MicahÂ
“MAYBE THIS IS THE DAY THAT SOMEONE HAS MURDERED MY FAMILY,”
I said to myself, hand on the knob of my front door, bag slinging on one shoulder. “Maybe this is the day something actually exciting happens?” I whispered to myself.
Albeit, someone murdering your family was a bit macabre and maybe a bit much, but I had years of uneventful living to overcompensate for and something told me a crazed maniac chopping my parental figure into bits might just be the perfect way to turn this boring life upright.
Alas, upon opening my front door, there was noticeably not any blood, or cries and screams to make it stop. I sighed.
“Mother, I am back of the penitentiary institution that Americans mascaraed as a place of education and because I refused to eat the drab, inedible slob they call food, I require a ham sandwich, hold the mayo.” I dropped my backpack, said hello to Iguana, my pet Iguana, and strutted into the kitchen.
Mother, dressed in a ‘Kiss This Motherf*cking Cook’ apron and a pair of red stilettos, waved at me. “Micah,” she sang. “How was your first day of school?”
I leaned against the door frame. “I don’t know mother, how was it when you lost your virginity?” I asked.
“It was actually delightful,” she spoke.
“Nothing is ever good the first time,” I said. “Nothing.”
“Except the first episode of Stranger Things,” she said. “Oh, and Ed Sheeran’s first single. And the First Matrix.”
“Those anomalies aside, mother figure, I have decided that I no longer want to attend school,” I said, jumping atop my kitchen table as she cut carrots and not watch the big steel pot bubble over on the stove.
“You don’t have a choice,”
she said. “Trust me, If I could get you employed at some sweat shop making iPhones I would, but the law is the law.”
I rolled my eyes and ate one of the r aw carrots. “When have you ever cared about petty human constructs like the law?” I asked her.
“I find that offensive,” she said. “I have always followed the law.”
“Except the laws of marriage, when you slept with Mrs. Tillerson’s husband because she called your cake moist that one time,” I responded, eyeing her.
She waved me off. “That wasn’t law breaking, it was vengeance and as it would have it, there are no rules in love and war.” She smiled. “Besides, may day was excellent.”
“Tell me how your day was as I pretend to listen,” I said.
She slapped me on my forehead. “I am going to a feminist rally tomorrow,” she squealed. “Women Rule, Patriarchy drools.” She sighed, scratching her temple with the butcher knife. “American woman are so liberated. I saw a woman with her breasts out. And another openly listening to a Miley Cyrus song without any repercussions or being called a no taste having whore.”
“Marvelous.”
“Truly,” she sang. “I cannot wait to let my bosom hang.”
Scratching that horrid mental image from my mind and making a mental note to burn my brain later, I cocked my head at my mother. “We just moved here three days ago, how on earth did you already join some second-wave feminist group?”
“Our neighbors brought over cupcakes shaped like vaginas,” she said. “Lovely women.”
“Women?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “They are a lesbian couple. Two kids. I invited them over for dinner.”
“Should I hide the long, 7 to 8 inch poles?” I asked.
“Watch your mouth,” she snapped. “That type of humor does not work here. Everyone is politically correct,” she said. “I’m not allowed To call fat people fat. It’s big boned or some other scientifically incorrect description.”
“So, not only did I leave my friends-.”
“What friends?” she cut in, snorting.
“Ignoring that, I continued, “I can’t even use my offensive, dry British humor here either?”
“Micah, it’s not humor if the person cries instead of laughs,” she remarked. “Your humor isn’t funny, it’s just mean.”
“Comedy is death mother,” I said. “If no one cries then you aren’t doing a great job of being funny.”
“Look, whatever. Just wash up, get ready and answer the door,” she asked of me. “I am still preparing the roast. She smiled. “I’m going to make my special pie.”
There was a lesbian joke in there somewhere. “How generous of you,” I noted. “What’s in it for you?”
She gasped. “Why does it there have to be something in it for me?”
“Because you’re conceited, egotistical and self-preserving.”
“I reject the notion that I am conceited,” she said.
“You’re wearing heels while cooking,” I said, blandly. “Come on, mother.”
She hugged the ladle, getting whatever that mystery goop on it on her chest. “I just want to leave a good impression,” she said. “America might be a cultural wasteland, a racist conglomerate that doesn’t care for the lives of its citizens, in which healthcare is ludicrously seen as a right instead of necessity, in which blacks and whites act as if they have been sorted into either Slytherin House or Griffyndor and are mortal enemies and is ran by literally Satanists, but at least they’re optimistic. Plus they have Kim Kardashian. A talent that one is.”
