Come Home

I went home to visit my family. A train to Hebden Bridge then a replacement bus service to Dewsbury by way of apology for the railway line that had been temporarily closed. My mother picked me up at Dewsbury station and we drove through the dilapidated West Yorkshire landscape to her compact home, where I ate a meal of dry beef and soggy chips.

“You want to get yourself settled,” she told me. “I want you to have everything you deserve in life and I don’t feel like you’re getting it.”

Afterwards she gave me a lift to my father’s house, where he gave me whisky and his wife’s ‘Superkings’ cigarettes. I told him that I wished I could see more of him and he said, “You’re welcome here any time. I’ll pick you up.” I told him that I wanted him to come to me sometimes and he said, “You know what I’m like.”

Two hours later, my mother picked me up and took me to my grandmother’s house. She didn’t come in because they didn’t talk to each other. I had to tunnel my way through to the living room. My nan was seated in an armchair and my uncle was in the other. Two seats of the three-seat sofa were unavailable because they were filled with junk, including my uncle’s pornographic magazines, so I took the third. My nan asked where “she” was and I explained that she hadn’t made the trip over with me. I cried when they asked me how my life was going.

When the talk was over, I walked round the corner to my mother’s house and went to sleep on the chaise longue. This wasn’t my home anymore.

Nick Mitchell is 34-years old and lives in Manchester, England. He is a musician and runs the boutique record label Golden Lab Records, which takes-up barely any of his time. Mostly, he writes short stories and has them rejected by publications he admires.