The Prisoner Project

THIRTY FIVE

The following chapters is not Arias direct memory. It is a recollection of the events that happened on that fateful night.

THIRTY FIVE (I)

MY DINNER TASTED PARTICULARLY OF ASHES, and I was becoming a little too tired of eating like the dead. Placing my fork down beside my bowl of ashy noodles, I looked around the sordid table. The tension was thick enough to cut, take a slice out of, and eat it. I was certain it'd taste better than whatever everyone was chewing on.

"Do you not like the food?" My mom queried. I noticed her eye bags were the only noticeable thing in her face. Everything else was ghostly, and indecipherable. Her hands shook as she pushed a braid back into the hair band. "I could get you something else."

Diana's voice pierced through my mother's. "No need. She'll eat."

Diana knew that I had been meaning to address this for days. She had told me several times that if I opened this up, it would lead to things that were out of my control. She had said she would hate me forever. But each time, I had told her that she didn't understand what she was saying, and she would thank me on the day I finally did. Looking at the disgusted glare she was giving me, I decided that this was the day.

I cleared my throat. "Actually, I'm not going to pretend like this doesn't taste like depression. In fact, I'm not going to pretend again at all."

"Aria.." Diana's voice was warning.

I stared into her widening eyes in challenge. I could see behind her fury was where her pleas hid. She didn't want me to do this. She wanted to keep living a deranged fantasy where we all pretend we're happy and Mom isn't sinking deeper into depression. She wanted to pretend like we didn't see the scars across my Moms wrist. She wanted to keep playing lead actress.

Not anymore.

I pushed away from the wooden table and moved to stand up. But just as I did, the back door blew open behind me and Hugh stormed in.

It was as though he were on fire.

His eyes were reddened and his body language was stiff. He dressed in all-black, and his six foot frame juxtaposed the floral decor of our home kitchen. Hugh was a giant of a boy, and it was ironic because what he lacked in smarts, he made up for in physical strength. Yet, he couldn't play sports. He reminded me of  Goliath, but a little more disappointing. It was why he had never fit in. Not since he could talk.

My mom stood first, wiping her hands against her floral skirt. Her sickening empathy for Hugh shone through her. "Honey, are you okay?"

Hugh didn't speak. Instead, he shot her a glare as if to say — who the fuck asked you to speak? He plopped into the chair beside me and placed his legs on the table.

Awkwardly, I watched my mom fiddle with the gold cross pendant on her neck and lower back into her chair. She was too defeated to even protest. My blood boiled with rage for her, for Diana, for Hugh, for myself. For my god-forsaken father.

"So the bastards finally left, huh."

"Hugh." Diana hissed. "Not today."

He chuckled in a manner that leaned towards sadism than humour. "Oh, it's going to be today." He shot an amused glance at our mother and at the scars on her wrist. "You seem to be taking it particularly badly, Mother."

My mother winced. "Excuse me." She was on her feet in a matter of seconds. "I'm going to start washi—"

Hugh's fists connected with the hardwood of the dining table so hard that every item on the wall shook. The table might as well have cracked open and spilled years of secret onto the linoleum floor. "No. You're going to sit the fuck down and we're going to have a nice family chat."