Page 57 of Any More Questions for the Corpse?

“Go on then …” Mal’s dad prompted.

“Yeah, go on, fucknut,” Brode eloquently added.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Mal felt the family eye him, each waiting for their moment to strike.

“Explain why you think it’s acceptable to kill your parents for three days,” Mal’s mum said. “What could possibly be more important?”

Mal knew that actually telling them what he’d been up to would be a huge mistake. They either wouldn’t believe him—which, given everything he had been up to, was kind of understandable—or they’d try and take it over and make it about themselves. Mal found himself saying:

“I was just living my life.”

This was, in retrospect, also a mistake.

“That’s all you have to say for yourself?!” Mal’s mum said.

“You evil, arrogant little shit,” Mal’s dad roared, standing up to begin his tirade.

Yelling and screaming ensued, as was tradition, with various accompaniment from his siblings:

“Monster.”

“Why?”

“Freak.”

Jocea remained silent, a look of disgust on her face; thankfully the look didn’t seem to be aimed at him. Mal had learned that interjecting during these tirades resulted in much worse outcomes, so he sat there as the pressure mounted in his skull.

“We put food in your belly, a roof over your head, clothes on your back, and this is how you repay us?”

Ah, his dad was playing the classics. This guilt trip always confused Mal a little; the things he listed were the bare minimum needed to physically raise a child. A decision that he had made, not Mal. If he didn’t do these things, then presumably someone from a government agency would have come and taken Mal away from them. The worst part was Mal did feel guilty; he hadn’t wanted to let his family down, but it just happened. Not that they would listen, of course.

As the yelling continued, Mal wondered if any amount of explanation would have been enough. Mal remembered years and years of family meals that ended this exact same way. Sometimes over the most trivial things. Mal didn’t finish his food, Mal took too much food, Mal doesn’t want to keep his entire family alive indefinitely, Mal mentioned how tired he is from the siphoning, etcetera, etcetera. You name it, Mal needed yelling at about it.

Mal could feel his hand rolling up into a fist as the yelling continued. Now, losing his temper, that would be a big no-no. Then suddenly they’d turn into the victims, and his siblings would come to their parents’ defense as if they hadn’t just been berating Mal for existing mere moments ago. Mal took a deep breath, and forcefully unclenched his hand, spreading his fingers out to what felt like the opposite of a fist. Mal could leave soon, have a massive panic attack, and then this would just be another shitty family memory. He could feel his breathing getting ready to peg it already.

“What are you doing with your hand?!” Mal’s dad said, as if running out of things to be fake mad about. “Are you even listening, you ungrateful cretin? Well, say something!”

“Yes, I’m listening.” Mal said, forcing the words out as if throwing up chunks of dry metal.

He looked at the glee on his siblings’ faces (except for Jocea). Why did they hate him so much? Surely keeping their parents alive should garner him some goodwill? Mal knew it wasn’t about hate; it was about his parents’ love. They’d learned this routine from them the same way Mal had. Mal had learned it so well, he mistook their words in his head for his own. If you spend enough time hearing something, you start to believe it. And Mal did believe it—at least a part of him did. Monster. Evil. Freak. Though another part of him thought it wasn’t true. Mal saw the look Des gave him after the massacre and felt something within him that was new, and slightly scary.

It said things like, “What do you actually owe these people? Leave and live your own life.” These words tugged at the strings of guilt his parents had puppeteered him with for years. If he left them, they’d die. Then he really would be the monster they saw him as. Mal looked down and got the egg-timer-hourglass-thingy out of his pocket. This was supposed to make things easier. So far nothing about this had been easy. It was okay; the tirade would end soon and he could leave, and everything could just carry on as it was. Draining and anxiety inducing, but at least everyone would be happy. His family would be happy.

“So that’s all you have to say for yourself?” Mal’s dad said, winding down into his chair.

“Well that’s it then, isn’t it,” Mal’s mum said. “You will have to move back in with us. Clearly you can’t be trusted to do what’s right.”

“What? That’s not happening,” Mal splurted out.

“Who do you think you are?” Mal’s dad screamed.

“I won’t hear another word about it. You don’t have a choice in the matter.”

The new part of Mal remembered something he had forgotten a long time ago; something Walters had reminded him of earlier that very day. Mal did have a choice. He didn’t have to let their words control his life. He didn’t have to sacrifice his happiness for theirs. They would always hate him because of who he was, but Mal didn’t have to join them. If Mal was a monster, he would be the monster he chose to be. He stared down at the egg-timer-hourglass and wondered if it would work. If he should just leave them with it, or if he should finally break the bond for good. Let them die. Let his family move on. Let himself move on. Perhaps that was too big a decision to make while tired and angry and full to bursting with Sunday roast. He placed the hourglass-thingy on the table in front of him.

“I love you. I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.”