as you walk away you stub your toe, and I can pretend to be laughing at the computer and not at you. My heart grows a little colder with each passing day in this house. I used to mourn for your poor toe. But now, I satisfy in your hurt, I love it like a sin. And I again, just like the Beast, I do not feel any sorrow for what I may have or will say or do, like I said before, I am who you made me to be.