THE FEAST

With barely a smile upon her thin, pale lips, mother adjusted the wine glasses atop our dining table. Several mossgreen and white seats were set up around the table, with mother moving around them to light the unlit candles on the left side. As the flames flickered to life and burned brightly, mother smoothed down her black dress. For a few seconds, she simply stared into the embers, and I clenched my hands into fists.

It’s happening again.

Mother blinked drowsily, shaking her head before looking in my direction. Her smoky blue eyes glittered in pleasant surprise, and she said:

“Luca, hello! I didn’t realise you’d already woken from your nap.”

I stayed quiet, watching her. All she did was smile back.

“You must change out of your pyjamas. Your father and sister, and our guests, will be here soon.”

I simply nodded and left her to bring the food out to the table. After pattering up the stairs, I slipped out of my pyjamas and donned more formal attire. As I adjusted the clip-on bowtie mother had bought me, I passively gazed back at the eight-year-old boy staring back at me.

Every Sunday mother held this feast, and every Sunday I got to see father and sister once again. But, it was lonely. Nobody but father and sister attended mother’s Sunday feasts nowadays. At first, everybody had, though I must admit they’d looked rather disconcerted during the first feast mother hosted, and now, nobody does.

I returned to the dining room, finding mother standing by the windows at the end of the table. She was wistfully gazing out, watching the dark clouds in the night sky envelop the crescent moon.

I took a few steps into the dining room, only to catch sight of something new she’d placed atop the table. A framed family photo stood at the base of one of the tall candles, illuminated brightly by its orange embers. The photograph had been taken at my sister’s favourite park, and our little family of four looked positively exultant.

“Luca.”

I was brought back to reality by mother’s voice, and was met with that small, sad smile of hers.

“Yes, mother?”

“Come sit down now. It’s almost time.”

As we had done countless Sundays before, mother and I sat in the middle two seats at one end of the table. When the clock struck nine, mother began speaking. She merrily made conversation with our invisible attendees, and she joked with Mrs Thompson about father and sister almost dying in their recent car accident.

“Thank God they’re still here,” she was saying with a bright smile, loading my plate with more slices of ham.

My silence reigned louder than the silence that responded to mother’s bubbly chatter. Father and sister, as usual, sat in the two middle seats at the opposite end of the table, bloodied and mangled with an eerie green glow to their lifeless shells.

Julia Gomes is an avid reader and writer, naively hoping for her work to be read by millions. She is studying a Bachelor of Medical Laboratory Science and she believes the course to be a pleasant stepping stone to help fund her big dreams.