Kitchen Knife

And as he presses the sharp kitchen knife to my throat I force myself not to backhand him.

I take in his appearance, he is a foot taller than me. His unkept hair hangs haphazardly across his face shading the bruises. His face looks somehow gaunt as though his skin is only there to stretch over his bones. He is wearing that big baggy jumper that I know covers scars but also hides how thin he has become, and the baggiest jeans, apparently a fashion trend, they almost make his stick like legs appear normal. The width of his bony shoulders show that his weight is unnatural, and that, with his hazel-green eyes and slightly wavy dark hair show that he could be a handsome young man, if he took care of himself. If that was what he wanted.
I watch as my 17 year old boy throws the tantrum of a three year old:
He screams curses at me, I scream back.

He throws everything at the walls, I strike him.

He holds that knife to my throat, I give him a dark stare.

But I see he is crying, he rarely ever cries, I stare in shock.

He sways slightly and falls to the floor.

He sits curled in a ball, back against the refrigerator and knife held tightly in hand. And it is only then, watching my son rock and cry in our kitchen, listening to his inaudible whispers and dry unrecognisable screams, unable to distinguish his words, that I know what happened. What was happening the whole time, right in front of me.

This new wave of knowledge both sickens and terrifies me. My anger turns to guilt as I realise that I have failed my son. I stood by and watched him fall, without even realising it.

I slowly sat down next to him and hugged him and although he went tense I didn’t let go, and several minutes later I felt him slowly relax. And although I had been there his whole life, watching him, watching him slide, and doing nothing, his first understandable words were “I missed you mum.”