Butterfly

Chrysanthemum George (otherwise known as Chrys) is drowning in a world of self-harm, suicide and dark thoughts. Recovery has never been her plan but when a new face arrives on the scene will Chrys have any choice in the matter? A story about the darkness eating at a generation and the difficult route out of it.

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5. Chapter 2, Part 3

Dinner rolls around soon enough and Eric and Tomas come to get me from my room, the troubles with the cookie long forgotten now that they know they’re about to get more food. For such tiny kids, they sure do eat a lot.

I’m dragged into the dining room with Eric clasping one hand and Tomas pulling on the other.  The serving hatch through from the kitchen is open and Tomas and Eric soon drop my hand when see the plates of lasagne waiting for them. I walk up more slowly and grab a plate for myself before heading for the table in the middle of the room.

We used to all sit separately at smaller tables around the room but there were too many food fights that Jen and the others didn’t appreciate happening.  So what was their answer to the problem? Moving the tables to form a large one in the middle so that food fights couldn’t happen as we were all sat too close to each other. Honestly, I just think they moved it so if a food fight did happen, the food wouldn’t have too far to travel and it’s less likely to hit the walls.

It’s understandable, really. Although the walls are covered in posters and art we’ve created and accumulated over the years, the beauty and age of the house can’t be denied. Carved wooden patterns line the walls atop wooden boarding that surrounds the room. There might have been wallpaper on the part of the wall above it but currently there is only a deep maroon paint above it. I don’t know who suggested maroon was a good colour, but if it weren’t for the ridiculously cheap fluorescent lighting in the room I doubt we’d hardly be able to see from one side of the room to the other because of the dark colours in here.

I seat myself at the end of the table opposite Marcus. Tomas and Eric who had been sat at either side of the table a space away from us shuffle over one space so we’re now pinned at the end of the table by them. Michael looks up from his room and raises his eyebrows mockingly at me with a glance in Tomas’ direction, who is now spooning lasagne into his mouth like there’s no tomorrow. I stick my tongue out slightly and smile as I go back to eating my own lasagne.

Marcus and I both came to the home at about the same time. I was six and he was eight and we both got shoved on the doorstep at the same time. Of course, back then he was a gangly, dark haired and pasty skinned boy. Now you can see muscle definition through the arms of his shirt, his arm is styled fashionably into a quiff and his remarkably clear skin doesn’t show a hint of teenage hormone disruption like most boys.

There’s only the four of us at the table because the others either have school commitments or a social life. We finish the meal in friendly silence and then picking up our plates, head into the kitchen for them to be washed up. As we walk out, Jen calls after me and so waving goodbye to the others I stay behind to see what she wants.

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