OUR COMBS

Still sitting on his warm beddy, putting the slippers on, he was astounded by mum’s sobbing coming from the kitchen. As he rushed to her, she gave him a weeping look with her red, puffy eyes. He fell into her arms desperate to chase away and shush her pain. After a distracted, short hug, she pushed him away, while he kept standing in front of her.

“I have to go. I’ve had enough of it. Just, it’s just that I… I gotta go.”

He felt going weak at the knees, and his pyjamas getting soaked between the legs. Then, he kneeled, staring at her.

“Don’t mum, please! He’ll stop, you will see, don’t do it. Don’t ever do it. Please don’t.”

“Go comb yourself.”

He could not move. She got up, brought the comb and started combing him silently.

“Mum, you will not leave me?! Give me that; I’ll comb myself. I’ll always do everything myself, mum. Please, don’t go. ”

“Go get your face washed.”

“Dad locks us, we have no key, you know that!?”

“Go get washed!”

“I will mum; I will do anything; here… here I’m going right now.”

And while standing over the sink, trying to wash his face, he noticed his hands were shaking.

When he returned to the kitchen, there was only a widely opened window.

Snow was falling, and the curtain was fluttering.

He set on his mum’s chair, and there, all alone, continued to comb his hair.