Little Responsibilities

By | 1 July 2006

They looked so sweet and content as they slept.

All snug and warm amongst each other.

I didn't want to wake them- but I had to.

        they are My responsibilities.

I pull back their paper covers; I tense as I await their angry response –

        their abuse.

Nothing yet. Just the quiet.

I undress them one by one. One rouses. Fiery, he screams at me in red!

His shouts and demands shock the others awake – wide-eyed!

They cry and wail and scream. Their wantings flash at me in red.

        Water. Driving lessons. Riding Lessons. Petrol. Lunch money. Zoo excursions.
Play group. Electricity. FOOD! Oh! How could I forget FOOD?

They wave their paper selves at me like a barbaric tribe – cursing me.

The centrewank payments haven't gone through yet. They haven't gone through!

Locking myself in my room I slide down the wall – cowering in my corner.

I can hear them at the other end of the house. Their pounds on my door are deafening.

They know I don't have it. I give and I give! They take and they take! I have nothing left.

        Guitar lessons. School shoes. Soccer practice.

I stand at the kitchen counter and stare at them. One taunts me – her demands in bold. She dances and waves herself about. I launch at her. I wrap my hands around her brittle neck and twist. She tears. In fury I keep tearing. Dismembering. I turn to the others.

        Their paper limbs float to my dirty kitchen floor.

I creep down the hall. They looked so sweet and innocent as they slept. If only they knew mummy's pain of being a poor provider.

        If only they understood the bills were taking over.

                If only they understood.


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