WHEN Ash pushed his sister’s chair in, his thumb struck the table. He winced, cursing under his breath and stared up at the tight lipped expression on his parents’ face. The table had been set and the house was filled with an everlasting aroma of spices and herbs. Now, that happiness was replaced by a quiet eerie tension. His thumb wasn’t broke but it thumped like crazy.
“I think you know what to do, son.” His father said with a deep firm voice.
Ash bowed to the table, padded out of the room and into the kitchen. He rolled his left shirt sleeve halfway down his arm, set his hand on the slick marble countertop and took the corkscrew from the block. He could still see the scar on the back of his hand from last week when he reached across his father’s plate for a bread roll-when he could’ve politely asked for one. He pressed the curled blade into the back of his hand and twisted; he cringed at the sound of torn flesh and bit down on his lower lip to curb the currents of pain coursing up his arm. He didn’t know how he would explain this to his teachers.
“You see, honey.” His father said from inside the dining room. “All you need are good table manners.”
By Brian J. Smith
