The Newfangled House of Mayfair

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: October 27, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 27, 2017



The Newfangled House of Mayfair

I stared at the house. It was rather ugly, with asymmetrical windows and pasty blue walls. There was a dead garden in front, and dry leaves littered the sidewalk. My expectations were low  to  begin with, but this was a bad sign. As we walked, (I trudged) through the doorframe, John greeted us. This was not our first rendezvous. However, this was my first time in his household. And meeting his son. I wasn’t sure about him. John was my Mother’s boyfriend. He was as nervous as a turkey on the day before Thanksgiving,  he  let  out  a  slew  of  words, that made as much sense as socks with sandals. My brother, Alexander, and I sat at the kitchen table. I twisted my frizzy hair in my sweaty hands. I had brought my favorite stuffie. He was in my lap now, staring up at me. He’s a sock monkey. I picked him up, and hugged him to my chest. I was quite uncomfortable here. I opened my mouth to ask my Mother when we were going home.

That’s when I was hit with the bullet.

I swiveled my head around. My eyes shifted to the staircase covered with vomit-inducing black and tan carpet. And on top of that carpet, there stood a paunchy, pale boy with brown bug eyes, and an nasty buzzcut, showing off his lumpy head. I narrowed my eyes.

On the stairs, my Mother’s boyfriend’s son stood. (Quite the mouthful.) It was Isaac. He squealed when I turned around looking for my attacker, and ran up the stairs.

He forgot the nerf gun.

That was when I met the two new introductions to my already whacked up life, that I would soon be moving in with.  

In the next months, we made a very un-organized move. Boxes, papers, cats, cat food, piano books, the piano, stuffed animals, pots, pans, books, and ourselves were shifted into the pasty blue house. I already had Alexander, my brother. I already had Mom. I didn’t need to have a couple more family members added to the mix. Particularly the two that were apparently soon to be kin.  It was cramped and uncomfortable, noisy, and very anger inducing. Could there be an even better way to get to know a new “family” consisting of a tarantula, a cat, and two gentlemen? (Not exactly gentlemen.)

Many fights occurred during this time. Fights about anything really. The weather, school, my new room, and the family members were some of our best topics. Truly, the arguments could be about anything. They came and nested in our new household. (The house of Mayfair, for that was my Mother’s last name combine with John’s. May was from my Mother’s side, Fair was from Fairtwin on John’s.) The arguments differed from bickering to screaming. No matter what, even the smallest arguments resulted in tears, or being close to tears. At first, they weren’t on purpose, but I realized that arguing would occasionally get a point across. It was my last chance, the last rope I could grab onto. It was a message. To my Mom. I even  had issues with Isaac and Alexander. They would tease, and poke fun of me. Even if  I told them to stop. John was the only one half civil. But, I don’t think Mom understood any part of it. But there had to be some sort of way to tell her. That, in the course of less than two years, we moved in with her boyfriend and his son. We hardly knew them. My Mom didn’t have the best experience with others. There was another man before, named Martin. Their previous match ended abruptly. I had a feeling that we would move right out. It felt like something was nibbling at the back of my brain, injecting poison into my head, making me doubt my mother, and her motives.

My fingers drummed on the table. I was so done. There had been fights before, but none like this. I desperately needed a pillow to scream into. I could SEE Isaac laughing. Earlier, Alexander had said “All you do is sit on the computer, and pick your nose!” (Which I do NOT.) Now, Alexander repeated it during our course of chicken enchiladas. We all looked at one another. With my cheeks burning, I looked down at my fork. Abruptly, I heard a snort. I looked up. Isaac was biting his knuckles, and his chest was heaving. “Stop it.” I hissed. Isaac was now fully laughing. “STOP IT!” They were laughing at me They just wanted me mad. I already was.

I hated them. In that moment. I hated being made fun of. I hated this house. I hated my room. I hated Isaac. I hated Alexander. I was through. That was too much hate in my body.

My hands gripped to the table as I thrust myself out of my chair.  Tears streamed down my cheeks. I was shaking from the anger.


I don’t remember much else of what I said. I turned away from the table, and slammed my chair in, rattling the repulsive light piece, which I promptly bonked my head into. I bolted for the stairs, as I lept up them, I banged into the wall, creating a long scratch on my hip.

I stumbled into my room. I slammed the door and crumpled like paper in the washing machine. It hurt. That they hated me too. This place was not a home. It was a house. I knew what I had to do. There truly was one thing to do. Run away.

The moon was out, cutting through my blinds. I knew I was the only one awake. It was time to make my move. I slid my feet into my trusty tennis shoe. I slid my sock monkey hat over my ears. My fingers were trembling.

It was time for me to take my leave.

I slipped down the stairs, toe heel style. In one hand, I held the empty skeleton of a backpack. The other held my favorite stuffed monkey. I puttered over to the kitchen to grab some oreos and a P.B and J.

I was ready.

I took a last look around and started toward the threshold. My shoes scuffed the tiles. Mom and John would be happier without me here. I knew it.  My sweating palm twisted the doorknob. I yanked open the dark wood door. Now, the only barrier separating me from the world was a glass door. I looked out. It was rather eerie. The lamplight on the other side of the street flickered, illuminated about five feet of yellow grass. I could just see the house’s silhouettes, standing ghostly, and silently. I glared out at the dead ferns in the garden. My cheeks let out a puff of breath. It was time. My fingers brushed the brass handle of the glass door. I pushed the weight in my hand down. My hands slipped from the handle, and pushed the glass open. The smell of rain sunk into my nose.

The world was in front of me, at my fingertips.

I put my foot over the threshold.


© Copyright 2019 Sarah Krohn. All rights reserved.

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