Post by Brahm van Tassel on Jan 18, 2024 18:23:23 GMT -5
The air in the small, cramped kitchen hung heavy with the scent of burning wood emanating from the wide mouth of the brick fireplace that dominated one wall. The dim light from above, filtering through windows and a skylight, cast shadows across the room, accentuating the worn surfaces of the old formica plates on the table. Agnes, tall and thin, with sunken cheeks and dishwater blonde hair pulled into a thin ponytail, carelessly slapped a plate down before Brahm.
The meager feast of a chicken hindquarter, boiled potatoes, and a small salad lay before them, a rare indulgence for a pair who often struggled to afford such luxuries. The greens and potatoes were the fruits of Brahm's labor in the garden, nurtured from his meticulously sprouting seedlings. As they began to eat, the room filled with the sounds of utensils scraping plates and the crackling of the fire in the background.
The chicken on their plates, a member of their modest flock named Blanche, carried a weight of tragedy that he couldn't ignore. That morning, while tending to his chores, he discovered Blanche barely clinging to life after a vicious animal attack. Holding the wounded bird in his arms, he crossed paths with Agnes, who, without a word, took the creature by the neck and promptly beheaded it. The ordeal had left Brahm somber, and as they sat down to eat, he found himself unable to touch the bird.
Tearing into the carcass with her teeth, Agnes shot him a disdainful look. "She cooked up real nice. Do not tell me you're too good to eat it!" she sneered.
"No, ma'am," he responded calmly, lifting his mahogany brown eyes from his plate to meet her gaze. "Just paying my respects." The words carried a weight of defiance, a subtle assertion of his connection to the natural world and a silent protest against the harsh reality of their circumstances. At that moment, Brahm refused to let Agnes's disdain erode his respect for the life that had sustained them, even if it meant enduring her cold, hazel-eyed scrutiny.
Agnes's disapproving gaze bore into Bram as she seized the opportunity to blame him for Blanche's unfortunate demise. "You're the reason she's dead. You left the coop gate open!" she accused, her voice sharp with reproach. "Your head's always up in those clouds, like your mother. Never paying any mind to reality."
The mention of his mother was rare, and Bram's ears perked up at the unexpected reference. His mother had been a distant figure, shrouded in mystery and seldom spoken of. Intrigued, he pressed the older woman for more details, hoping to unravel the story of his own origins. "What do you mean, Aunt Agnes? You never talk about her." he inquired, his voice a mix of curiosity and longing.
Agnes shot him a dirty look, her hazel eyes narrowing with disdain. "That idiot had her head so far up her ass she never saw what was right in front of her. Dreaming of nonsense, she was," she scoffed, dismissively waving her hand. "Always lost in some fantasy, just like you with your books and plants. Getting knocked up by some dago, who was clearly never going to marry her."
With a dismissive wave of her hand Agnes swiftly changed the topic, diverting the conversation away from the elusive details of his mother's life. "Enough of that nonsense. We have more important things to worry about than your mother and her foolish ways. Eat your damn chicken before it gets cold." The stern shift in her tone left Bram with a mix of frustration and a yearning for the answers that continued to elude him.
Brahm delicately navigated the minefield of Agnes's temper, attempting to extract information about his mother without inciting her wrath. With a fork in hand, he mashed his boiled potatoes. He added a sprinkling of sea salt, maintaining a careful balance of conversation. "Did she ever let the chickens out?" he asked, cautiously probing into the past.
Agnes, ever the prickly figure, met his question with a retort. "Yes, and the stupid girl lost far more chickens than you have." She tossed the picked-clean chicken bone onto her plate, dismissing the memory. "One year, we had a bad chill, and the fool thought bringing the animals into the house was fine and proper. I had a fucking horse in our dining room; it smelled like a barn in here for weeks."
A soft chuckle escaped Brahm's lips as he pictured the absurdity of a horse in the dining room. The mental image brought a smile to his face, and his mahogany brown eyes lingered on Agnes's thin, sour face, noting the hazel eyes so reminiscent of his mother's.
"I promise I will not bring live horses into the dining room, Aunt Agnes," he assured, a playful glint in his eye. "How long did it take to clean that up?"
"Two weeks. Two very stinky weeks," Agnes replied with a gruff satisfaction, a rare moment of shared humor breaking through the usual tension between them. Brahm glimpsed a fragment of a shared history in that fleeting connection, a hint of a past that had shaped them both in ways they might never fully comprehend.
