I sit with them, they eat their food quietly.
They quietly and silently toss back glances.
An exchange of a deluge in a tiny movement happens
Between the parents.
One is sitting near him, her eyes are dampening with tears.
The other is a quiet, good man.
He sits with a trained, calmed tongue.
It does not sell words easily.
He keeps them in his mind, where they can tumble and turn and not cause trouble.
The boy sitting across from him is the opposite:
His mouth is a store, selling and selling the lies.
Selling and Selling pathetic excuses, pathetic complaints.
No one is buying, no one can afford to anymore anyways...
The couple is spent, so spent.
The quiet man keeps his quiet eyes fixed on his wife and this boy.
He wants so badly to turn back time until this is fixed.
It slowly rips at his heart, softened by his daughter, hardened by his son.
The wife, on the other hand, is different.
Her screams do not ring silently, but they ring in the ears.
Her emotions flood all the hearts around her, except for one.
Pitiful.
She looks at this boy, her son, she sees something to be saved.
She sees a soul worth mending.
No one else could see that, not underneath the cusses and the caged anger.
She pleads so wildly, so fruitlessly, for him to change.
But making changes will never change him.
He will make sure she is this way.
He will ensure that his mother cries helplessly at him from across the table.
He will ensure that she cries at him at night, when he is far, far away.
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