“I know,” I said, fanning myself. “Margaret Thatcher has nothing on Kim.” She threw me a look. “Hitler was optimistic up until he shot himself in the face,” I noted. “So, your point is essentially moot.”
“Just go get cleaned up,” she said, sighing. “And keep the jokes about dying to a minimum.”
I smirked, jumping off of the table, “No promises.”
By the time night had fallen, my mother had set the table in our dining hall with the most lavish (and possibly stolen) dining utensils on our table, covered by a silk white cloth that she also probably stole from the Walmart up the street.
The first round of food – the appetizers – were on the table and I had resigned to at least help her but the glasses filled with water on the table.
She hummed an Adele song to herself as she took off her apron to reveal a lacy, black dressed that basically showed off every curve in her body, heels that made her legs look long, and a necklace that felt strategically into her boobs. I was sufficiently suspicious now.
I narrowed my gaze at her, setting down the last of the glasses and placed a hand on my hip. “What are you up to?” I interrogated.
She placed a hand on her chest, as of the thought that she was up to no good was unfathomable. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked, but I had no time to accuse her further, as the doorbell rang.
She clasped her hand. “That is our guests,” she said hissing the end of the sentence like Voldemort and sauntered out of the hall, with me in tow.
She cleared her throat, fixed her boobs and turned to me. “Do they stand up enough?” she asked.
“if they stand u any straighter, they’ll take flight,” I answered.
“You know exactly what to tell your mum,” she said, cooing, before turning around and opening the door.
“Neighbor!” The two women sang in a disharmonious tone, like their voices shouldn’t go together, one blonde with a sharp nose, thin with red lips and a yellow sun dress. The other with raven hair, a bulgy nose, softer cheeks, pudgier and wearing a white blouse and black capris.
“Sandara, Cheryl,” Mom greeted, and even from behind her I could see that big grinning smile. “Do come in.”
The blonde was the first to see me. “Hello, little man,” she said. Her voice was raspy and deep, but still carried with softness of a feminine vocal tone, just rougher.
“I’m not little,” I said. “I’m of average height for a young man my age.”
The dark haired one cooed and pinched my cheeks. “Awww, he’s so wittle and coot,” she sang, her voice being much, much lighter and infinitely more annoying. Especially since it had a southern twang to it.
“He needs some meat on them bones,” the brunette said. “Maybe Cheryl could make you some chicken roast the next time we have dinner.”
“Yeah,” I’m guessing Cheryl, said. “He might start to look like our eldest one.”
“Oh,” Mom said, “you have two?”
“Yes,” Sandara answered. ‘You met our smallest one, Matt. We have an older son. Adopted them both, of course.”
My right eye twitched. “Does he happen to be 6-feet tall, has raven colored hair, pale skin, tattoos and prefers to be called by a single letter?” They all stared. “Asking for a friend.”
“Where do you want these?” HIS voice asked, from behind them, and they parted, like the gates of hell opening and behind them stood him, The Letter K, holding an orange bowl.
His eyes immediately found mine and something sparkled in them. “Micah,” he said and a smirk strangled the straight line on his lips, and took its place. “I didn’t realize we were neighbors.” I could almost see the hellfire and brimstone underneath his feet. I’m pretty sure I heard the music that I assumed would be played in Hell nonstop lay as he approached.
“You two know each other?” Mum asked, as The Letter K squeezed himself between is two mums.
“Generally,” I said, the same time as K said, “Intimately.”
There was a brief bit of silence. “G’night, everyone,” another voice called and in walked a strapping man. Bearded. Plaid shirt. Dark skin. He looked like he belonged in a Brawny ad.
“Alphonso,” mother called, and suddenly things became clearer. “I’m so happy you could join us.”
“Alphonso,” Cheryl, said, smiling. “Didn’t know you knew Miss Susan, here.”
“Helped her with her car today,” he said, as he crept closer to us. “I’m starving, why don’t we sit down and eat some?”
“Sounds wonderful.” Mom commented. “Dining hall is right through there.”
The Letter K gave me a wink as he passed with his parents and mum decided to try and walk next to Alphonso, but I put my hand on her elbow, slowing her down to a stop.
“You’re an awful person,” I said, underneath my breath. “For the obvious reasons, this will blow up in your voice.”
She pulled her elbow away from me. “Nothing will blow up in my face,” she said. Then she smirked. “Well, maybe Alphonso will. If you kow wh-“
“I know what you mean, earth knows what you mean. It’s not clever word play whatsoever.” I rolled my eyes and placed my hands on my hips.
“Just be nice to te, would you?” she asked. “Cheryl and Sandara are great people.”
“Her voice sounds like human vocal equivalent to a banjo,” I muttered.
