The Blurred Line by Holly Aspey

by Holly Aspey | 16 January 2014

He cracks a joke. A bad joke. One of those ‘dad’ jokes, that only your dad can get away with saying. Some thing like;

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“Could you put the kettle on darling? I’d do it myself but I’m not sure it’d fit!”

Followed by a deep “ho ho ho” belly holding laugh. His face turns red with laughter. I don’t react. I never do. I can’t remember the last time I even smiled and meant it. I mean, I must have once, before all this.

Days go past without words. The blinds are kept pulled shut. Milk bottles clutter the front door step and letters gather dust on the welcome mat. We must have looked like cartoon characters; wearing the same clothing and hair styles day after day. Yet ever so less colourful and 3D.

I pour water into the kettle and place it back on its stand to boil. I sit back into my chair. We both sit in silence. Naturally. Together, but in no sense of the word. The Television becomes a drone in the background of my thoughts. Life passing me by faster than Ray can surf the channels. He flicks through the TV programmes, stopping momentarily on a news broadcast of what seems to be British soldiers in Iraq, and hesitantly hits the off switch. There are a few minutes of silence, the calm before the storm if you will. I uncomfortably edge towards the kitchen, swallowing heavily to avoid breaking down into tears and destroying any sense of normality left within our lives. I can feel his lips part as he begins to speak; parting the line between reality and what I wish was only a dream or an episode of The Simpsons.

“He’ll be fine Jean. It’s probably for the best.”

I shudder at his last remark. Sickened by his blatant heartlessness. I don’t want to cry but my tears won’t stay down and uncontrollably spew from my eyes. The line has been blurred.

“For the best?!”

I spit with the kettle fighting to be heard. Ray doesn’t take his eyes off the black TV screen.

“He was a lazy bloody sod Jean. At least he’ll learn some respect and discipline out there!”

My face leaks. The outline of Ray’s reflection glares back at me from the TV.

“He’s our first born son Ray!!”

My voice begins to shake and my heavy heart beat over powers the increasing whistle of the kettle. I honestly couldn’t tell you which of us would boil first. I collapse back into my chair. Drained of all colour. I look like a drug addict going cold turkey. A cup of tea wouldn’t solve this but Ray heads for the kettle to avoid the burning pain in my eyes.

“He’s happy Jean, read his letter again! He’ll be fine, I promise you!”

Ray places a freshly poured mug of tea on the coffee table besides me. I look at it in disgust. It could be a cup of £50 notes for all I care; it won’t make me any happier.

“Get that down you darling. Careful it’s hot!”

Ray reaches for the remote control and continues to flick through the channels. It’s the same old. He flicks past the news just fast enough to catch a glimpse of what seems to be a mound of solider bodies. I turn to Ray. Ray flicks back hesitantly.

“We can’t live like this Jean! You can’t jump out of your skin every time there’s a news broadcast!”

The phone rings, raggedly sewing back the line between reality and pure nightmare with every tone. We both jump, as though we’d been injected back into life with adrenaline. Ray picks up the phone. I feel cold sweat slide down my nose. I watch as Rays face slowly crumples. I can not comprehend what he’s saying. Or what is being said. I feel six feet under water. All the blood rushes to my head. And then everything is black. A blinding shade of black.

I blink and I’m laid out flat on the sofa with Ray leant over me, eyes red from crying.

“I’m so sorry Jean, I should have done something, I should have stopped him going! I shouldn’t have been so hard on the boy! I thought it would be good for him... I thought it would be good for him...”

Feeling as though I’m coming around from anaesthetic I look up at Rays pained eyes. I haven’t seen him cry in over 10 years. I reach for my mug of tea on the coffee table. It’s stone cold with a layer of skin forming over the top. I look at it expressionless. It’s real and solid and is suddenly comforting to hold in my hand.

“I can’t believe he’s dead, Ray!”

Hours pass filled with tears and torment. I stand in our son’s old room from when he was just a boy. I cry into his tiny baby clothes and teddies. I curse and swear and pray all in the same breath. But nothing will bring him back. Only bring me and Ray together.

Ray holds me tight in his arms and for once we are together, in every sense of the word. I wipe a stray tear from his cheek. I gaze at him for a second and wonder when the last time my face was this close to his. Ray takes the mug of cold tea out of my hand. As we begin to whimper I tear him away from me and whisper...

I would put the kettle on, but I’m not sure it would fit!

We cry and laugh, and cry some more....