The back door entered

The back door next to the laundry led into the kitchen, mainly filled with the kitchen table and the long green coloured bench four of us sat upon on one side of the table. A large stove, where the heavy lidded hotplates of the cook top sat waiting to be raised as dinner was prepared. The rest of the room held the remaining chairs and the kitchen sink, where many a dish had been washed, by many a complaining child, myself included. Right now I would have happily stood at the sink washing a month’s worth of dishes, rather than be where I was now. Although there was nothing to say I wouldn’t be washing a years worth of dishes as a part punishment for what had happened.

There was one chair in that room of which we were all too frightened to sit on and to go into explaining that will take more than a paragraph or two, so I will write more about that later. For now just think of it as an older cream coloured vinyl covered wooden seat with it’s own name. I believe my mother must have been currently sitting in the lounge as I heard the small sliding hatch open from the kitchen side and my fathers voice say simply “Well?” There was a quiet mumbling reply from my mother, carrying to me, despite the softness, which I did not hear the end of. The hatch was closed and I heard my father move down the hall to the lounge door. The door opened, my Father must have stepped inside, for then I heard the door close.

Have you ever noticed that despite the fact humans often needed to pinpoint sounds for purposes of survival (just as I did now), and despite 80,000 years of evolution, we haven’t really developed a great facility for it? Sure we can get the general idea where it came from, unless there is a solid object nearby, and then, nine times out of ten, we will be misdirected to where the sound didn’t come from. Meanwhile the Sabre toothed tiger has padded quietly up behind us to await our turning and seeing it face to face. Faced with the other instinct ‘Fight or flight’, no doubt most ancestors would have fainted and become dinner.

The quiet discussion between my father and mother followed for some time. I waited. Tense. Fearful. And guilty of nothing. I’m serious. It was after all, my brothers’ fault. For not staying at home as he was supposed to have done. I had not actually done anything wrong in my actions. In my mind of course, with those good old catholic guilt anxieties throwing themselves forward unnecessarily, I was a turmoil of guilt ridden, gut wrenching, hand wringing, self blaming, self loathing, brother damaging, a genocidal criminal.
 (continued tomorrow)