Danny is Dead

My friends call me Zig on account of a certain accident with hair dye at the remarkably awkward age of fourteen. I think it stuck because none of our so called peers got it. We delighted in our retro randomness.
Long time ago now, that, but for some reason I find myself thinking of it once more as I sit here across from these people.
My family. Purest form drudgery of the mundane. Everything I hated.
There is an extra place at the table, despite the fact that all of the guests have arrived, in an obligatory fashion, for my niece's firstborn's baptism. I suspect many are only in on it for the free booze and food. Mum always did make good sausage rolls.
Upstairs I can here a TV blaring, men's voices jeering as the ref gets political.
The women, of course, are gathered around the sofas, the children bellowing and screeching around them in a din so permanent their only reaction is a fearful tightening of the eyes, wrinkled hands steady as they sip their tea. I can almost hear the tick tock of the countdown until bedtime.
Thank fuck I'm barren, I tell myself. I read that somewhere, in a fantasy book I got out of the library. One summer it just always seemed to be raining and I had learnt how despicable people could be so I retreated. Read my way through them, maybe I was searching for something.
Maybe I found it there, or maybe they just gave me the courage to keep looking.
It grates on me, sitting here, but I am used to the feeling. It is not so keen anymore.
When I arrived my uncle at looked at me sideways, shoulders looming wide across my vision like some sort of shield from societal gossip in what he was about to say. But he only muttered gruff gratitude at my nice shirt. Very neat. Very sensible. If a bit...dark.
I can see the funny side now. Sometimes. OK not right now because I cannot lift my eye's from that empty place, at the knife and fork neatly lined up, and the pristine white circle that remains hungry and so glares up at me. I have heard them, when they thought I wasn't around. Is Danny OK? I make them uncomfortable.
I reach for my baccy and roll a cigarette, using the cover of a gale of cawing laughter to snatch another cake and stuff it into my mouth, annoyed when my fingers, glistening with icing, stick to the rizzla.
The spoons lay above the plate like stern brows, fiercely drawn together in disapproval. Now I know this is getting a bit extended, but think how I feel. I've lived this. The bloody plate is even reflected in the 'o' assonance of monotone. I've dwelled on it. Even if it may not be real. Maybe someone cancelled.
I lean against the fence, bored gaze skipping over the featureless houses to rest upon the blue.

Flash: The Stare

The sneering, hungry stare consumes my form. Roving over, reaving me, cleaving me from my identity.

Flesh is now a prison for others' expected pleasure.

Darkly shuttered is my mind, rage an armour that is too soft. Eyes fire signals that objects do not have, emotions battering apathy, digging heels into this well slickened slope.

Wandering eyes pause, wondering….a flush of guilt illuminates the flaw of your anticipation, your miss-managed imagination.

I stop, just there, feet planted squarely in the way. Your feet shuffle nervously, hands clench around sweat. Unclench. Our silence is burdensome, the traffic hums past endlessly. The word ‘bitch’ is half formed and choking on your tongue, a stuttered syllable is spluttered loose, before you realise you must step aside.

Hunger has hardened, heated your features but pleasure has fled. My own steps resume.

Aloft my chin, my heart, because I know what you do not.