Welcome to Manifesto, my fantasy/sci-fi/dystopian novel. If you’re new here, you can go to the beginning here.
Quick recap: Shawn is standing in front of his home, despite the sunny summer day, there is a dark cloud of nervous anticipiation hanging above him.
Listen with a nice fantasy mix
He was about to knock on the door when his mother opened it.
“Hey, M-“
“Try to be silent. He just fell asleep,” she interrupted him.
Welcome, my beloved son.
She wore a blood-red sweater and sweatpants. Her hair was chocolate brown and long and — unlike Shawn’s — her eyes were bright blue, on the other hand, it was unmistakable who Shawn inherited his freckles from. Christine was in her mid-forties, rather slim, and wore an expression of sleeplessness, two silver, heart-shaped earrings, and a big, silver, necklace with a cross decorating her.
He took a step in and felt like he entered the cave of a troll. It was indeed dark inside. The air was stale, smelling like old furniture. To the left the kitchen, to the right the living room and Shawn’s room was upstairs. He took his shoes off, and as he walked in, he could see that Willy — their parakeet — was covered with a blanket… again. Shawn's father, Elmer, covered the cage to make the bird shut up. Idiot. He could see his father's legs and an empty beer bottle laying on the floor from behind the wall, sleeping in the single-seater.
He took another step when the wooden boards gave a loud creak. Both Shawn and his Mom already knew by heart which tiles not to step on. In the same instance, his mother twitched, stopping in her tracks, and gave Shawn a what-the-fuck-did-I-tell-you look mixed with terror. She covered her face with her palm, trying to collect some strength, giving the impression that she’d just got out of a fight with him and was happy he snoozed. When the old man grunted, their blood pressure spiked.
You might think that his Father hadn’t woken because he hadn’t moved, but both of them knew that wasn’t the case. Shawn was still in high school when he learned that his father was acting, poorly too. While Shawn and his mom prepared their lunches to leave for the day, Elmer—after a gallon of booze—was still dozing off.
They walked on tip-toes from the moment they got out of bed. If they didn’t, they were reminded by a moan or grunt, which felt like whip slashes eating into them. One morning Shawn’s mother couldn’t take it anymore and switched from stealth to casual mode. He gave his mother an anxious, almost terrified look, as to why she was so careless.
“He is not asleep,” she said, “he is just acting.”
For some reason, those words never left Shawn, maybe, because it was one of the first signs of his mother distrusting, perhaps, resenting Elmer, but maybe also, because up until then he never dared to think of his parents as liers, or as regular people with flaws.
When Shawn came home, something about his mother’s smile was off. Despite the thick layer of makeup, he noticed that she had a black eye.
As he stood there in the hallway, seeing his mothers’ terrified look, feeling the anxiety in his chest, a memory came up of a sleepover at a friend’s house. How he cringed every time he heard a light switch turned off or a door shut carelessly. Asking himself, why do I still have to deal with this, he felt a ball of rage swelling in his chest, and before he knew it, he took a brisk step and entered the living room.
“Could you stop with the fucking act?” he said. “And what about the windows?” he opened the blinds and shoved the curtains aside.
Elmer slurred through his teeth, “Watch your mouth.”
Shawn turned around and looked at him. He still laid in the single-seater and watched him with one eye half open and his head leaning back. Elmer was about to be sixty and had a full beard and wavy, fatty, black hair. He wore a green button shirt and worn-out jeans. However, what ticked off Shawn the most was the look in Elmer’s eyes. It wasn’t malicious nor resentful. It was full of sorrow.
“Yeah? Or what? Are you gonna hit me?” Shawn countered immediately. Do it, said one of the voices in Shawn’s head. “Do you know how tired I am? Every time I come home, it’s like this.” He clenched his jaw and pressed his lips together, trying to hold back the rage, knowing he was treading on thin ice.
Elmer said nothing.
“Shawn,” his mother said, with a snap-out-of-it voice. He turned and saw his eight-year-old brother, Will, standing on the staircase.
“Hey,” he said with a calmer voice.
“What’s up?” Will asked.
“Nothing really,” he looked around him as if looking for something, “Mom said she’ll make the chocolate fudge for us tonight,” he said.
“Really?” Will brightened up. Shawn’s and his mother’s eyes met.
“Really?” Christine just as surprised.
Shawn shrugged, giving her an innocent smile.
Her eyes —now merely slits— glared a hole into him. After an extended second or two, she answered, “but only because Shawn promised to vacuum and do the dishes for the day.”
“Yay! Chocolate fudge!“ Will was beyond himself.
Both boys went, “Ow,” when she pinched them in their cheeks.
“That was unnecessary,” Shawn said.
“Why me?” Will protested.
“Shawn, I’ll need some eggs and butter. You’ll have to fetch them from the store if you want the fudge.”
Shawn nodded.
“I’ll go,” somewhat eager to take in nature again, “Wanna come, buddy?” He extended his fist toward Will.
“Hell yeah,” Will replied trying to bump his fist, missing the first time, then on the second time he hit but sent a spray of saliva flying, trying to make a sound effect.
It landed in Shawn’s eye.
“Ew, common man,” he rubbed it.
Will and Christine couldn’t help but laugh.
“Shawn?” Elmer said, standing in the light-filled living room. Shawn’s smile faded, Elmer motioning him to come closer. Their eyes met.
His father, somewhat taller than him, tilted his head forward while staring into his eyes. As Elmer leaned, Shawn could feel the warmth of his booze breath on his face. Elmer spoke slowly, “Don’t dare to do this again… I promise you… I will make your life hell. I will cut your money, and you can sleep outside,” Shawn nodded, disgusted.
“Shut up. Are we clear?” there was something about the way Elmer spoke. A side of him came out. A side that was immune to a priest’s prayer and ought to be shackled and hidden in the dark. The rage he felt before, a small fire, was extinguished by Elmer’s eternal, dark inferno. Avoiding Elmer’s stare, feeling like he’d rather run, he nodded.
“Are we clear?” Elmer asked again, getting into Shawn’s face, and demanding eye contact.
“Yes,” Shawn replied, looking from under his brows.
Feeling that the conversation was over, he made his way to the kitchen, and on his way he pulled the blanket off the cage, seeing that it was in a sorry state.
“Leave the bird and get outta here,” Elmer said. Shawn covered the cage again. Poor guy, he thought, putting his shoes on. “Come on, Will, let’s hit the road. Got stuff to do today.” Will ran down the stairs, and they left.