It’s intentional because he has a child’s vocabulary, and he’s not too bright.
Short Story / Nice Things
She was kneeling on the carpet. Her long, blond hair was bound in a bun. Her thin, stringy frame quivered with the violence of her scrubbing. Her long fingers tingled at the edge of burning from exposure to the chemicals which lay strewn about her: a Stone Henge of brightly colored bottles and cans of bleaching, foaming, color-restoring sprays and solutions, some upright, and some fallen where they had been cast away after failing the woman. Their lack of utility brought tears of frustration to her eyes.
Her husband sat in his chair, with his feet resting on a matching ottoman. This was no ordinary piece of furniture: it was a sturdy and beautiful shrine to comfort. Dark red upholstery was fastened with bright brass studs to a heavy, majestically curving mahogany frame. The man’s tall, fit frame was supported and cradled-rather than swallowed-in its luxury. A touch of grey hair and a pair of silver-rimmed reading glasses gave him an elegant look that contrasted sharply with the dingy surroundings that his immense, reclining height seemed to fill. One of his hands held open a paperback military-adventure novel, and from the other dangled a glass of scotch-on-the-pebbles.
“Martha,” he said. “You should see to the Boy.”
She paused, and raised her head toward her husband, careful not to look directly at him, as he spoke to her. She resumed her scrubbing, her fingers turned red and cracked, and perspiration ran down her forehead. Her eyes looked as though they may have been watering from the fumes, or possibly a tear dripped off her nose.
The Boy sat on the tattered and stained couch. Chocolate ice cream ran down his chin and the sides of an over-full bowl that tipped precariously next to him as he wiggled contentedly with a spoon in his mouth. A bright red model airplane left a smear of still-wet paint on the cushion where it sat next to him. He had “flown” it through the house earlier. The fresh paint had been running and dripping onto the carpet, the furniture, and had even been flung on the walls as he had performed quick aerobatic maneuvers to defeat the “terrorists” in a display of dog-fighting prowess, accompanied by the dopplered droning noise of a passing propeller as interpreted by an eleven year old. Nothing had been spared the indelible touch of red enamel, except his father’s throne.
The Boy’s fat arms quivered, and his smiling mouth sprayed a mist of brown globules as he nearly shouted, “Yeah, mom! You gotta distill some discipline in me!”
Father said, “The boy’s got to have a father and a mother, Martha.”
“Yeah, mom! You gotta be here for me.” the Boy whined.
“You can’t go running off again.”
“Yeah, mom! Dad says you’re a whore.”
The spray that Martha was currently using promised to clean with “the power of sunshine.” So far, like every other cleaner she’d used, it only turned the sharp, red drops and streaks of paint into a diffuse pink cloud. Although the power of sunshine did not work, her tears cleaned no better.
“Don’t you see, Martha?” asked Father, “This is why we can’t have nice things.”
Martha sat on the toilet, fully clothed, with her hands clamped around her head, pulling it down towards her knees. The locked door to the bathroom barely muffled the sounds of jubilant laughter and shattering dishes. She flinched with each crash that represented the death of a rare piece of china.
A car pulled into the driveway. The quickly fading rumble of the car’s shut-off engine heralded the last reverberating crash of broken ceramic. The front door opened and shut, and Martha could hear Father speaking through the thin walls of their pre-fabricated home.
“How could your mother have let you do this?”
“I dunno, pop. I guess she’s just a lazy slut.” The Boy said.
“Well, you look like you need some cheering up.”
Martha heard the freezer door open and shut, and the soft clink of spoon on bowl.
“Martha!” Father didn’t quite yell, “Come clean your mess.”
She didn’t want to leave the inadequate sanctuary of the bathroom. Her hand trembled as she got up and reluctantly unlocked the door. Her breath quickened to a low pant, and the knob rattled as she forced herself to turn it.
She had to turn it, because she remembered the last time she’d refused to clean one of the Boy’s messes. She remembered the police. “She’s not taking her meds, officer.” He’d said, “Look at what she’s done.” She remembered the hospital: its white walls decorated sparsely with posters of pastoral and wilderness vistas, insipid “inspirational” quotes attached to them. She remembered the staff that tried to act interested, but treated her as though she were a mentally deficient child.
The door creaked open onto the scene she’d expected. Father sat in his chair, which had been spared the shards and crescent fragments of nearly translucent, white ceramic which were densely sprinkled across, and embedded in, the carpet, couch, and other furniture in a razor-sharp field of moons and stars.
She knelt, wincing as she felt a sharp edge cut open her knee. Slowly, painfully, with shaking hands and shuddering breath, Martha began to pick the remains of her mother’s heirloom china out of the pink polka-dot carpet.
“Don’t you see, Martha?” asked Father, “This is why we can’t have nice things.”
The Boy had rushed in the door after school, dropping his backpack carelessly on the floor as he entered the living room. Martha had prepared a snack for him: cheese and cheese crackers, how he liked them. She came into the living room holding the tray and a glass of soda, bringing them to him so he wouldn’t have to get up from his video games. She dropped the tray to the carpet with a muted thud, and some soda splashed out of the tall glass as she barely caught it when she saw what the Boy was doing.
