My Last Dinner

TW: Suicide, violence, blood

The candles’ flames flicker like the shimmer of stars as they stand in the middle of the table, they are situated either side of a bright bouquet of marigolds that drip life into the otherwise static atmosphere of the dinner, their light casting dancing shadows over the stone faces of Mother, Father and Rueben. There was a time when we weren’t so still, I remember when laughter – pure and true – rang out from deep within our bellies and the air was pregnant with desire for something more, a restlessness thrumming in our chests. Now we wait, have been waiting, ever since Benjamin’s death, in a bleak white fog of sickening anxiety like the shroud they wrapped him in. Next to each candle are three dishes that go down the remaining length of the table, there’s turkey, roasted potatoes, steamed vegetables, honey glazed parsnips, cranberry sauce and gravy, all placed with precision, wisps of steam coming off them. I pay no attention to the mouth-watering food, rather my eyes rest on the flickering flame in front of me – so bright, so real – I reach out to touch it, to have it dance along my fingers, feel its heat scorch my hand. I am disappointed when, upon contact, all my hand is met with is cold plastic.

“I forget these candles aren’t real.” I say partly to myself and partly to break the tension that fizzles in the air. Mother is unimpressed with my comment and glares at me in response, her eyes sending a clear message: you are on your final warning. Behave. I fall silent, resigning myself to stare at the food that has been served for me on a golden platter. I bite back a smile, what kind of family has golden platters? This one I suppose. Rueben sees my failing attempt to hide my amusement and proceeds to make it worse by tapping me on the arm then going on to imitate a rich snooty lord, turning his nose up at the food and frowning. Tears begin to form as we try and hold our laughter, we have learnt to amuse ourselves like this, in silence, never saying a word to one another but getting lost in games and stories through the gestures of our hands, the chattering of our eyes and the movements of our body. We could go on like this for hours and often do, watched with veiled amusement by Mother and Father. Today is different, I know because Mother slams her fists on the table causing us to jolt and the table to shake, we both fall silent.

“Enough.” She whispers and it sounds like the hissing of a snake. I stare at the flickering flame how I wish you were real. Real. What is it to be real? It is to be occurring in actuality, which I am, and yet I feel imagined, part of a dream – whether my own or someone else’s I do not know – always on the verge of an ending, always on the verge of waking, a thought only passing through. It is a coping mechanism I suppose. I look at Rueben who’s staring at an empty space where a chair should be, Benjamin’s place. Benjamin – or Benji – was life. I have forgotten what he looks like, his appearance having slipped my mind some time ago, recalling him is like recalling an old memory the feelings remain where the details have been lost; and the feeling he left with me is still as vivid as the day I first felt it. Benji was a vibrant energy, a piece of light, like a happy piano melody, a waltz! He made your spirit dance. His being uncontained you could get lost in his presence, hide in it. He made me feel safe. It was after an uncontrolled outburst at dinner that Mother found him soaking in his own blood knife in hand. He had had enough, hollered to one of our visitors that Marlene was touring how he was a real person, how they needed to help us to escape, help us to get back home. Father placed his hand over Benji’s trembling one, this is home he said. Benji wouldn’t be calmed, kept screaming at them, of course it freaked the visitors out it freaked us out, Marlene ushered the panicked group to the door as Benji just kept on shrieking, his words no longer intelligible but more bestial than I’d ever heard from man or beast. Rueben couldn’t wipe my tears away, couldn’t hug me, couldn’t tell me that it’s okay and that Benji would be okay, but he brushed his foot against mine in the only act of comfort he could commit. Benji was dragged out by what I assume was security and that was the last I ever saw him. As my mind loses itself to thoughts of Benji I’m faintly aware of Marlene bringing in the first set of visitors, Rueben kicks me to wake me up and I look at him confused, his face is drawn into a taut smile that looks unnatural as though someone is pulling his mouth into that position.

“The salt please.” Mother says through gritted teeth, the same taut smile on her face as Rueben’s. I realise everyone is staring at me including Marlene and the visitors who stare at me with veiled intrigue.

“Here Mother.” I say as I try to hide my shock under neutrality.

“Ha. Ha. Ha. It seems Natalie’s head is in the clouds today.” Her comment is met with the same static laugh that she just produced, that can only be assumed is supposed to be robotic but fails in the simple fact it is not produced by a robot and thus there is a distinctly organic sound to it, a sound that suggests humanity. I glance at the youngest member of Marlene’s group, a little girl who can’t be more than 6. She has big brown doe eyes that swim with curiosity and possess a glimmering intelligence that shines from their depths, and for some reason this catches me off guard and I am simply sat staring into the eyes of this girl whose eyes are so alike another girl I once knew. Mother thankfully does not interact with me for the rest of dinner sensing that I would likely not be able to respond. I sit with a taut smile on my face as Marlene continues talking to the visitors and I try to rack my brain for information on life before all of this. I see the girl walking away holding her mother’s hand, she doesn’t look back, why would she? Then I realise why she staggered me, she looks exactly like my sister. I will myself not to cry. I used to wonder if they knew we were alive. They never speak about machines in the glass box, but they never speak about the people either, the people who just woke up there dizzy and confused bright lights glaring down at them, seated at a dinner table stocked with food and strangers and people staring at them as though they were a spectacle. It took me three months to realise I was in a museum exhibition, The Incredible Lives of Yesteryear, there are other glass boxes or rather exhibition cases depicting other moments from everyday life, a woman cleaning, teenagers watching football, a boy doing homework, or ours which is simply labelled Family Dinner. It was Benji who made it bearable by making you forget you were – as far as most people were concerned – something to be gawked at and scrutinised, he let you know you were still real. When he died so did all that made sense in my life, like I had just woken up in a place I didn’t recognise, it felt as though I was back to the day I first came here. I stare at where Benjamin would have sat and wonder if he really did just ‘snap’ that day or if there is something deeper to it, there is, after all, only one way out of here. I glance at Marlene’s group and see the little girl, I focus on her, on my sister whom I’ve been forced to leave behind, who’ll be grown by now, I think of the years of my life they’ve wasted in this box, I think of Benji, of how he made me feel and then they start. The tears are simple streams at first, dripping of my chin and onto my lap like rain but then they begin to fall harder and I begin to laugh, it is strangled, choked by my tightened throat and the years of restraint I have put on myself. I allow the emotions to build and build till it’s the crescendo of a symphony, totally overwhelming. I drown in the surge of emotion I’m experiencing and then take a deep breath and holler to the group I am a real person, they’re staring, I bang on the glass and look at the little girl who looks so much like my sister and scream help me get home, help us get home and of course she’s freaked out, everyone’s freaked out and Marlene ushers them to the door. A crackled static voice coming over the speakers is carried to a far corner of my mind saying that due to technical difficulties our part of the museum will be closed, and I shout we are not machines; we are so much more than machines! I am still screaming when the security staff drag me away and, like Benji, it is an unintelligible bestial sound. I look at Rueben and think who is going to look after you like you and Benji looked after me, it is my final thought.

“The salt please.” Mother says through gritted teeth

“Here Mother.” Rueben replies trying to hide his shock under neutrality.