literature

A Family Dinner at the Fleming's

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Literature Text

 I pull a chair from under the table, displaying its decrypted state to the others, as they do the same. The cushions are hard, and designed with the fading pattern of flowers. I find the pattern eerie, because it reminds me of the Flemings. The flowers seem dead and emotionless, the joy and innocence absent. The chairs' backs are too straight, and engraved with the same patttern, tangled vines with dead blooms. I sit down, and await the battle that shall be waged, the battle that is always waged.

 Grandmother sets the table. I stare at the golden rim on the plate, and force myself to utter an empty prayer. If they knew that I didn't believe in God, in these so-called blessings that existed in the house, I would be an outcast. I would be nothing to them. No, I would be less than nothing.

 The prayer is childish, and its pretty words do a poor job of hiding what happens in this house at night. The evening is the most dangerous hour, and I must tread carefully, or risk everything.

 The meal is always delicious, but my grandfather always sounds either displeased or surprised. I cannot vouce for grandmother, because my voice is small, and my oppinion meaningless. Grandfather says it won't matter to anyone till I'm forty years old. I am only thirteen. I have a long way to go. But I am to weak to fight back.

 Father drinks beer, and grandmother and grandfather finish a bottle of wine. They're not drunk yet. Over the table, war is fought, under the guise of a strained but polite conversation. They argue, and when the agree, they are condecending. Queer? Unacceptable. Female? Belongs in the home and no where else. She must remain faithful, lest be considered a whore. The male may do what he pleases. Aithiest? They shall all burn in Hell. I am scared. I do not want to burn in Hell. Deep down, I know I will not. But it scares me to know that my own family would want me to burn because of my beliefs.

 But I must remain silent.
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