He had his father’s hunting knife, a large, wickedly barbed and serrated thing. He had cut to ribbons the lamp-shades, the curtains, the wallpaper, everything which could be sliced with its finely honed blade, everything but Father’s chair.
He was busy stabbing the couch, pulling out handfuls of stuffing, emitting a high-pitched growl, “Die! Die!”
Martha’s heart shrank from the daunting task in front of her. She had no idea how to repair this damage, how to repair her son. She began to weep, approached her son quietly from behind and softly held him, not to restrain him, but to simply be near him. He did not give any indication that he noticed the embrace, and continued to slash and growl.
Although at times it was easy for Martha to forget that he was her son, holding him she remembered all the times she had cradled him in her arms, how beautiful he had been, how the sweet sounds he made were the music of her own heart. That had been before he’d learned the power of words: words that had the power to acquire the things he’d wanted, vile words that had the power to break his mother’s heart. Words his father taught.
She kissed him on the back of his neck, and rested her cheek at the base of his spine, a tear rolling off of her skin and on to his. The boy let out a shout and spun, slashing Martha with the knife. She gasped in pain and surprise; it was a superficial slash on her forearm, but it immediately welled up and a thin stream of blood flowed to drip off her pinky to the floor.
“Don’t touch me!” The child yelled, “Dad said you give me herpes with your slut mouth.”
Surprising herself, Martha slapped the Boy backhand with enough force to knock him back to the couch. He dropped the knife in surprise, but immediately bounced back up and began to punch and kick his mother, his over-fed bulk adding real force to his blows.
His fist smashed into her nose, and Martha dropped to the floor, feeling a cold pressure in her sinuses. She could barely see the knife that her hand found at the tips of her fingers under the coffee table. She clutched the handle, and whirled the blade around, screeching “Stop!” intending to intimidate the child. The handle was nearly wrenched from her single-handed grasp as it met with unexpected resistance.
The Boy began to scream. She began to slash again, and again, yelling “Stop!” with each flailing stroke of the blade. Sweat and tears pooled in her eyes, blurring her vision enough to allow her to deny what she was doing. She felt like she was speaking for the first time in years, asserting herself for the first time in her life. Regaining that small bit of power felt good, right, and undammed something forcefully primal inside of her: a desire for self-preservation. Instead of screeching “Stop!” it became a triumphant yell.
With a spray of bright blood that reached to the ceiling, the walls, and across Martha’s face, the Boy’s screams turned to a wet gurgle. Martha’s exalted yelling turned to sobs as she realized what she’d done. She dropped the knife, and tried to grab onto his spasmodic body, to close her hand around the slippery rent in his throat, through which his life was painting the room.
After some time, the thrashing and the pulsing fountain of blood subsided. Martha knelt on the floor, her limbs exhausted and slack, her head resting in the cooling lap of her son’s body as her tears dried, and her chest calmed. The blood which was running down the walls and staining the furniture congealed and turned sticky.
Martha heard the front door slam, and lifted her head wearily to watch as her husband rumbled into the room. He strolled into the kitchen and took several minutes to prepare himself a drink. When he returned to the living room, he sat in his chair which had remained miraculously unstained despite the struggle which had taken place so near it, and calmly opened his paper-back.
“Don’t you see, Mar…” Father began to ask, then leapt up in surprise, examining a dark red stain on the back of his pants. The color of his chair had hidden a splash of blood.
”God damnit,” he growled.
Martha uncurled from her crouch, standing straight, her chin high, and gripping the soiled knife in her fist. She grinned as she strode towards father, covering the small space quickly.
”Don’t you see, Father?” asked Martha, “This is why we can’t have nice things.”
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Aulrich reviewed Version 4 -
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Amazing story, simply gripping. I’m not sure what I liked more about this story: the ambiguity of Father and the son, or the gut-wrenching way you portrayed them. The details early on of the son were simply mind-blowing. Perhaps it wasn’t necessarily in the deeds he was doing, or insane amount of indifference he had, but the way your story fleshes out such a terrible person through the lenses of the Martha. The scene where she just continues to scrub and clean alone held enough emotion in it to perfectly characterize every single person in your story. I’m not one to critique any grammatical mistakes, but with a cursory glance back over your story, I didn’t notice any glaring errors. Anyway, I really enjoyed this and there really isn’t much I can think of that could make it any better.
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quaintfungus reviewed Version 4 -
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Really enjoyed this piece. Great descriptions of the characters and environment. I particularly like the way the fathers chair seems to encompass his character. The little boy is especially dislikable.
The way the piece ends seems to make both a heroine and victim of the mother. The reader empathises with her and yet has a sinking feeling that she will be going back to the mental establishment or prison which holds so much fear for her. I feel that you could improve the work in that respect. I would like a little more detail about why she so abhors the hospital. I think it could be stronger than the pastoral prints and unsympathetic staff.
