What Happened When Frank Died: Family Dinner

ываыв

Frank died.

The table was set.

David looked up from his chicken, he looked just as he had; he’d just started to be able to eat chicken off the bone. Sara sat to Franks left. Frank smiled; she was wearing her blue dress, Frank’s favorite.

“Can you pass the potatoes?” Frank asked across the table. David looked up. “Why did you let him take me?” David said.

Frank pointed to the potatoes. Then stopped. He looked at David again. The boy’s face was slack.

“What?” Frank said, slowly.

David cocked his head to the side. “Why did you let him take me?”

Frank put his fork down. He stared at it, then back up at David. His son took a bite of chicken. He chewed with his mouth open; Frank didn’t scold him, he frowned.

“This isn’t right,” Frank said, more to himself. He looked down at his wrists. There we gashes down each. They started to leak. They were wet. Frank turned to his wife.

“Sara?”

“Why did you blame me?” she asked, a bit of salad stuck to her tooth; second to the left.

“I–” Frank felt his body heat slipping from his wrists. He felt light headed.

“Why did you let him take me?”

Frank ignored his son. He stood up and shook his head. He walked over to the sink to splash water on his face.

“Why did you blame me?” his wife’s voice called over the running water.

Frank looked around for a rag but couldn’t find one. The blood from his wrists was getting all over the floor. David stood up.

“Why did you let him take me?” he asked.

Frank felt cold; ice.

Sara joined David. David was barely taller than her knee; as he had been. They both stared, unsmiling.

“I’m sorry,” Frank told them.

“Why did you let him take me?” David asked. “Why did you blame me?” his wife said, as an echo.

“I’m sorry!” Frank said, louder. Then, looking at his wrists he cried “where are the fucking towels!”

But his wife and son took no notice.

“Why–” they began, almost as once.

Frank drowned them out, “I’m sorry!”

“Why–”

“Shut up!” Frank ran to the bathroom. They stood in the door.

“Why did you let him take me?”

“Why did you blame me?”

There was no sadness, no anger, no fear in them; their voices were flat, they only stood, and they only asked as Frank tore open cabinets searching frantically for a towel.

 

24 comments

  1. uhhhh…this is a terrible nightmare, not a family dinner! It reminds me of films, that I only could watch for 5 min…and all because of two questions? Well the questions are probably very important. Nevertheless, I enjoyed very much your new WhwFd-Story…: )

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Read ‘The Imagination Consultant’. ‘Him’ is referred to in plenty of stories I think; I’m also very sure we actually see him in ‘The Hunt’.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. This made me think. What I read was: Someone (in this story, Frank) has performed suicide, leaving their loved ones with unanswered questions – probably very common in that situation. But the loved ones are unable to see past their self-serving questions to understand or care what was ever really happening to Frank. Indeed Frank himself seemed confused. How often is this really the way it goes IRL. Heartbreaking, good job on eliciting the emotions on this one. Anyway, love your work as always. x

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you for the analysis. The Frank stories are all meant to be read as separate pieces but for those who want, it can be part of a whole. I really like the interpretation of this as an individual piece. Adds a whole new layer I wasn’t really thinking about.

      Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s