“Eeeee!” Her voice rang through the house. “What have you done?”
Right then, my father barged in, the door slamming against the wall in full swing. Stumbling over over the stray stool in his path, he grabbed the edge of the kitchen slab to steady himself.
“What ha…” He stopped short, stunned at the sight before him, and let out a long eerie whistle. Mother stood gazing like someone caught in a trance. Then, slowly, her face contorted into something like a bare-fanged masquerade, she raised her hands over her head and wailed,
“My sweat o, my labour,” rounding it up in a screeching crescendo, “My blooood! My 11-year old sister, who had sneaked in, peeped around my father’s large frame. Her eyes grew wide as she took in the scene. For a moment they all stared in utter disbelief.
Then a small smile crept onto my father’s face, though he dared not laugh. As he struggled to keep his expression stoic, my sister broke into maniacal laughter, nearly falling. It was infectious, for my father burst into laughter also. His baritone boomed, mixing with the shrill laugh of my sister.
I stood defiantly, though trembling inwardly. I had been denied my evening meal, because I returned home soiled from playing football without permission. I resented the injustice, so ventured to claim my meal behind their backs.
In front of me lay a puddle of soup, with pieces of meat and fish strewn all over the floor; evidence of my disastrous endeavour. Soup dripped from my chest, a stray leaf stuck in my collar.
My 5-year old self sucked loudly on my fingers, desperate for the taste to last. For with the smoldering look my mother sent my way, this might very well be my last supper.
Simi Joel 