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Authors: Rochelle Carlton
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mass of scabs. He seldom left the cottage and Sean often woke to the sound of Allan upturning furniture or conversing with his unseen demons.
The rain was falling in miserable cold sheets. Sean kicked angrily at the puddles in an effort to delay every step of his journey up the drive way towards Shearers Cottage. Dim lights were barely visible behind the cold black glass. Damn, Allan was inside. Sean squinted into the threads of icy water. Perhaps he could enter unnoticed, get changed into wet weather gear and work outside until Allan fell into an alcohol-induced sleep.
It had been thr ee weeks since he had seen his mother. During this time the cottage had filled with the stench of unclean skin and vomit. Bottles had accumulated on the grimy surfaces and fist-sized holes had appeared in the woodwork and walls. It was only a matter of time.
Allan was sitting at the table on his normal chair. His face was a mask of rage, saliva dripped down his chin and his eyes bulged in their sunken sockets. Red splotches stood out on his yellowing skin.
Revolted, Sean turned away. He had communicated with Allan only when absolutely necessary after Anne had left. There was something more threatening today, Allan appeared sober. He needed to get out. Stay safe, stay alert, do not underestimate this man. His hold on reality is fragile.
“I will get changed and move the stock away from the river .”
Allan brought his fist down on the table.
“ Are you listening? The bloody police arrived today. They fronted right up to the damned door! Who the hell do they think they are, asking questions about your idiot mother’s whereabouts?”
Allan rubbed at the raw skin around his eyes.
“The bitch left me, is what I told them. Because they wear a uniform they think it gives them the right to enter private property. They had no right to come here, no right to search and I told them so. Are you listening? You are not to talk about your mother to anyone. Do you understand? Never talk about that bitch to anyone!”
“Who the hell told them she wasn’t here? People are talking about me. Did you say something? Tell one of your stupid , spoilt, friends that your mother was away? Do you hear me? I am talking to you turn and look at me!”
What was this Sean, his son had turned his back? He swatted at the people running around the corners of his eyes. Go away, go away now!
“Listen !” he commanded, a bruised swollen hand reached for Sean’s neck. He must have brought the police here, he must have been talking about family business, he had no right to do that, he had been warned. Sean needed to leave school; he needed to stay on Twin Pines away from prying eyes and eager ears.
Sean felt the grimy hand , damp and filthy on his throat. He unfolded his six foot two inch frame and towered a few inches away from the bloated face. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.
The eyes that had held so much terror to a growing child stared back battling to focus. For a second – just a split second - Sean saw fear in Allan, a shell of a man gutted by his own greed, addictions and hatred. They never spoke again.
Sean was eighteen when Allan fed his demons their last drink. He died alone in his filthy bedroom littered with empty bottles and soaked in vomit and urine.
It was a small funeral held on a dismal cold autumn day, somehow fitting weather to see such a toxic man laid to rest. The few people that bothered to turn up did so as a mark of respect for Sean. Most had assumed Allan had passed years before, many could not even recall his face.
Locals rallied to help with the farm and offer condolences for a loss Sean did not feel. In reality Sean had been running the property for years by himself. Allan had only been present in ruined body; his mind had left Twin Pines much earlier.
Sean’s thoughts were interrupted as Jean shuffled and put down her
The rain was falling in miserable cold sheets. Sean kicked angrily at the puddles in an effort to delay every step of his journey up the drive way towards Shearers Cottage. Dim lights were barely visible behind the cold black glass. Damn, Allan was inside. Sean squinted into the threads of icy water. Perhaps he could enter unnoticed, get changed into wet weather gear and work outside until Allan fell into an alcohol-induced sleep.
It had been thr ee weeks since he had seen his mother. During this time the cottage had filled with the stench of unclean skin and vomit. Bottles had accumulated on the grimy surfaces and fist-sized holes had appeared in the woodwork and walls. It was only a matter of time.
Allan was sitting at the table on his normal chair. His face was a mask of rage, saliva dripped down his chin and his eyes bulged in their sunken sockets. Red splotches stood out on his yellowing skin.
Revolted, Sean turned away. He had communicated with Allan only when absolutely necessary after Anne had left. There was something more threatening today, Allan appeared sober. He needed to get out. Stay safe, stay alert, do not underestimate this man. His hold on reality is fragile.
“I will get changed and move the stock away from the river .”
Allan brought his fist down on the table.
“ Are you listening? The bloody police arrived today. They fronted right up to the damned door! Who the hell do they think they are, asking questions about your idiot mother’s whereabouts?”
Allan rubbed at the raw skin around his eyes.
“The bitch left me, is what I told them. Because they wear a uniform they think it gives them the right to enter private property. They had no right to come here, no right to search and I told them so. Are you listening? You are not to talk about your mother to anyone. Do you understand? Never talk about that bitch to anyone!”
“Who the hell told them she wasn’t here? People are talking about me. Did you say something? Tell one of your stupid , spoilt, friends that your mother was away? Do you hear me? I am talking to you turn and look at me!”
What was this Sean, his son had turned his back? He swatted at the people running around the corners of his eyes. Go away, go away now!
“Listen !” he commanded, a bruised swollen hand reached for Sean’s neck. He must have brought the police here, he must have been talking about family business, he had no right to do that, he had been warned. Sean needed to leave school; he needed to stay on Twin Pines away from prying eyes and eager ears.
Sean felt the grimy hand , damp and filthy on his throat. He unfolded his six foot two inch frame and towered a few inches away from the bloated face. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.
The eyes that had held so much terror to a growing child stared back battling to focus. For a second – just a split second - Sean saw fear in Allan, a shell of a man gutted by his own greed, addictions and hatred. They never spoke again.
Sean was eighteen when Allan fed his demons their last drink. He died alone in his filthy bedroom littered with empty bottles and soaked in vomit and urine.
It was a small funeral held on a dismal cold autumn day, somehow fitting weather to see such a toxic man laid to rest. The few people that bothered to turn up did so as a mark of respect for Sean. Most had assumed Allan had passed years before, many could not even recall his face.
Locals rallied to help with the farm and offer condolences for a loss Sean did not feel. In reality Sean had been running the property for years by himself. Allan had only been present in ruined body; his mind had left Twin Pines much earlier.
Sean’s thoughts were interrupted as Jean shuffled and put down her
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