Dinner

Lighting a cigarette, scratching a mosquito bite, picking a scab. It is a fact well-known, often-ignored, that it feels better to make things worse. It was this bittersweet logic that caused Ben, hoarder of chips and red in the face, to clasp the cold 'stainless steel' of his fork and bring it down into Sid's hand, hard.
Ben swung his heavy head upward. He registered the ashen faces of his family, all of their gazes pinning him against his chair, shocked and guiltily intrigued by this young boy’s pragmatism. All save Sarah, baby of the family, who had not yet developed this taste for corporal enforcement. She yawned, with a world weariness that could have alarmed a parent not so absorbed in the wrongdoings of another offspring. Sid, older brother, was still at an age where reality seemed closer than it was, like lightning. Nonetheless, in this moment nothing seemed more real to him than the crimson beads of blood sitting on the back of his hand. Silently, he alternated glances at his red hand with glances at his brother’s red face, as if expecting them to change places.
Nanoseconds before you die, they say time freezes. Life gives you as long as you need to assess, probe, appreciate and regret for one last time. On tonight’s anonymous evening, this was taking place on a small scale, in a small boy’s head. The moment was endless, frozen in all its prickling heat. Sarah kept yawning, Mum and Dad kept staring, Sid kept glancing. Ben had an uncomfortable eternity to ask himself ‘Why, Ben?’ and ‘How did it come to this?’
One day earlier, the sunlight on the snow was moving in waves. It lay serene and glittering, a bright white ocean. The Rayners were on holiday. John and Martine had grown tired of their punctured box home blending into a quagmire of obscurity. Work and family were exacting their own forces on them, exerting their own gravity. Their minds both kept returning to one notion - escape. After glancing through lurid collages comprised of slogans, prices, snow-tanned faces and frozen smiles they turned their hopes away from the USA and settled on a small word-of-mouth ski resort, remote and secluded in the French Alps. Unfortunately for them in their excited preparation they had left an important factor out of the equation. Try as they might they could not offload their offspring after Christmas and were forced to bring them. They were the most irritating form of baggage; they took up seats, needed constant maintenance and had hungry, snapping mouths.
On this morning the snow icing the mountains was under assault, being scratched, grated and grappled with by small pink hands. Ben Rayner, a novice digger, was taking immense pride in his work. His tunnel had gleefully evolved from a modest dent in the deceptively solid snow wall into a Ben-sized, roughly corrugated cave. He scraped at the walls with ungloved hands, using the rough edge of his zip when his hands were red raw, kicking the tunnel clear behind him with his feet as the hours passed, unmonitored. Ben had found a skill! Sid had his school reports, Dad was a muscleman, Mum was good at maths and everyone seemed to love Sarah. With this in mind he dug inexorably onward, happy to find his calling for the day. He paused only occasionally to warm his hands in his pockets and watch his breath curl upwards from his lips. It was during one of these pauses, however, that things all started to go wrong for Ben.
He lay in his tunnel with his eyes closed, reclining into the feeling of comfort and satisfaction brought about by a job well done and nearing completion. Basking in this pleasant sensation, he became aware of a babbling noise, needling in his ear. The noise was persistent and grew increasingly curious. This was the first sound Ben had really focused on for some time, and he gave it his full attention. Laughter, he thought, kids playing. With a mind to seeking its source, he opened his eyes, only for them to be filled at once by stinging snow.
Wiping his face, Ben could make out the fleeing figure of an older child in a blue raincoat. An impartial observer would know that the child had dived acrobatically, in an attempt to catch an audaciously launched ball. A sympathetic onlooker would appreciate that normally this boy (an omniscient onlooker would know him to be Marco Fournier, a local boy on a school holiday) could rely on this cushion of snow, followed by its underlying firm support as its many deep layers are compacted. A sympathetic onlooker would also appreciate that it was a case of grievous misfortune that the boy landed exactly on the weaker roof of the Ben Rayner tunnel. Ben, however, was not an onlooker, he was not sympathetic and he did not see the incident. All Ben saw was a blank eyeful of snow and a retreating rain-coated offender, leaving his tunnel in ruins.
Ben smarted, his face was stinging and raw, and snow had infiltrated the warmth of his coat, his socks and his shirt. His eyes watered freely as he experienced two types of aggression: the boy crashing into his tunnel coupled with the snow breaching the waistline of his trousers. He had not yet reached the stage of wrath, emotions this strong could only be accommodated one at a time, and his head was preoccupied with grief for the loss of his creation. With abandon and childlike desperation he set about recreating his morning’s work. He had little time, the sun seemed to be lowering fast enough to cause astrological concern, and with the falling of the sun would come parents, work, and family once again. It was no use however, he was no longer dexterous, and he had lost his finesse. Through pained eyes he used his hands, now cumbersome, meaty paws, to remodel the snow, but it was too late, the consistency had gone. Every charged attempt to master his materials was smothered, the snow simply slipped through his fingers, it would not obey.
