Read Online Slights by Kaaron Warren - Free Book Online

thing leading to another, that she was pale and horrified and crying before the cops told us the news. And almost relieved afterwards.
      "Did you know, Mum?"
      "What do you know?" she said, sharp and nasty.
      "I didn't know anything. I was only nine."
      "But what do you know now?"
      "Nothing. But I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about when Dad died. Did you know he was dead before they told us?"
      "Of course not. How could I have known that?"
      The commercials finished, and so did the conversation..

    My house was full of dour-faced people.
      I didn't like them there, touching my things, leaving their fingerprints in my dust. I stood one step behind Peter, ignored.
      Peter reached back without averting his gaze from the man giving condolences and pulled me to his side. He put one hand on my shoulder and offered the other to the man to shake.
      It was the only time I ever felt his strength as an older brother and I believed he loved me.
      It made me sad that Peter was being so kind. It reminded me of Dad's death, when Mum, Peter and I closed in on ourselves, forming a shell, because we were so damaged by being public property after his public death.
      We were nice to each other then. I can remember that clearly. Peter was in his element, being kind and helpful, squeaking out advice about how to deal with things. The weird thing is, people listened. Crap which made me snort in disgust had the rest of them agape.

    The people in my house cheered up. They drank Dad's wine and vodka, picked things up and looked at them. They forgot I was there.
      Mr Krowska from next door spent a while upstairs, doing what I don't know. I counted all the cash I kept stashed about the place, and there was none missing, and my jewellery was untouched, but there was a dent in the middle of the duvet in the spare room, the one which used to be Peter's. The weirdo had a snooze. He came downstairs, grabbed his wife, and left without saying goodbye.
      That night there was a towel strung across their bedroom window. I couldn't see a thing. That was a shame. I liked laying in Peter's old bed to watch the Krowskas fight or make up. It was a nice bedtime story.
      I asked some of the neighbours about who owned the house before us. "Who used to live here?" I kept asking. But nobody knew.
      Someone had lined up all the cards we'd received. There were dozens. Even some of my teachers had sent cards. But they don't show up, do they? Cook my dinner, do my shopping? So what's the point?

    It was my first memorial, so I didn't know what people did. Melissa was there, from next door. "Haven't you moved?" I said.
      She nodded. "I came back for this," she said. She stood there, shaking like a rabbit. I think she wanted to hug me, make me feel better.
      I just wanted them all out of my house.
      I lost interest in the people in my home, so, with the night lit by a huge moon, I went and sat amongst my work in the backyard. My Dad had loved the backyard at night; I had often seen him out there digging.
      Maria came up and whispered, "You better get back inside. All of this is for you, you know. Because you missed the funeral. Don't you think you should be there?"
      "No," I said. But I went inside and let Auntie Jessie tell me stories about my parents' lives. This was one of my favourites:
      They made a good family, Alex and Heather Searle and Mike and Ruth Walker. They were a set, and great friends before the kids came along. Dinner at all sorts of mad places, like the Russian restaurant where you drank vodka straight from the bottle. They joined a bowling club where the other patrons stared and envied them their youth. And Ruth would laugh and touch Alex's thigh, tell Heather in the toilets there was nothing to worry about, when the very words were meant to create worry. Heather had never envied her older sister, not for her beauty, her wit, her liveliness. Heather had always possessed the knowledge