Opening Chapter to a Book I'm planning to write

“You are a useless piece of shit!” A plate whizzes by my head. My mom forgot her meds again. She says she doesn’t need them. There’s a hole in the wall that says otherwise.

“Don’t have anything to say?” she yells. What’s there to say? Any response I have will piss her off more. I avert my eyes. This happens a lot. Inexplicable rage. I’m here, so I’m the target.

“Coward,” she says. Call me what you will, you’re the shit-mother of year. I don’t care what you have to say anymore. I just ignore her. She stomps out, frustrated.

Dad’s not home yet, probably at some bar drinking away his troubles. It wouldn’t surprise me if he were having an affair. I wouldn’t blame him. Before he gets home I gotta clean up. Hide the hole. I’ll slip the pills in her food. Some mood stabilizers, a sedative, anti-anxiety meds. A hodgepodge of drugs. I’ll throw a sleeping pill in there for good measure. Should keep her quiet for a while. Then when he gets home, we can pretend we are a happy, normal family.

You know, the funny thing is, I don’t feel anything after almost being bludgeoned. I don’t tear up; I’m not upset. I’m numb, used to this by now. At the very least, I’ve gotten quite good at dodging. I grab a broom and sweep up the mess. I tell myself, “This is why we can’t have expensive things.” My mom’s outside smoking a cigarette. She says it’s the only thing that keeps her sane. Sane? That’s a pipe dream. I have to start making dinner. As per the usual.

You know, I’ll make a special meal today. It’ll cheer everyone up. I’ll make our family’s favorite, chicken pasta. Start boiling the water. Put a pan on the stove and turn on the burner. I cut up the onions, slice up the chicken, dice up the mushrooms, and crush the garlic. “It’s a bit tiresome, but it’ll be worth it,“ I tell myself. Cooking the chicken, the vegetables and the noodles takes about half an hour. I have to set the table now. The whole process takes a bit over an hour.

Wonder why Mom hasn’t come back in yet. She probably went for a drive to cool off. Well that just means I have the house to myself. I go through her drawers and steal a cigarette. Light up. The smoke comes out in waves. It’s times like these, where I wish I were the wind. I could vanish at any moment, drift aimlessly among the clouds. I would be a gentle summer breeze, caressing the cheeks of young children. I would make leaves dance. I’d probably be a bit of a prankster. I’d flip old men’s comb-overs, sail spit back into people’s faces, and steal hats and scarves. But I’d never steal a kid’s balloon. If only I could simply fly away. If only.

I hear the front door open. Damn, she’s back. Take one last drag on the cigarette, then flick it out the window. My mom walks in with a smile, as if nothing had ever happened. She’ll never own up to her violence. She always acts like she has temporary amnesia, blocking out everything improper. Like I said, everyone likes to pretend that everything’s normal. But it’s not.

She walks in the kitchen, where I’m doing the finishing touches on the meal.
“Hey Cody, I brought food from the nice Italian place around the corner. You know, that cute place with the vines on the outside. Oh you cooked? Well never mind that. No need for this junk.” She picks up the pot of pasta, and dumps it in the trashcan.
“That took me over an hour to make!”
“Oh quit complaining, it’s not that big of a deal,” my mom retorted. I simmered with silent rage.
“Don’t you give me that look,” she snaps. “How dare you give me that look. I went out of my way, paid good money and got this great food for the family, and all you can do is throw a tamper tantrum? I ought to smack your ungrateful ass.”
“No, it’s nothing. Sorry for the attitude.” I walk slowly upstairs.
“That’s right, leave you worthless piece of shit.”
I’m screaming inside. I want to turn around and throttle her.