It was late at night, Michael was fairly certain his parents had gone to bed but he had no real way of guaranteeing this as fact. His fingers traced along the wood of the banister, against the chipping paint of the walls of the house, painted a muted yellow because his mother insisted it would “make things more lively” following his sister’s disappearance. He thought it was stupid. Like anything would make this prison of a house lively.
He found himself stood in the kitchen, the only light being that found above the stove that tended to be kept on overnight within the house for reasons he wasn’t privy to. Probably something his father insisted upon, as he often did.
Grabbing the kettle from the stove, he listened to water that hadn’t been emptied slosh within and dumped it out into the sink, rinsing it out and filling it once more. He tried his best to keep quiet, not exactly wanting to see or speak to his parents. His eyes darted to the lit clock on the cabinet, alerting him it was 11 or so at night. He felt himself sigh, lighting the stove and letting the water heat up as he pulled from the cabinet a chipped coffee stained mug and a jar of instant coffee.
He quietly scooped a teaspoon into the mug, leaning against the counter as he stared at the kettle, waiting but not letting the water hit a boil before taking it off the heat. He didn’t want anyone to wake up, assuming they had ever been asleep. Not like he cared either way. He silently poured the water into his mug before setting the kettle back on the stove, stirring the drink and taking a slow sip.
The quiet moment was interrupted with an almost painful realization of a figure standing within the doorway to the kitchen, a pair of eyes meeting his as unspoken words hung heavy in the air. His mother standing there, some hint of resignation beside the disappointment in her expression.
“You know, Michael, most people wouldn’t be drinking coffee at nearly midnight,” she pointed out to her son, Michael’s jaw twitching with some indignant reply as he tapped his nails against the ceramic mug in his hands.
“Damn. Crazy. Shame I’m not most people isn’t it, Mother,” he hissed out, his voice low as to avoid stirring his father, assuming he was even in the house.
“We do not use language like that, Michael.”
A scolding that felt almost woefully ineffective and they both knew it. A simple click of his tongue was all that Michael could force out as a reply as he sat his mug down, putting up the jar of instant coffee he had pulled down.
“Right. Of course, Mother.”
The word ‘mother’ felt almost forced, as if an insult, though he didn’t look back to see how she reacted. It wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t break some kind of bond they shared. He wasn’t even sure that woman felt anything maternal.
“Go to your room.”
A command that felt more like a gift to the boy. A punishment he was numb to the point of laughter towards. What more could he really be threatened with? He just gave a nod as he picked his mug back up, taking quiet, sure strides out of the kitchen, not once sparing a passing glance to the woman who he once considered his only source of comfort.
There was a quiet hesitance in the air as he reached the staircase once more, hearing his mother take a breath, as if she wanted to utter some additional statement. Stalling, he lulled his head back to look at the woman, his boredom towards the situation almost painful.
“Goodnight, Michael.”
Polite. Laughably polite. What else did he expect?
“Night.”
He had no reason to be anything other than short with the woman as he looked back at the stairs he had to climb to return to the solace of his room. He drowned out the displeased sigh of his mother, something he once let effect him, quickly bounding up the carpeted steps. Maybe tomorrow would be less of a hassle to deal with.