STORY: Hand Puppets
A story about a boy dealing with a fight between his parents. Maybe supernatural, maybe not. No sexual or violent content.
Hannes couldn't remember how old he'd been, but he'd been so little that he could lie on the plank underneath the table while Mum and Dad were having a fight. The table was made of dark varnished wood and the plank went underneath it between the short ends. The tablecloth with its yellow flower pattern hung down so no-one could see him.
Mum and Dad were in the bedroom on the other side of the summer-house. He couldn't hear any more words, except when Dad yelled:
“It's only ever been about what you want, hasn't it? Mother was damn right about you!”
Then something heavy fell on the floor, nothing that broke, but it was worse when Mum screamed:
“It's like I don't have a future any more! It's like I have to sit in the same room day after day until I die of old age!”
It was horrible, the way she pronounced the bright sound in “die”, like an inside-out scream. It sounded like she was already dying. At least he didn't have to hear anything more after that.
Natasha had already gone to bed, she was just a little kid. Hopefully she'd gone to sleep. He stayed lying on the plank for a long time, hands crossed on his chest as if he was lying in a coffin.
Right when he was about to get up, someone came in. It was Mum's footsteps, small in her cloth slippers. He stayed there, because she might get mad again if she saw him. As long as he only heard her breathing it sounded like she was nice.
He heard the sucking sound of the fridge door. A glass tinkled when she took it out and sat down at the table. Her legs didn't get close to him.
She sat there for a while. He looked at her legs trying to guess how long she was going to stay there, but they barely moved. Every now and then she put the glass down on the table. The first few times she did it so heavily, he felt it through his spine.
“Now you've gone and done it,” she mumbled once.
It wasn't to him. Her voice sounded strange, like she was about to start laughing.
Dad came into the doorway. He always walked like he was stomping, whether or not he was angry.
“I'm going to bed,” he muttered.
But his footsteps stayed and creaked on the floor. Please, sit down. Please, Dad. Hannes' hand hooked in the air as if he was trying to call on a little animal.
The chair screeched when Dad pulled it out. He sat down across from Mum.
Now he had Mum's bare legs and a bit of her sunflower-patterned skirt on one side and Dad's pyjama pants on the other. It was like an upside-down puppet theatre where you only saw the bottom half of the puppets. Mum's slippers made a soft fur noise against the floor, but he couldn't see them without turning his head so far he might fall off.
He put one hand out a bit, and then he had to put the other out as well, so he wouldn't get heavier on one side. It was like balancing on a fence. He pretended that Mum and Dad were just hand puppets. Then they would have to say what he wanted them to.
The only sound was the creaking in the floor when Dad moved his feet. Hannes was the puppet player, but he mustn't talk. All he could do was lie there and wish like tensing a muscle.
“You know,” Dad said and drew a breath.
Hannes moved his lips in I'm sorry, so many times that it wouldn't have sounded like proper words.
“You know, I'm sorry,” Dad said at last.
They would hear it if he breathed.
Mum still hadn't said anything. He clenched his left hand so hard it hurt and tried to send his thoughts out in her direction.
She breathed in to say something.
“So am I, Gunnar... I shouldn't have said those things.”
He pulled his hands in towards the middle. The table creaked when Dad leant on it.
“We've said a lot of things, both of us,” he said. “But we're friends, right?”
Their legs disappeared and the tablecloth fell back.
“It's late,” Mum said.
Their footsteps faded towards the bedroom. He stayed there.
Perhaps he would never know if he had some real power or if it was just something he'd imagined. If Mum and Dad were friends, he would never do it again anyway.
THE END
Hannes couldn't remember how old he'd been, but he'd been so little that he could lie on the plank underneath the table while Mum and Dad were having a fight. The table was made of dark varnished wood and the plank went underneath it between the short ends. The tablecloth with its yellow flower pattern hung down so no-one could see him.
Mum and Dad were in the bedroom on the other side of the summer-house. He couldn't hear any more words, except when Dad yelled:
“It's only ever been about what you want, hasn't it? Mother was damn right about you!”
Then something heavy fell on the floor, nothing that broke, but it was worse when Mum screamed:
“It's like I don't have a future any more! It's like I have to sit in the same room day after day until I die of old age!”
It was horrible, the way she pronounced the bright sound in “die”, like an inside-out scream. It sounded like she was already dying. At least he didn't have to hear anything more after that.
Natasha had already gone to bed, she was just a little kid. Hopefully she'd gone to sleep. He stayed lying on the plank for a long time, hands crossed on his chest as if he was lying in a coffin.
Right when he was about to get up, someone came in. It was Mum's footsteps, small in her cloth slippers. He stayed there, because she might get mad again if she saw him. As long as he only heard her breathing it sounded like she was nice.
He heard the sucking sound of the fridge door. A glass tinkled when she took it out and sat down at the table. Her legs didn't get close to him.
She sat there for a while. He looked at her legs trying to guess how long she was going to stay there, but they barely moved. Every now and then she put the glass down on the table. The first few times she did it so heavily, he felt it through his spine.
“Now you've gone and done it,” she mumbled once.
It wasn't to him. Her voice sounded strange, like she was about to start laughing.
Dad came into the doorway. He always walked like he was stomping, whether or not he was angry.
“I'm going to bed,” he muttered.
But his footsteps stayed and creaked on the floor. Please, sit down. Please, Dad. Hannes' hand hooked in the air as if he was trying to call on a little animal.
The chair screeched when Dad pulled it out. He sat down across from Mum.
Now he had Mum's bare legs and a bit of her sunflower-patterned skirt on one side and Dad's pyjama pants on the other. It was like an upside-down puppet theatre where you only saw the bottom half of the puppets. Mum's slippers made a soft fur noise against the floor, but he couldn't see them without turning his head so far he might fall off.
He put one hand out a bit, and then he had to put the other out as well, so he wouldn't get heavier on one side. It was like balancing on a fence. He pretended that Mum and Dad were just hand puppets. Then they would have to say what he wanted them to.
The only sound was the creaking in the floor when Dad moved his feet. Hannes was the puppet player, but he mustn't talk. All he could do was lie there and wish like tensing a muscle.
“You know,” Dad said and drew a breath.
Hannes moved his lips in I'm sorry, so many times that it wouldn't have sounded like proper words.
“You know, I'm sorry,” Dad said at last.
They would hear it if he breathed.
Mum still hadn't said anything. He clenched his left hand so hard it hurt and tried to send his thoughts out in her direction.
She breathed in to say something.
“So am I, Gunnar... I shouldn't have said those things.”
He pulled his hands in towards the middle. The table creaked when Dad leant on it.
“We've said a lot of things, both of us,” he said. “But we're friends, right?”
Their legs disappeared and the tablecloth fell back.
“It's late,” Mum said.
Their footsteps faded towards the bedroom. He stayed there.
Perhaps he would never know if he had some real power or if it was just something he'd imagined. If Mum and Dad were friends, he would never do it again anyway.
THE END