By Charlie Swailes
I pick at the skin around my thumbnail as my father speaks. Miniscule shards of flesh peel off, dropping to the floor; my feet wrap around the chair’s legs.
“We just want what’s best for you,” he says, again. His ignorance is thick and heavy on the air. My mother—and the ubiquitous look of frustration—is a mute puppet at his side.
“You loved piano when you were younger,” he opines.
Younger. Naïve. Untouched, unsullied, unviolated.
“I’ve changed,” I say.
“Well, you’re keeping it up till the summer. It’s already been paid for.”
He cannot comprehend the price.
Well-chosen words to create each character. You’ve led the reader to the conclusion at the right pace. Well done.
What I really like about this is the imagery. This young person has found the courage to confront his father, knowing there will be no support from his mother and the tension this creates in him is so well described. Picking at thumbs, wrapping feet around chair legs to give some kind of hold in a brave attempt to overrule a decision and achieve some autonomy.
Bad old piano teacher… it would be scary enough to ask to quit. The real reason would probably never come out.