Behind the red brick house, amidst a land of wheat and grass, in the backyard children chuckled and played until the night would come.
“Dufus is an arsefaceâ€Â, a little girl would laugh, reaching for the skies, clear blue and free of clouds. Her body soared high, for a second or two when she would come looping down. The chains rotated where her little hands held on, creaking a softest moan, under the weight of her tiny body. A boy whom she pointed at, sat three or so metres away, sticky sand up to his knees, his hands caressing the mound of grains in front. All the while he looked at her, with the most intensive stare. His lips would part, his tongue would stick out, coyly. â€ÂShut up smelly†, Dufus called out from the hole he was in.
The girl had temporarily forgotten her quarrel with her brother, now focusing on reaching higher with each new swing. Golden hair swayed atop her head, like uncut grass in the wind, exposing the air to the aroma of lavender shampoo. Birds chirped a mating melody in the near distance, orchestrating with the constant tune of the swing. When it reached the peak, Dufus heard a silence, interrupted only by the great big oak tree that towered above the old swing to which it was supported – it’s veiny leaves murmuring a summer tune. Dufus would notice his sister’s glistened lips part wide, forming a sweetest smile as she proceeded down, and so it went…
Dufus saw his sisters white satin skirt flapping merrily, revealing the pale innocent skin. How beautiful she looked. Sitting there he allowed his mind to wonder, up her red flip flops, past her grey socks with little pink hearts imprinted at the side, over her light tanned calves, above her smooth legs. And then just before a breath of air would reveal some more a voice called from the house that brought him back to reality. “Lunch is on the tableâ€Â, it yelled out, piercing his ears. It came from the mouth of a mother’s sweaty face. The droplets of clear perspiration streaming past her wrinkled forehead, falling past the tomato sauce stained apron crashing into the faded timber deck. An earthquake rumbled through them, as the mother’s feet strolled across, past the brown fence, her faintly trembling hands reaching into a cold, blue steel letterbox.
Stomping of the children’s feet escalated in the distance. The mother took out a newspaper, her fingers wrapped around the smooth plastic cover, still braced with unevaporated morning dew. She used the nail on her index finger to pierce at the top of the plastic, unrolling the rest with ease. The sound of children’s laughter gained in volume. Hurriedly her eyes thundered to the front page – revealing what she feared the most. She had no time to read the rest – the children were almost at the gates. The mother hurried across the sun burned weed and placed the papers face down onto an old small table next to the entrance door. Her children greeted her, first the girl who kissed her on the cheek, then the boy who missed and his lips connected at the side of hers.
They were already at the table, all three. Children sat opposite of her, their now clean hands resting on the vinyl top of the kitchen table. Mother’s hand scooped up some soup from the big iron dish – pouring it into their shining plates. The boy devoured the warm red liquid, his spoon bashing into the base of the plate – the scream rang in mother’s ear. She grimaced – her eyes observed the girl who too drank quickly but much more subdued. She wondered what the children got up to when she didn't watch. What her son did to make him so hungry. Her mind became confused – the scenarios all raced through her head. She tried to push the worst aside with all her will and strength. But then she knew she couldn’t, a shot of pain went through her stomach as if a blade had pierced and slit her insides. She saw – just like last time, that stare, that look, and that brief wry smile on her son's face. She wished to scream at God for making them both this way, instead she just sat there, with a tear in her eye, with a blank stare. She thought of the gun under her mattress.
It would not happen this time.
Outside the wind picked up. A storm brewed in the skies above – in the skies who moments before were as clear as morning rain. The newspapers thrashed around on the small table next to the door. The pages jumped up and flew into the air. They flapped about, bashing into the windows, scraping at the bricks of the house. A single page danced more than others – it plastered itself on the kitchen glass. The three inside could see it clearly. The cover page, in big black letters splattered across the front, had read:
Brother confesses raping his sister – her body found in the river
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