We Need To Talk About The Kid

"We need to talk about the kid." Mom speaks to Dad.

Billy is sitting between his father and mother, thinking that it's unusual for Mom to talk in such a monotonous tone. He doesn't say a word, because he has learnt over the years that it is not a wise choice to talk when Mom and Dad are talking. In fact, not to talk at all is the only wise choice for Billy in this household.

"What?" Dad expresses his lack of patience in just one word. Dad is always good at expressing anger, sometimes by words and sometimes by fists, seasoned with a belt whip or two.

“And occasionally by a pair of Oxfords if Dad miraculously gets a job interview that day!” Billy thinks to himself, almost bursts out into laughter. It’s an unusual sense of humor for a 16-year-old boy to have, but Billy’s life is never usual and he has also been through a lot more than a 16-year-old should’ve had.

"Don't what me! If you had spent more time with the kid, I wouldn't been called to the principal's room again!"

"Oh! So it's my fault now that the kid is running around school breaking stuff? Hurting other students?" Dad's voice is getting louder with every word.

Billy wants to tell them his name is Billy and not "the kid,” but he restrains this urge to avoid the beating he will get if he opens his mouth. He forgets he won’t be beaten again. Not anymore.

“Of course it’s your fault! I’m always the one that puts foods on the table! What have you done for this family?”

Normally, Dad will fire back with another insult then begins to beat up Mom, just another Wednesday night in Billy’s home. But that is not happening, because Billy is bored of role-playing now.

He withdraws his hands from his parents’ cold lips, his thumbs are sore from arching up and down constantly trying to make their mouths move. Billy rests his back against the chair and gazes at what is in front of him, as if he is looking at the greatest piece of art he has ever seen before.

His parent lie in their chairs, arms draping like broken branches toward the ground. There are little streams of dried blood on Dad’s left arm, they come from the gash on his throat cut open earlier with a steak knife by Billy. Mom doesn’t have much blood on her body because the fork is still buried deep inside her neck.

For the first time in his life, Billy feels relieved. He feels free. He decides to do something only grown-ups are allowed to do in this house.

He laughs.