Oscar was thankful that he could drive.  It would have proven virtually impossible to return his belongings by train, there was too much for one person to safely carry. His Mum in her shameful, recovering state would not be fit to drive him herself. Oscar shuddered at the thought as he trundled his bags downstairs like a pack-horse. Oscar paced outside to his Mum’s old Ford Fiesta which was tucked away in a near-by side alley and shoved his personal belongings into the boot . His theory was ; if he took the car back with him it was removing the temptation of her drink driving. It is not like I’m depriving her of transport he thought. Besides, that was the least of his worries.

On re-entering the house, the sound of the shower coming on once more was the indication that his Mum was awake at last. He hated having to be the responsible one more than anything, having to fit the absent Father role. For the past years the roles had changed, he had cared for her while having to care for himself. It simply wasn’t fair. Oscar quickly scolded himself for having such cynical thoughts; it wouldn’t do anyone any good. As a younger child counselling prescribed by his GP had helped to control his anger outbursts, he was never physically violent but his sharp words stung like a whip. Many years ago he had been banned from visiting his cousin Harold in case he was to influence him. Harold was a precious child as were his over sensitive parents; Oscar’s Auntie Ruthie and Uncle Joseph. Harold was a home schooled, blonde haired boy and lived very much in a fantasy land. He unsurprisingly had very few friends. His parents wrapped their dear little son in cotton wool so that he need not meet a similar fate to Oscar.

Oscar despised the memory of that dreaded dinner party 10 years ago. He and his parents had been invited to dinner at his Aunt and Uncle’s grand house tucked away in the pretty Chiswick suburbs of West London. The beautiful Victorian structured building was very appealing to the eye, the perfectly painted surface gleamed ever so slightly in the spring sunshine. On the outside it appeared to be quite a small place, the inside was a different story. Oscar stood in the black and white flagged hallway, gazing up at the high ceiling with its dangling crystal chandelier . It was like stepping a decade back in time or being in a period drama. The cold awkwardness began no sooner had they walked cautiously through the front door. The icy reception was as false as Oscar’s family themselves.Never before had Oscar been made to feel so small, so inferior as he did on that evening. From beginning to end he and his parents were belittled and mocked. It was the final straw when he and Harold had gone upstairs to play with Harold’s cosmic combat electronic sets. Looking back, Oscar thought it was stupid to have given a young child such an expensive present.

“You and I are not the same” Harold sneered. “You want to know why?” Oscar nodded cautiously.

“Because Mum says that we have class and you don’t. We don’t really like mixing with people of your sort. It’s only because you are family that we have to see you!”

Oscar felt his young blood boiling through his vain and arteries, the upcoming outburst was completely uncontrollable.

“You are a spoilt little shit! I want nothing more to do with you!”

He  pushed a dumbstruck Harold over and stormed out of the door. The adults ran upstairs to see what all the commotion was about finding a pathetically sobbing Harold lying upon the carpet. Oscar was not sure how he even knew of that word at age 8, he must have overheard his Mum or Dad uttering it. That was that, he was never allowed to see his Aunt, Uncle or cousin again. Not that he cared, for what it was worth it meant one less birthday and Christmas present each year. As far as Oscar was concerned he had washed his hands of that family 8 years ago. He had been punished at the time. Confined to his room for three days in disgrace, his Mother barely looked at him or acknowledged his presence for days afterwards. Deep down,  Oscar knew that she was relieved that she would never have to see Ruthie again. Janet hated her perfect sister Ruthie with her perfectly permed hair and home whitened teeth with a vengeance. Ruthie was a cold-hearted bitch who had clearly married her husband for one thing, the money.

To be continued…..

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9 thoughts on “Planchette – Part 2

  1. This form of fiction writing reminds me of Charles Dickens. By serialising the story as Dickens did with many of his stories, you build anticipation and a following. With his novels, it even changed the reading experience when you do read them in novel form as you have all these mini cliffhangers and climaxes that keep you interested. In any case, I’m impressed that you’re serialising your fiction. Great idea!

    1. Hello Michael!
      Yeah I decided to write “Planchette” in parts. You’re right, it has helped me to gain a bit of a “following” on here. I’m pleasantly surprised at the number of people who have returned to read my work each time! Thank you so much for reading my work !

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