Brahm, encouraged by the momentary ease in Agnes's demeanor, decided to press a bit more, trying to coax additional fragments of his mother's past from the ordinarily reticent woman. Taking a bite of the chicken, he savored the flavor. However, the image of Blanche's headless body lingered in the recesses of his mind. It was a luxury, as Agnes had said, and he pushed the unsettling thought aside.
"That must have been a sight to see. How did she even get them inside? I can't imagine Old Golden Boy coming into the house on his own," he mused, attempting to steer the conversation toward the elusive details of his mother's peculiarities.
"Coraline had a way with animals," Agnes responded, her tone softening momentarily. "She was always playing around with some cat or doing nonsense like raising squirrels. That girl even fed the damn raccoons, despite her mother constantly telling her otherwise. Foolish girl, you wonder why we're so broke; you look to your mother. We fed damn near half the island's wildlife."
Bram absorbed the information, a mix of amusement and nostalgia coloring his thoughts. "That sounds expensive," he remarked, recognizing his mother's eccentricities mirrored in his fondness for cultivating his garden and fostering a connection with nature. The notion of feeding the island's wildlife struck him as both endearing and impractical, a testament to his mother's whimsical approach to life. In that moment, he found a strange sense of comfort in the shared eccentricities that linked him to a past obscured by Agnes's guarded silence.
Emboldened by the fragments of information about his mother, Brahm couldn't resist pushing further into the mysterious past Agnes guarded so fiercely. His cautious tone betrayed the weight of his inquiry, "What did my father have to say about this?" The air in the small kitchen grew heavy as Agnes's mean hazel eyes snapped from her plate to his face, her fork pointing accusingly at him.
"Your father was a no-good gypsy who knocked her up and then left. Sixteen years old, she was - far too young to have a baby. You should have been aborted, but no - she decided to have you. The stupid girl didn't know what to do with a baby," Agnes spat out with venom that made Brahm wince. The revelation hit him like a punch to the gut, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
Agnes's voice trailed off as she seemed caught in a painful memory, her eyes narrowing and taking on a snake's flat, mean glare. She absentmindedly stabbed a potato with her fork, perhaps envisioning it as a stand-in for Brahm's absent father. "I'm done talking about it," she declared abruptly, squaring him with a look that left no room for argument. Well aware of the boundaries that Agnes fiercely guarded, Brahm knew better than to push her further. The remainder of the dinner unfolded in a heavy silence, each bite accompanied by the weight of unspoken truths lingering in the air.
The meager feast of a chicken hindquarter, boiled potatoes, and a small salad lay before them, a rare indulgence for a pair who often struggled to afford such luxuries. The greens and potatoes were the fruits of Brahm's labor in the garden, nurtured from his meticulously sprouting seedlings. As they began to eat, the room filled with the sounds of utensils scraping plates and the crackling of the fire in the background.
The chicken on their plates, a member of their modest flock named Blanche, carried a weight of tragedy that he couldn't ignore. That morning, while tending to his chores, he discovered Blanche barely clinging to life after a vicious animal attack. Holding the wounded bird in his arms, he crossed paths with Agnes, who, without a word, took the creature by the neck and promptly beheaded it. The ordeal had left Brahm somber, and as they sat down to eat, he found himself unable to touch the bird.
Tearing into the carcass with her teeth, Agnes shot him a disdainful look. "She cooked up real nice. Do not tell me you're too good to eat it!" she sneered.
"No, ma'am," he responded calmly, lifting his mahogany brown eyes from his plate to meet her gaze. "Just paying my respects." The words carried a weight of defiance, a subtle assertion of his connection to the natural world and a silent protest against the harsh reality of their circumstances. At that moment, Brahm refused to let Agnes's disdain erode his respect for the life that had sustained them, even if it meant enduring her cold, hazel-eyed scrutiny.
Agnes's disapproving gaze bore into Bram as she seized the opportunity to blame him for Blanche's unfortunate demise. "You're the reason she's dead. You left the coop gate open!" she accused, her voice sharp with reproach. "Your head's always up in those clouds, like your mother. Never paying any mind to reality."
The mention of his mother was rare, and Bram's ears perked up at the unexpected reference. His mother had been a distant figure, shrouded in mystery and seldom spoken of. Intrigued, he pressed the older woman for more details, hoping to unravel the story of his own origins. "What do you mean, Aunt Agnes? You never talk about her." he inquired, his voice a mix of curiosity and longing.
