It's what we do

‘Hey hun’, he greets, ‘hey babe’ she responds as she hops in the car and leans in for a kiss on the cheek, faking a smile.  ‘’How was the big presentation?’ he follows up, not remembering, nor particularly caring what it was about. ‘Ah it was fine, was worrying about nothing last night’. Another lie, it’s what we do.

‘You see that article on Mr. Pumpkin this morning’? He asks curiously, as their daily commute home from their 20 year one-company careers hits another traffic jam. He started on the factory floor, winning promotion 5 years later, due another next year; he now has an office where he can show off his employee of the month awards framed on the wall. He is running out of space. She works as a receptionist at a local Non-profit helping the unemployed get back to work.  It’s what we do.

Continuing the conversation he pulls out the paper, the headline read; ‘Pumpkin enterprise profits soar!’ with a picture of the boss and his son, the general manager, arms around each other, smiling, stomach bursting through his shirt, buttons popping and hair receding. His son just bought his third car; he’s only 24 years old and next in line for the big boss job. It’s what we do.

She looks at the paper and reads the article as the car slowly rolls down the road assembly line, before hastily braking as the lights turn red, her head bumping the ceiling, but it’s okay she doesn’t really mind. ‘You know I don’t know why they always look to put people down in their articles. Mr Pumpkin is a good family man; he treats his workers with respect and he’s in church every week like the rest of us.  If you asked me he’s earned everything he’s got! His grandfather built that company from the ground up!’ She doesn’t really like Mr. Pumpkin and she knows he doesn’t either, but he’s up for promotion next year, so they don’t really mind. She smiles and agrees with her husband, just like he thought she would; another good deed for the day. It’s what we do.

They pull up outside the school and their daughter gets in the car slamming the door. ‘What’s up honey?’ they ask. She sits with her arms folded, face in a crown. ‘I told you Mr. Elkins always leaves us out early on a Tuesday’. ‘Oh I’m sorry honey but the traffic was really busy today; there was no way around it…and look what I have’, the father says, eyes beaming as he hands over a small box  wrapped in pink paper, her  favourite colour. ‘What is it?’ she asks, forgetting all about siting alone for 20 minutes, after all it’s a safe neighbourhood she didn’t really mind. ‘Open it and see’, the mother excited shaking the box. She ripped it open and her jaw dropped, glued to her chest. She couldn’t believe it, almost jumping with excitement; the new phone was here or at least the new model. It came early, before the rest of her friends. The parents smiled; they couldn’t afford it but she was happy, how could they not? It’s what we do.

The girl buried her head in her phone, where they were going didn’t matter; her friends were in the screen, strangers outside. ‘Imagine in only 20 years we’ll finally have enough for our dream house, out by the lake…maybe you could finally finish that novel’, the husband says. She looks at him and grabs his spare hand and smiles once more, this time for real, before sighing. She thought about many things; mainly the future and the present. Cursing how they couldn’t afford their dream life sooner while planning their 2 week holiday abroad, always the first two weeks of August each year. Her boss knew her schedule; she didn’t even need to book it off in advance. ‘I don’t feel like fixing up anything, do you?’ she asks her husband, who nods in agreement.  ‘The usual?’ He asks, not even waiting for an answer before pulling in to make the order. Handed out by Joe with a smile, it was Tuesday after all, half price. It’s what we do.

The long drive home continued through red and green, daughter quiet in the back, dreams thought unseen.  The sun hid behind the clouds and the wind howled, winter clicking up a gear. It changed quickly, dark and starry skied. Headlights on, better safe than sorry, then off, hearts fluttered with panic.  Cars passed beeping, they couldn’t understand.  Happy to be home holding up the world no longer, their ease all too fleeting.  They parked in the same spot, just outside the door, but when off went the lights, they realised it was open. Flush faced with shaky hands they could not hide, but the daughter, in another world ran inside. In they went as the door slammed behind, pushed by 

a force from outside. On went the lights but the home was empty, furniture gone, comfort a distant memory. From the stairs down came a shadow, what they saw was neither friend, nor foe, not even fiction. It was a mirror the shape of a tall man, everything seen was only reflected, their own selves mirrored stood before them; three bangs rang loud. Another three thuds one by one hit the ground; killed by their own reflection. Shuttling forward slowly like death, footsteps reaching down to the ground, off with the phone, hardly a fret. It’s what they do.

There was an alarm ringing and a dog barking, it came from the mansion down the street; it belonged to Mr. Pumpkin. He walked down the road and saw a figure staring straight at him, slowly turning, but it too was merely a reflection; a walking image of all that lays before it. As the mirrored man walked down the road the streetlights above flashed and burst, neighbours peeked out their windows, they hardly flickered. Mr. Pumpkin waked into the house, everything gone, pictures of the family smashed. Nothing but bodies lying still, their blood painting the carpet, he rang the emergency services and stayed until outside they flashed. No one else had seen what Mr.Pumpkin had, but then only Mr.Pumpkin could see his own reflection. He saw a therapist for a week, stayed home from work but was soon bored. He hired a new replacement, promoted from within, his longest serving employee gone.  No severance, no bonus to be paid, Mr. Pumpkin saved more money, forgot their names. It’s what they do.

Side Note ;  This story was written by my brother Michael, who is working on something writing related himself at the moment, which I will inform you of when the time is right ;)