Boys and Girls Sequel
I did not realize, until much, much, later, how serious and consequential my father’s casual dismissal would turn out to be. Those four words would become the catalyst for something bigger, something inconceivable, something that would be the final nail that would wedge the family apart.
Tense and awkward silences plagued the first few days afterwards as I struggled to cope with the horrid monotony of everyday life. I was humiliated, and rightfully so. My way of life had been flipped; the status quo overthrown.
The family’s new attitude towards me hindered my already sluggish path to recovery. It was like a candle had been lit, illuminating some parts while shrouding others. Laird, like all of us, was changed by the experience, but for the worse. He became snide and smug, and made it his objective to persistently harass and provoke me. I was inferior in his eyes, bowed low on the rank s of the family hierarchy. Despite the constant hazing my father would not discipline Laird. My father, in his “infinite wisdom” thought that it would be best if the son and the daughter of a family were taught their places.
Father, forever watching, forever alert, forever disapproving, had gone back to ignoring me. Before, however, there was still a fatherly air around him. The limited attention he gave me made me idolize him even more, a ignorant puppy begging for attention. Now he wore icy stares and grim smiles, granite heart firmly shutting me out. He was not unlike the unyielding scarecrows in the neighbouring fields, gaunt, leering faces adding unease and a sense of worthlessness to the atmosphere.
Mother was no better. She was never a bold woman, preferring to let Father make the choices and decisions. She would never complain, never argue and always yielded to the orders of others. However, she and I had always been close, and I had expected my mother to give advice, or at least lend a comforting hand. I turned to her, but she turned away. I was wrong.
The caring demeanour she put on was an act, a fraud. She was self-centred and selfish only sought for me to stay at home so I could do the “women’s’ work” for her. She did not care about my future and my welfare, or for the family. She only cared for herself. Life as a fox farmer’s wife was difficult, and it had slowly smothered her from within. She became a husk of her former lively self, a decaying shell, devoid of emotions. I realized what was happening; she was becoming like Father.
*****
“We need to talk about you.”
I leaped at the first words I had heard all week. Startled and flushed, I scanned for the source of the surprising, yet welcome sounds.
“I feel you haven’t been contributing much to the family,” croaked my father, voice box gears creaking and groaning with age and nicotine build-up. I could imagine components clothed in dust and cobwebs from underuse whirling and clicking in place with difficulty, struggling to compensate for my father’s gruff and unnatural tone. “Go to the barn.”
Now my father was not a straight-forward man, but whatever order grunted from his mouth was law, and disobedience was a death sentence. “O-O-Okay.” I managed to stammer out.
I shuffled out the door, headfirst plunging into a swirling mass of snow, a vast ocean of winter air. Father silently plowed ahead, indifferent to the otherworldly cold. I heard my own voice pick up, crack, then die away, muffled by the snowstorm. I wisely decided to shut my mouth until we reached the barn, snow not being nutritious, nor appetizing.
As I cautiously crept into the barn, the snowstorm raging behind me, my eyes picked out two other figures in the low light. Laird and my mother were standing in the corner, eyes shadowed by black bird-like hooded cloaks.
“I’m sorry,” my father rasped, not sounding sorry at all.
“Wha-?“ I managed to blurt out, as there is few one can do when one is suddenly gagged and tied to a pole. My eyes rolled to the side, trying to analyze who my attacker was before my family came to the aide. I crumpled to the ground as I saw my assailants face. It was my father.
I immediately teared up, not from the strikes to the face as I screamed out obscenities, betrayed in the worst way, nor from the painful way my hands were coupled with the pole. I was confused, helpless, and I could not think straight.
My eyes pleaded with my brother and mother for help, but they stood steady, no emotions showing.
“You’ve outlived your usefulness,” my father scraped. “I cannot afford to keep you in this family.”
I started at him, my mind not comprehending the absurdity of his statement. My own family did not want me, and somehow decided that the best way to get rid of me was murder.
My father slowly and methodically loaded, cocked, then raised his gun to my forhead.
For some time nobody said anything, then Laird said matter-of-factly, “She’s crying.”
“Never mind,” my father said. He spoke with resignation, even good humour, in an insane, deluded sort of way, the words which absolved and dismissed me for good.
“She’s only a girl.”