She smacked my forehead. “What have I told you about deploying literal devices incorrectly.”
“The British know how to use these things correctly, we’re not the damn Swiss,” I mocked, monotone and droning.
“Do you know what that means?” she asked.
“You mean besides it being incredibly prejudicial?”
“WE must to at least pretend to be the classy, upstanding Brits that they see on television,” she said. “It is my only hope for making some new friends.”
I smiled. “Don’t worry mother, I will be as upstanding as I can possibly manage.”
“So, what part of England are you from?” Cheryl asked, as we all sat down to eat. “I bet it’s something fancy like Liverpool, or rainy old London herself,” she laughed.
I didn.t “We’re from Duskandart,” I answered.
“Never heard of it,” Alphonso said.
“It’s because no one talks about it in your American interpretation of England, which for reasons I have yet to grasp, only is made of up of London.”
Sandara coughed. “Well, tell us about Duskandart,” she said, smiling. “it sounds fancy.”
“It’s grey all the time he time,” I said. “It rains so much that the bank that surround sit once overflowed and destroyed several homes. People were homeless for weeks on end. A baby died. Though that was because her mother was the psychopath that was going around killing everyone that one year. They never did find my grandfather. Once a year, when the moon is full, a werewolf would ravage the town, taking virgins as his bride. The ghost of Princess Diana haunts the park near the bridge.”
“That’s…colorful,” Cheryl said.
A looked over, dead-eyed. “The exact opposite. Everything is chrome.”
“He’s kidding,” Mom said, laughing or being strangled from the inside. It was hard to tell. “Duskandart was colorful and full of life, most of the time.” She looked over at Alphonso. “Do you enjoy my pie?” she asked.
He smirked. “It’s delectable.”
“I’d like to try some of your pie,” Cheryl said, and Sandara nodded.
“We should share a scoop of it,” she suggested.
The letter K coughed. “So, Micah, what do you do for fun?”
“I try to pinpoint the exact date of the Judeo-Christian apocalypse, in which Jesus Christ will come and set fire to the earth, killing everyone on the planet and destroying all life. I also try to predict who will be allowed into heaven by the Bible’s standards.” I looked around the table. “Unfortunately I found no one as yet.”
“yeah, I prefer television,” Cheryl said. “I love your British TV shows.”
Sandara smiled. “You have The British Office, Skins, Downton Abbey and we have-“
“The Inferior US Office, Jersey Shore and The Real Housewives of Atlanta,” I answered.
K’s cheek twitched.
“I was going to say Game Of Thrones,” she responded.
“Yes, Game Of Thrones. Even your prolific writers, with their incredible imagination used British history to create their works. Mainly because your country’s history is the landmass equivalent of literal dog fecal matter and its history is as bland as dishwater.” There was a rush of silence. “Can I taste a piece of your pie, mother?” I asked.
“I didn’t know we were having company?” a voice called from behind us, near the entrance of the dining hall, cutting through the sweet, sweet scent of awkward silence.
“Father,” I sang, smirking back at Mother, whose smile had all but evaporated and it was about to start raining frowns in this bitch as Urban Americans would put it. “Yes, please join us for dinner. Mother was about to serve Alphonso another slice of her moist pie.”
Dad nodded slowly, still blinking his way through all the unfamiliar faces. “Yes, I will wash up and join you.”
“This has certainly turned out to be the greatest single day of my life,” I said, almost unable to contain my excitement and near orgasmic joy after the dinner had ended and everyone was leaving.
Was this what s*x felt like? Was this how it felt to become one with another body? Was the air this thick? Was the smell this musky and salted? Were the faces this screwed into various forms that either showed pain, awkwardness and pleasure, or some chemical mixture of all three? Because dying a virgin was officially off of my bucket list, if it were the case.
“So, quick question,” The Letter K asked me, before he exited. “Are you a sociopath?”
I blinked. “I have no idea,” I answered, honestly. “I’ve never been the subject of that kind of medical evaluation.”
“You…seem the type,” he said. Then he smirked. “Be my boyfriend?”
“Why. On Earth. Would I want to be your boyfriend?” I asked, as monotone as humanly possible, with eyes as dull as possible. “And you should seek medical help if the thought of me having some personality disorder, the most dangerous one at that – murder wise – makes you want to be in a relationship with me.”
He shrugged. “I never said I made good decisions.”
“That at least explains your choice in clothing,” I responded.
He chuckled. I hated chuckling. “You’re a monster,” he said. “But in a good way.”
I raised a brow. “There is no such thing as a good monster,” I said as I began closing the door. “Good night, The Letter K.”
He smirked as the door closed as his face fell from view. “Always a pleasure, Micah.”
:mQ4
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