Woke infinity
A dark magician gifting
Dunce caps to Buddhas

It's a dark Sunday morning. Too cold. Eerily quiet, apart from the occasional gust of wind slapping rain against the window. I'm breathing through my nostrils, measured doses. Be the grown-up is my silent mantra.

The YouTube homepage fills our television screen, its angry red banner above squares of tacky clickbait. I glance at the options but I'm not interested. The gaudy colours and horrified expressions do nothing to entice me. Seen it all before. Shite and more shite. Mind pollution. My real focus is on my son.

He sits cross-legged on the couch wearing just his pyjama bottoms. Only eleven years old. Slim and serious. I've fired up the heating but the chilly atmosphere is winning. My boy won't accept the blanket about his shoulders and he's not talking. I'm huddled in my fleecy onesie, still shivering. His face is set to a stubborn frown and his breathing matches this.

His mouth is moving as though in conversation, but no sound comes.

'D'ye wanna cuppa tea?' I say, making to stand up. 'Will tharr'elp?' Yet again, he doesn't answer me.

'Come on, kidder. S'freez'n. Pu' su'n' on.' I wield the blanket like a matador facing a bull, but there's no response, so I put it over my legs. The blanket is soft but has a surface chill which penetrates my fleece.

The stained glass lamp is between us. Only half of his face is visible to me. He is pale, as though the blood has scurried away from the surface, avoiding his presence. His hair is pale too, waves of gold fall across his cheek in haphazard curls. I'm glad he doesn't want a haircut. He continues his silent mumbling while I study his dark expression.

On the coffee table there's a mound of screwed-up paper and some not-yet-vandalised sheets. I shove it with my foot, the table, pushing it closer to him. It screeches across the wooden floor. He pretends not to notice.

His usually vibrant eyes grow darker. He jerks his hand, punching sideways at a cushion. This sudden movement surprises me and I raise an eyebrow. The cushion deflates and, as it slowly resumes its shape, rolls off the couch as though dead. It'll be covered in dog hairs now.

'Wanna talk abaarrih?' I notice the irritation in my voice.

He does, too; I can tell. But he stares straight ahead towards the television. I know he's not reading the YouTube thumbnail titles or scanning the pictures. His stare is dead centre. He's inside his own head, but radiating anger. Or maybe it's frustration. Both. I don't know. It feels like stalemate now though.

I turn to the window behind me and reach for the pull-cord to open the vertical blinds. The sky is a dirty mauve. Still no sign of daylight, just a sickly sepia mist around the street lamp outside. My car looks miserable in the rain.

When I look back I see my son has moved. He's uncrossed his legs and is rubbing the back of his neck. It must have been uncomfortable for him, sitting in the same position for so long. The act is disintegrating. So is mine. My mind turns to coffee. Strong coffee.

'Suit yerself, love,' I say, standing up. 'But yer no'rravin' yer Playstation controller 'til ye finish yer matts'omework.'

Ends

Note: This is fiction. My kid is a perfect, loveable savage.

Translations from Scouse into English:

D'ye wanna cuppa tea? – Do you want a cup of tea?
Will tharr'elp? – Will that help?
Come on, kidder – Come on, sweetheart
S'freez'n – It's freezing
Pu' su'n' on – Put something on
Wanna talk abaarrih? - Do you want to talk about it?
Suit yerself, love – Suit yourself, love
But yer no'rravin' yer Playstation controller 'til ye finish yer matts 'omework – But you're not getting your Playstation controller until you finish your mathematics homework

SMARTSTEEM

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