The Dinner Table

They think it's funny that i have to sit next to dad. I hate it. I hate them for laughing and I hate him for being so unwholesome.

His 'dandruff decorated' suit jacket hangs from the back of his chair. It's foul and shouldn't be near food. The underarms of his shirt are stained yellow. Now dank with today's efforts. He stinks. His hair; greasy and unwashed - strays from grey to unsavory green. It sticks effortlessly to his bald patch. Rank.

The other end of the table is another world. They are far enough removed from this sensory onslaught to enjoy it as a spectator sport. They never tire of the game.

He asks for the roast potatoes to be passed. With practiced ease they move the dish away from him. And score a mini victory as his outstretched arms pass within inches of my nose. I refuse to acknowledge their smirks. But sag under the weight of pretence. They are just warming up.

I fill my plate and begin to eat. He is noisy and they love it. They encourage him to speak. Engage him in teasing conversation. A pellet of unrecognizable food flies from his mouth. It lands just short of my plate. My mouth is full of carrot. I gag. And again. I know they have seen. My face is flushed with effort. And shame. I am forced to sit through re-enactments of my retching. I will not cry. I will not cry.

Mum speaks to me. I don't remember the question or the answer. Only that I got it wrong - because I got it right. They are not discrete now and tell me I'm a 'mummy's girl'. Except that I'm not. And I don't want to be. I hate her too. For speaking to me. For not understanding.

They speak in exaggerated whispers. Exchange sniggers behind theatrical hands. But their eyes. Their eyes burn into my skin. I am trapped. Foolishly framed between my abhorrent father and their ugly, ugly faces.

I hate the heat coming from my skin. I hate my stupid plaits. My stupid face. My stupid clothes. And I hate my stupid, stupid family.

It's an old device, but it always works. They chime the letters of my name. Twice for effect.

My teeth gnaw at my lip. I taste blood, but feel nothing. My ears are hot. My eyes are full with forbidden tears. Losers tears. They burst and spill down my cheeks. Enjoying the freedom of ruin.

I F**ING HATE YOU, I F**ING HATE YOU! I choke from beneath my tears. A pathetic retort. Childish. Ineffective. A f**ing failure.

You taught me. You taught me to hate myself.