and I’m analyzing the people i’m living with; it was a complete dysfunctional yet a classic family.
their oldest son sits in the morning with tea with three sugars in one hand and phone in the other. he tries to think that what must have happened, that where did they go wrong. and what he could do to make it all better. regrets are ashes, memories are scars and you are both.
the husband stands in front of the window with the newspaper in his hand, as the wife prepares his clothes. they escape to the bedroom everyday together to avoid facing the truth of their kids. but all they do is sleep.
their youngest son, the brightest, lays awake in bed at night pretending to be asleep. listens to the cries of his older brother. but does nothing about it. after all, he was only a kid. what did he know?
the wife still smiles but there’s a certain sadness we all can always feel; a line always heard for depressed people. she goes away after lunch, comes back with a smile and some bruises. she writes in her small diary no one knows about and hopes she’ll be loved the way she wants to be. but then we don’t always get what we want, now do we?
the sister, the one in the middle, always treated like an outcast. called names, and with all the rumors and the want to be skinny, she’s slowly dying. like everyone in this house. she’s going away, she’s here but she’s not. she’s there but where? and one day, poof, she’ll be gone to a place you’ll never know about.
and I’m sorry to turn such well people into some dysunctionals. but it’s a work of fiction, don’t forget.
(ok so I’m not sure if dysfunctionals with an ‘s’ is actually a word or not but poetic license I guess so ok?)