Author note: I don’t generally swear in my writing, but for the purposes of this character study, it is necessary.
Malcom was going to rip her a fucking new one. He really was.
“Where did she put that G*d damn remote,” he growled. He’d heard the garage door open and close, and it had arrested him from his deep sleep. The dream, whatever it had been, had left him in a foul mood, a sense of … fear? He couldn’t recall, and the struggle to remember made him even angrier.
“Dad? Dad, I’m home for lunch,” echoed from the ground floor of the tri-level as he heard Monica start to climb the stairs. She appeared from around the corner, a tired smile on her face as she saw him sitting there feeling around, as she came to lean against the doorframe. Her shirt was wrinkled, her sweater pulled tight over her, arms crossed and relaxed.
“What the hell did you do with it?” he demanded, flipping over a few magazines. Dobbs was interviewing an economist, something about the current administration, and he wanted to hear the debate.
She smiled, puzzled, and laughed. She laughed at him. In this helpless state, and he was missing it.
“What? Do what with what?”
“You took it and you hid it on me.”
She was lying to him again, he could tell.
“What am I supposed to have hidden?”
“You took the G*d damn remote control and put it somewhere.”
She scoffed, incredulous. She was still laughing at him. She was mocking him.
“I’ve been at work since 8:15 a.m. You were awake watching Maddow when I left. When was I supposed to have taken the remote control and hidden it?”
“Well I can’t find it Monica. Where did it go then?”
In a pained, forcibly calm voice, Monica said quite gently, though he didn’t notice the gritted teeth, “Is it possible is slipped between the cushions and you’re sitting on it?”
“I am not sitting on it, G*d dammit!” Spittle flew from his mouth and landed on the floor in tiny droplets. “Come over here and look around the tv.”
Monica exhaled heavily. “I have to be back at work by one and I need to eat lunch. Why would it be over near the television? Did it grow legs and walk its happy little ass over there while you’ve been sitting in the same spot on yours since I left?” Her own demand and indignation flared his temper. Why was she always sassing him?
“You’re mother lets you get away with talking like that,” he countered. “You took the fucking—”
Monica had turned and left the room, headed down the hallway toward the kitchen, her footsteps heavy. Malcom could hear the refrigerator door open, heard it slam closed.
“Don’t slam the fucking door like that!” She was going to break something. Stupid fucking girl. Stupid fucking cunt of a child. She was so G*d damn disrespectful; of his house, of his things, of him. He began to scoot himself forward, felt the couch cover snag and as he struggled to get out of the seat. His body hurt so damn much these days; the back ached and tightened, and his knee groaned as he used his right arm to push himself up.
With a sudden clatter, the heavy black plastic with soft rubber buttons of the remote control fell away from his side and onto the floor.
G*d damn it, he thought, leaning down to pick it up. Huffing from the effort it took for him to stand, he tossed it down onto the seat cushion next to him, grabbing his red plastic cup and shuffling his great weight to the kitchen. Monica sat at the breakfast table, eating some canned soup and a half sandwich, scrolling on her phone. He was still angry. She should have helped him, instead of making fun of him. Her laughter had indicated her guilt … but then again, she hadn’t taken the control from him. The silence continued as he filled the cup, then placed several cold ice cubes in the water to keep it nice and chill, and shuffled back to the living room. Malcom turned himself around slowly and dropped into the couch, his weight shaking the furniture and rattling the windows, just a little. As he settled, he slurped from his straw the cold, cooling water, felt it sooth his hot throat, and reached for the remote. He pressed the mute button and turned his attention from Monica. He’d deal with her later. Right now, Dobbs was interviewing a panel of experts, and he didn’t want to miss it.
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