Whistling arguments

Whistling arguments

The kettle slowly started to whistle lightly. The pressure in the room, much like the pressure in the kettle was reaching its boiling point. He just sat there, like a lump of mud taking up space. She ignored the noise and kept rambling. She didn’t really need other participants to the argument. She never listened anyway; she had already decided the issue before even sitting at the kitchen table anyway. The argument was simply a dog and pony show which had to end with the rest of us bending to her will and doing what she expected. Her husband had long since understood this and any and had all but abdicated any vestige of manhood he might have left. After all he had pissed away the family fortunes years ago. He was simply happy to have a roof over his head and food in his belly. Since she provided everything, he need only keep her happy. Her son was the problem. The older he got, the more he had this stupid idea that he had to make his own decisions, his own way in life.

The kettle kept getting louder to the point where it was drowning out her voice, which she had raised to a shout. Tired of fighting the inevitable, she interrupted her well-rehearsed speech and decided to get up from her side of the round table. Her husband had been peeling himself an apple, he was always eating, or off to the bar to talk with his likewise useless middle-aged wash-out friends. None of them were of any use whatsoever, she resented the lot of them. She had not taken the two steps required to reach the cooker, when she heard him scream. It wasn’t his usual surprised scream, there was some fear in it. Turning quickly, she saw him on his back, on the floor, a knife handle sticking out of his right chest. His hands clutching at his chest, blood was quickly pooling around the wound, his shirt slowly turning a deep burgundy colour. He tried to open his mouth to speak or scream, but it was useless. There was nothing to do, he was as good as gone.

The scene had distracted her from what was still going on. The kettle whistled louder by the second, as if threatening to explode. Her own screams of horror were drowned out by the whistling kettle. She had fallen to her knees next to her husband in utter disbelief, shaking him by the shoulder, her hands fluttering over his dying form. Normally you couldn’t move the heavy skillet which hung on the kitchen wall without even the neighbours hearing, but with the kettle whistling, there was no way she could have heard him collect it. It was only when she looked over to her son’s empty chair that she realized what was wrong, what had happened and who was responsible. She looked up just in time to see the skillet being razed and pushed her assailant back. This was her house after all.

Stunned by the resistance, however in no way deterred, the young man was satisfied when the implement connected to a shoulder before it dropped to the floor. He stepped forward kicking it out of the way, as she retreated, knocking her own chair between them as a barrier. She might slow him down, there’s no way this will be enough to save her skin. Stumbling to her feet she came eye to eye with her child, now a grown murderer. There was no love lost between them, there had not been for years. She considered him as useless as his father, just more expensive. But she recognised in his eyes something, a burning intent, a stubbornness she had only seen in the mirror. He couldn’t possibly have planned all this, he couldn’t possibly be as resolute as her, could he?

He kicked the chair aside as she began to run for the door. As soon as she was outside, she could scream and alert the neighbours. Truthfully, she could spin this to her advantage. He’d be arrested, and her useless husband was finally out of the picture. Her heart sank as her hands reached the door handle. It was locked. He’d planned this, there’s no way she was getting out. The realisation had not quite sunk in when he grabbed her hair. She was not done yet, she twisted, accepting the pain of torn hair, scratching his face to fend him off, aiming for the eyes.

She had always been good at scratching people’s eyes, even as a child. For good measure she took careful aim and placed a kick right to his midriff. He stumbled back, stumped by the resistance he had clearly not expected, and then threw his full weight on the person who bore him. They landed together on the tiled floor, facing each other. He was quicker, his hands wrapping themselves around her neck. The pressure began, she knew it wouldn’t be long now. He would finally have his release. Her fists hit his face; her hands pressed his chin. He was just too strong. The pressure increased, the light in her eyes slowly being snuffed out.

Her mind was brought back to the present, she snatched the knife out of her husband’s hands as he stuffed a piece of apple into his face while looking at her with a confused look. She lifted the kettle off the hob, opening the flute and stopping that infernal noise. Then she turned to her son.

“We just don’t like her for you and think it would be best if you tried to find someone else, someone much more suitable to you and your station. After all the right wife can make or break a man. Why don’t you have a think about it, and we can revisit this some other time, tomorrow say.”

She did not relinquish the knife until he was out of the kitchen. That was it, she’d made the decision that the boy had to go, it was time to cut all ties.