Agnes shot him a dirty look, her hazel eyes narrowing with disdain. "That idiot had her head so far up her ass she never saw what was right in front of her. Dreaming of nonsense, she was," she scoffed, dismissively waving her hand. "Always lost in some fantasy, just like you with your books and plants. Getting knocked up by some dago, who was clearly never going to marry her."
With a dismissive wave of her hand Agnes swiftly changed the topic, diverting the conversation away from the elusive details of his mother's life. "Enough of that nonsense. We have more important things to worry about than your mother and her foolish ways. Eat your damn chicken before it gets cold." The stern shift in her tone left Bram with a mix of frustration and a yearning for the answers that continued to elude him.
Brahm delicately navigated the minefield of Agnes's temper, attempting to extract information about his mother without inciting her wrath. With a fork in hand, he mashed his boiled potatoes. He added a sprinkling of sea salt, maintaining a careful balance of conversation. "Did she ever let the chickens out?" he asked, cautiously probing into the past.
Agnes, ever the prickly figure, met his question with a retort. "Yes, and the stupid girl lost far more chickens than you have." She tossed the picked-clean chicken bone onto her plate, dismissing the memory. "One year, we had a bad chill, and the fool thought bringing the animals into the house was fine and proper. I had a fucking horse in our dining room; it smelled like a barn in here for weeks."
A soft chuckle escaped Brahm's lips as he pictured the absurdity of a horse in the dining room. The mental image brought a smile to his face, and his mahogany brown eyes lingered on Agnes's thin, sour face, noting the hazel eyes so reminiscent of his mother's.
"I promise I will not bring live horses into the dining room, Aunt Agnes," he assured, a playful glint in his eye. "How long did it take to clean that up?"
"Two weeks. Two very stinky weeks," Agnes replied with a gruff satisfaction, a rare moment of shared humor breaking through the usual tension between them. Brahm glimpsed a fragment of a shared history in that fleeting connection, a hint of a past that had shaped them both in ways they might never fully comprehend.
Brahm, encouraged by the momentary ease in Agnes's demeanor, decided to press a bit more, trying to coax additional fragments of his mother's past from the ordinarily reticent woman. Taking a bite of the chicken, he savored the flavor. However, the image of Blanche's headless body lingered in the recesses of his mind. It was a luxury, as Agnes had said, and he pushed the unsettling thought aside.
"That must have been a sight to see. How did she even get them inside? I can't imagine Old Golden Boy coming into the house on his own," he mused, attempting to steer the conversation toward the elusive details of his mother's peculiarities.
"Coraline had a way with animals," Agnes responded, her tone softening momentarily. "She was always playing around with some cat or doing nonsense like raising squirrels. That girl even fed the damn raccoons, despite her mother constantly telling her otherwise. Foolish girl, you wonder why we're so broke; you look to your mother. We fed damn near half the island's wildlife."
Bram absorbed the information, a mix of amusement and nostalgia coloring his thoughts. "That sounds expensive," he remarked, recognizing his mother's eccentricities mirrored in his fondness for cultivating his garden and fostering a connection with nature. The notion of feeding the island's wildlife struck him as both endearing and impractical, a testament to his mother's whimsical approach to life. In that moment, he found a strange sense of comfort in the shared eccentricities that linked him to a past obscured by Agnes's guarded silence.
Emboldened by the fragments of information about his mother, Brahm couldn't resist pushing further into the mysterious past Agnes guarded so fiercely. His cautious tone betrayed the weight of his inquiry, "What did my father have to say about this?" The air in the small kitchen grew heavy as Agnes's mean hazel eyes snapped from her plate to his face, her fork pointing accusingly at him.
"Your father was a no-good gypsy who knocked her up and then left. Sixteen years old, she was - far too young to have a baby. You should have been aborted, but no - she decided to have you. The stupid girl didn't know what to do with a baby," Agnes spat out with venom that made Brahm wince. The revelation hit him like a punch to the gut, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
Agnes's voice trailed off as she seemed caught in a painful memory, her eyes narrowing and taking on a snake's flat, mean glare. She absentmindedly stabbed a potato with her fork, perhaps envisioning it as a stand-in for Brahm's absent father. "I'm done talking about it," she declared abruptly, squaring him with a look that left no room for argument. Well aware of the boundaries that Agnes fiercely guarded, Brahm knew better than to push her further. The remainder of the dinner unfolded in a heavy silence, each bite accompanied by the weight of unspoken truths lingering in the air.
