Franklyn - Episode 5
Death
Father brought Mother back from the hospital, in his car, the two-door Mazda. We knew the sound of his engine. It was a lot louder than that of our other neighbors. We watched from the window of the parlour, behind the blinds, as he pulled up and emerged with Mother. They both looked tired. Mother looked weary, her expression, her countenance, her gait. The air around her was black.
I saw them approach the door, and from the distance between them, about 30 meters, I knew things were far from well . Father lurched behind her and gave a weak smile when we rushed to hug her. He plunged down on the sofa as he always did, picked up the remote from the stool, replacing it with his legs, then slept off watching television.
They returned in the evening, around six o'clock, as the sunset gradually disappeared. Mother's face, like mine, was better, but for a few scratches. She slept in our room that night, on my bed. She told us bedtime stories, sang to us and struggled to laugh. Even at my age I could sense emptiness in her countenance. I could perceive hurt in her voice. Her words were prickling on the skin, jittery to the ear. Mother wasn't happy, and so much as she tried, she couldn't pretend to be.
So I told her, ‘We want to kill him.’
She gazed deeply at me, stone-faced. Then after what seemed like forever, she asked, ‘Why?’
‘Because of what he does to you,’ Benny retorted
All episodes of this story can be found here >> https://www.ebonystory.com/story/franklyn
. He was light-skinned like mother, yellow like a shinny bulb. He took to Mother's complexion. I took to Father's.
My mother was stunned. Her gaze switched from face to face, examining the source of the precocious vengeance and wondering how it had welled up inside children. She didn't tell us it was wrong and read us a Bible scripture. She didn't tell us we were too young to fathom ‘such things’ as adults usually put it. She didn't tell us he was our father and her husband and whether we liked it or not we had to love him like she'd struggled to do over the years. She didn't speak. She decided to act.
Father was buried three weeks later at the Henshaw town cemetery. We all wore black. Mother cried theatrically throwing herself all over the place. Benny and I cried too. We weren't sure why, probably because we felt pain watching our mother display energetic grief. She threatened to jump inside the grave, freshly dug six feet. She shoved people aside like a rugby player. The grave was so deep. I wondered how the diggers actually came out after digging. Father had been placed inside the neatly furnished coffin. He was in a black suit and his favorite shirt–I believe because he wore it on special occasions, of which this was one. He looked dapper in death, hugging a flower. His face was wrapped in a fuzzy strangeness. I felt pity for him, overwhelming pity that drenched my heart.
Father's brother, Uncle Jack, was there. He was Father's only surviving relative. He looked terrible. He was drenched in tears like someone had whooped his bare buttocks. At the beginning of the burial procession, he'd been in shades, but as the session progressed, he couldn't hold it anymore. He cried like a baby.
My brother and I were confused. Father was dead for sure. But we had no idea who had killed him.
Wants to study in Canada? Checkout this ongoing scholarships in Canada
- Views (2282)
- Likes (0)
- Comments (0)
- Rating (0)
@ebonystoryseries
234 902 103 7057