He gave up, crying hot, salty tears. Long minutes passed. He was a small boy on a large mountain, insignificant, cold and wet. He was no longer a digger, he had nothing to show for his day and he wept, his frame of mind now sore with clarity that it was all gone, and it was never coming back.
Just then, he saw the raincoat.
Standing out blue on white, the figure seared into its canvas of snow and taunted Ben’s eyes. His mind now remodeled, it shed its oppressive, itchy skin of despair and doubt and saw a new, gleaming pathway to redemption. Ben was just old enough to appreciate that punishing this boy would not bring his tunnel back, but this new opportunity was so promising, so urgent and refreshing, that for that fleeting moment (an older, more mature onlooker would know that all it ever takes is a moment) it seemed that it would. Ben made his move. He attacked with the attacked. With a hand now steeled with grim purpose, he once again conquered the snow with his grasp. His fingers moulded and pressed with renewed verve, eyes always locked upon the rain coated figure. He lifted his hand; in it was a hard, round dormant snowball, about to be made active. With one huge arching motion, he launched the ball into the air.

“That is it, you’re grounded”
17 minutes later John Rayner’s voice was all depth and resonance. The guilty party sat at the table with hands on top of each other, forehead pressing them flat against the oak. Sid lounged in the corner with his books pretending not to listen, but John’s fury came in volleys, and with every attack inflections of a smile played on his lips, betraying him. Sarah was by the kitchen and Martine, pressing a towel full of ice to her daughter’s face, thought to herself that this would not be one for the photo book.
“What did he do?” she said to John quietly.
“He threw a snowball at Sarah.” Said Sid, who decided that imparting this information was worth blowing his cover.
“No Mum, I didn’t, I-”
The atmosphere in the room turned to an uncompromising, lingering and bitter chill, permeating each Rayner to the core. Ben’s muscles twitched and tightened, wanting retribution. He felt the anger build and boil inside him like acid
“This behaviour is against our constitution”
Bloody constitution, thought Ben.
“I didn’t mean it”
“Whether you meant it or not” said John for no reason, for he had decided that Ben had meant it a long time ago. He shook his head as he spoke “It was the wrong way to behave.”
“Have you even apologised?” queried Sid.
Ben wished he could spit poison.
“Our constitution delegates that you must apologize or risk an even more stern punishment”
Ben swallowed his anger. It turned to ash in his mouth, tasting foul and dry. Baulking and pulsing, he squeezed it out past his teeth.
“No”

Sid had always been considered a very gifted child. His school, modest, leafy, quiet and church based had always seen him as their golden ticket, their flagship student, and segregated him from other students in Maths, English, History, French and Science courses as if their inferiority was infectious. John had high hopes, and tutored Sid in politics and government in the afternoons, and on some weekends. This only occasionally seemed like a mistake to John, one occasion being when Sid surprised him with a proposed written agreement over his pocket money. Deemed too punitive, the agreement was accidentally ‘lost’ by Martine. John hit back, hoping to make the kids acknowledge that they were given eighteen years of free room and board (of which Sid and Ben had used eleven and nine, respectively) by ratifying a constitution, covering household decorum to homework to bedtime to pocket money. Martine sometimes worried that John took this too seriously, he had brought it up too often. But they were both united in reluctant awareness of their son’s attitude, and that it would not leave him with many friends.
Fork. Knife. Fork. Knife.
Ben had been made to regret every one of the past twenty three hours. For each one he was forced to sit indoors, and they were all dense, hushed and stony. Tears came to him in the hotel room. He felt himself lost in the undertow of injustice and frustration. Every accidental glance at the temptations outside made his gut swell with self pity, and the buttons on his gameboy were worn down to the nub.
Fork. Knife. Fork. Knife.
He sat at the table, head hanging. Framed by his chair, he was silent and submerged in his own mood. It added resistance to his movements; it drowned the sounds he made. The room service steaks making their way around were like dry sponges, the chips were sweating and blackened and the ‘jus d’orange’ was thick and sour. Still, the Rayner family ate. It was worth it to avoid conversation.
The stuffed marmot in the corner had lived a long life as a decoration. Prior to that, it had seen snow, pine cones, further snow and a gun. Now, as an ornament, it had seen family upon family. Its eyes were beads, but they were beads of experience. It knew the seasons of a group, and it was a witness to when the Rayners began to thaw. It saw smiles slowly cracking and people calmly talking. Sarah counted four peas on her plate. One of them, she thought, looked like John. Martine noted to herself that this might well be one for the photo book. Sid and John laughed together, impervious to their gap in age.
But misery burns, all it needs is a spark.