Nice use of the refrain ’ This is why we can’t have nice things. ’ That really speaks of mental abuse. Nice work.
chelly reviewed Version 4 -
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The idea of this story is very similar to the works of stephen king. The only problem I found was with the transition from one scene/ timeline to another. The ending of each scenerio feels chopped off. Try to smooth that out and the read will flow much better.
MrJawbreakingEquilibrium reviewed Version 4 -
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I love it! It was great and unexpected in an expecting way. I was thinking that she was going to end up killiing the father probably but I didn’t think the kid was going to go. I don’t have anything to say negative. Everything is done well.
There is one sentence that might need a little tweaking and that this “Dad said you give me herpes with your slut mouth.” I’d probably put you’ll or you could instead of you. I’m sure, though, it’s just something you overlooked because everything else is perfecto. Makes me kind of jealous but I don’t know how long you’ve been working on it-so maybe the longer I work on mine maybe the higher chance of me coming up with something to this caliber.
Good job.
Johato reviewed Version 4 -
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This is certainly an interesting story well told. Good use of language and feel of almost deadpan torque building through it. One of those stories where I sort of guessed the ending before it came – but it didn’t dilute the read necessarily. While great skill is displayed in subtly telling us more than you write there is also a feeling for me that too much is left out to make it a deeper, more satisfying read. I missed the contract or bond between father and son that produced such co-ordinated torture, and why she would return to such an unloving and dangerous home, or why the father is, in a way, torturing and animalising his son. I suppose in short – too many whys? for me and this left me fulfilled by the story, however well it was written.
MMcCabe reviewed Version 4 -
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I killed both of them, at least a dozen times before you did. Also, the sentences were fine, but your pre-short comments almost bullied me away. Sometimes, the long sentence is taxing and too full, but you justified yours with meaning; also, they were extreemely descriptive.
There is, of course, this breaking point. It was forshadowed only by her passive militance, but I knew she was able. I knew it was comming, I knew she was comming, and because I dont know how, I must say job well done.
I do feel cheated, however, and I desperately wanted to witness father die. But virtuous pen, you have saved me from myself, and my deamons.
Great short.
heart2ursoul reviewed Version 4 -
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I love this from the beginning to the end, First off I loved the way you started it off, with something I call a “attention grabber” that every author must have yours was to me, was when you said she was kneeling, That is what made me want to read more, because I wanted to find out why she was kneeling, was it because someone had knocked her down, or she was having a heart attack you never knew, until you read it, So I loved that, and the ending was amazing, that kinda left me guessing,but in a good way it left me guessing.
Vato reviewed Version 4 -
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Loved it overall, it appeals to my dark nature, and therefore should to others as well. I can’t really find much wrong, it’s well constructed and maintains pace and thought well. A few (minor) editorial thoughts:
1. Para 5 – the phrase “as he wiggled contentedly with a spoon in his mouth.” might be better expressed if it were moved to the end of sentece 1, as it is really completing the image presented there.
2. Para 9 – I like the way you include the phrase, “You can’t go running off again.”, it hints at a hidden story line. Perhaps you can semi-develop it with one of Martha’s thoughts…”She remembered that time with shame.” or maybe, “Thinking of that time brought a feeling of freedom…” bla, bla, bla.
3. Para 24 – is “cheeze and cheeze crackers” redundant purposefully?
4. Para 36 – does the word “struggle” accuratly describe the action? Seems pretty one-sided after Martha looses control… the term does work, but maybe another would be more descriptive… your call on that.
5. Para 35 – Perhaps comparison to the “red color of the model’s paint”, from earlier in the story, included somewhere around the sentence “The blood which was running down the walls…” would further compound the circular nature of tale and Martha’s last phrase…
Owl_Light reviewed Version 4 -
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Dreadful title. The two most innocuous and awful words you could think of. Of course, the title reflected the story, but I nearly didn’t bother reading it because of the title. The Red Couch might be better. Anything!
Loved the description of the down trodden woman followed by the sumptious chair. Was this going to be another wife beating saga? No it was amazing. Total indifference of the male.
I feel that you successfully changed two of your characters. One’s an ex-character and the other one is the worm who has turned, the woman who has become powerful. However you don’t attempt to change the husband at all. It’s important to address how he changes after the events. He ignores everything until he gets wet pants, but I think that by not having him react at all, you are divesting him of any credibility.
In any story, every character must change. Try mapping all the changes undergone by each character and then including them within the narrative.
Although he is called Father, it’s not clear if he is Martha’s husband or Martha’s father.
Congratulations on your competent writing style.
Runatyr reviewed Version 4 -
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This is professional work. You have a clear beginning, middle, and end. The story is carried by vivid expression and colorful language throughout. The title, Father’s use of the “nice things” phrase, and later Martha’s use of it as well, works perfectly.
“Although the power of sunshine did not work, her tears cleaned no better.” seems a bit melodramatic, even in a story with an over-the-top ending. While it may be important to let the reader know she’s crying, I winced a bit at that.
This is largely a polished piece of work that’s suitable for publishing. Engaging. A highly successive endeavor and quite an enjoyable read. Thank you for the opportunity to review it.
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