Suppertime

         When a person worries, it usually begins to show in their behavior.  Some people bite their nails down until they bleed. Others will smoke cigarettes. Their fingers get yellow where they hold it while the smoke curls up silently in between deep, urgent drags. 
         Whatever gets you through.  I carry my worries on the inside.  My thoughts, my fears, my rage... it is all stored inside me like a shotgun under a black trenchcoat.  My mask is unbreachable.  I am a warrior.
         I look at the clock on the wall above the chalkboard, beside the periodic table.  1:34  I watch the second hand tick away an entire minute before I return to my work. In the background, whispers and hushed laughter, the scratching of pencils on paper, restless rubber soles drumming on the floor, Mr Ogden opening his desk drawer and fumbling for a Halls.  Again I look at the clock.  1:39  Good.  Still plenty of time.
         Later I walk home like usual.  The bus would be faster, but I always tell Dad I like the fresh air.  He seems okay with that for now.  I'll be home soon, and he will be there... waiting.
         Around the corner is my house.  737 Jones Street.  I think of me sitting on an airplane with a ticket to someplace distant.  Someplace warm.  I go through the gate, careful not to slam it closed behind me
          Inside, I head to my room.  I close the door behind me, thankful my father did not see me.  With any luck I can hide out until supper.  In my closet, hidden under a stack of books, a shoebox.  I open the lid, just to check, just to make sure it's still there.  The gun looks heavy and dangerous, but I am reassured.  I put the box back.  Mother is calling us to dinner.
         I head to the table where my older brother and sister already sit.  I take my place as Mother brings in tonights meal, roast chicken and potatoes.  It smells good but I am not hungry.  I look down at the table.  Beside every plate sits a shot glass filled with an amber liquid.  I look at my brother, but he won't meet my eyes.  He stares at the food Mother is putting on his plate.  My sister looks at me and smiles thinly, then bows her head quickly to her chest.
         Dad sits down at the head of the table.  Mother quickly dishes him some chicken and potatoes.  He likes the drumsticks.  "Let us pray." He says.  We all bow our heads and my dad recites the Lord's Prayer.  He looks at each one of us slowly, as if we were a police line-up and he an eye-witness.
         "All right.  I love you all so much.  Now eat your last supper, then we'll have a toast."  He holds up his shotglass for a moment, studying the light through the poisonous liquid.  Then he places the glass down beside his plate, picks up his fork, and begins to eat.