Sid had been studying all day. John had taken him through a dilute course of governmental economic systems. Sid listened, keen focused eyes, ready to obey, like a sheepdog. This is where Sid and John thrived. Sid was a learner; he loved to feel wise after a session. John liked the power; he liked the lack of stress, he like his usefulness, he liked the ease with which he could live for a short while. In their sessions they were both content, working in harmony. The only side effect was that Sid felt that after sacrificing his time and effort, his family owed him.
“Why does Ben have more chips than me?” he said.
Many are aware that all it can take is a moment. Even more are aware that all it can take is a sentence. A sentence can lead to suicide, to marriage, to war, to divorce, to fame, to fortune or simply another sentence. This sentence froze the Rayners once more. Ben’s steak turned to grit. Sarah noticed a black defect on the side of one pea, and flicked it under the table.
“No he doesn’t” said John.
“Yes he does, it’s obvious. He has loads more.”
“Oh, it’s hardly anything” placated Martine.
“Dad, I worked hard today didn’t I?” No one around the table liked where this was going. Sarah reacted by killing her third pea, she stuck the prong right though its creamy centre, and watched it bleed.
“Yes, you were very good.”
“Thankyou, I think I was.” He said, gathering assurance, becoming more prepared and Sidgerous, like the significant snowball Ben had in his hand twenty three hours previous. “I was good and I was working all day. Ben was not good, and he’s been playing gameboy all day”
“That’s not true!” Ben insisted. It was.
“So, I’ve been working and he’s been doing that. Shouldn’t I get more chips?” Sid had stated his case, he crossed his arms and leant back to eradicate any doubt. No one answered. His gift should have warned him off doing it, but he probed the topic even more. “Dad, we went over this today, remember? He worked less than me, he deserves less than me but we get the same amount. That sounds like comjurism. We aren’t conjumists.”
“It’s communism, Sid” John corrected, ignoring the point of the statement.
“It’s not communism, it’s dinner” Martine spoke up, shooting Sid and John each looks of scorn. “Sid, you have the same amount as your brother, respect him and respect that.”
“But it isn’t fair!” The whining was not unexpected.
“It is fair, now watch it.”
“It’s not FAIR”
“Belt up! You’re grounded!” John barked. The feeding four withdrew from his bared teeth. The shock of his voice broke through the atmosphere like a boulder through glass. The dinner was devastated, there remained only silence. The boys were statuettes of fear; Sarah was too scared to eat her fourth pea. Ben’s nerves had been tested completely, he did not need this. He did not deserve this. No satisfaction came from his brother’s punishment. Only memories of his own downfall, he closed his eyes and on the eyelids he saw his sweet tunnel. His tunnel was his alone, his refuge, his safety, his friend. He saw the blue raincoat, retreating. His finger nails dug red marks into his arms as he saw it in ruins, he saw Sarah’s head emerging from a camouflaged mount of snow, he saw his fathers reddening cheeks, his mother’s raised eyebrows. All for no reason. He bit his tongue until his mouth filled with spit.
For the rest of his life, Sid Rayner could always be counted on to exacerbate a situation. He thought he was all powerful, he thought he could harness the power and strength of a steel girder, the firm unforgiving resolve of an anvil, combined with the subtlety and softness of silk. What was worse is that he always felt deserving. He couldn’t negotiate his way to more chips, but that hadn’t stopped so many people. It didn’t stop those figures on the front of books. His history books weren’t written about people who talked, they were about people who wanted something, and took it. He decided right then to be a taker. His left hand embarked from the side of his plate and strafed towards the right side of Ben’s. Holding the element of surprise, his fingers parachuted in, and touched a chip.
This was not a slow motion, but in those nanoseconds before you die, your regrets move slowly in front of you, just to be sure that they are regrets.
Ben ground his teeth, he breathed hard into his forearm. He pinched back tears and knit his brow tight. Never before had he felt so engrossed in pity of his situation. Never before had things seemed so unfair. Never before had so many things that he hadn’t said been so frequently reviewed in his mind, nor had they been left to fester and stab at him internally in quite the same way.
Sarah, with renewed confidence, ate her final pea.
All at once his senses focused to a pinpoint. His nerves teetered at the exact point between the peak and the trough of a wave. He eyes rumbled as they rolled in his head, he looked to the side and he saw his brother, with his hand on a chip. Violation. His nerves slipped off the crest and into the surf. It took him ninety four microseconds to decide upon his plan of action. As he mobilized his hand, he saw his tunnel back and himself digging, he saw the snowball strike the coat and the figure bursting into smoke, he saw his father’s face scarlet with embarrassment and anger, he saw Sid crying and gripping his pillow over his head. He looked at his hand and saw his fingers tighten around the fork. He would make this next moment belong to him.
Four seconds later.
Lighting a cigarette, scratching a mosquito bite, picking a scab. It is a fact well-known, often-ignored, that it feels better to make things worse. It was this bittersweet logic that caused Ben, hoarder of chips and red in the face, to clasp the cold 'stainless steel' of his fork and bring it down into Sid's hand, hard.