Disrupted

A couple grapples with the fallout of a devastating decision.

I originally submitted this story for publication to The First Line Literary Journal, which, as the name implies, includes short stories that all start with the same line. “Disrupted” made it to the final selection round but - alas! - wasn’t chosen for publication. But now I get to share it here on Substack!

Bonus Story: I didn’t send this out last week because I didn’t want to spam anyone’s inbox, but here is a link to my dark fiction/horror short story “Spiral Cavity”, which placed 3rd in Macabre Monday’s Wicked Writing Contest! Warning: If you have a phobia of ears or parasites or parasites in your ears…this story has a bit of an ick factor in that department. But if that’s not your vibe, “Disrupted” (below) is completely ear-parasite free!

Spiral Cavity

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Photo by tabitha turner on Unsplash

Later that evening, they sat alone in their apartment, wondering if they had made the right decision. As the last purple-grey light faded from the sky, she switched on a table lamp – vintage, thrifted, like everything she owned – and flooded their living room with dim artificial light filtered through the golden gauze of the lampshade.

She slid onto the couch and pulled her legs up underneath her skirt, at once a shield and a blanket.

At the kitchen sink, her husband picked up a bone-dry sponge and held it under a stream of tepid water until it softened and the bits of leftover food that clung to its bristles began to loosen. He scrubbed haphazardly at the three cereal bowls, crusted with flakes that had been hardening since breakfast.

It was at breakfast that the trouble had started.

Raisin Bran or yogurt, she had said. We’re out of Captain Crunch.

Nick’s eyebrows had furrowed in anger like a little child, rather than the twelve-year-old he was. I don’t like those. You never let me have Captain Crunch.

You had four bowls of Captain Crunch yesterday. Her voice was quiet, matter-of-fact. You’ll have to wait until we go to the store.

Nick’s voice grew louder. But you won’t go to the store, and you won’t get me Captain Crunch. And then I won’t have it tomorrow either. You don’t want me to have it.

I’m putting it on the grocery list right now. She scrawled a note on the paper that hung on the fridge. See? Now I’ll remember.

You never remember the stuff that I like! Nick’s volume flew up to a shout with the sudden crescendo of a toddler’s tantrum. You’ll erase it off the list as soon as I’m gone. 

I’ll write it in pen. She wrote over the words with thick black ink. Now I can’t forget it.

But I still don’t have breakfast, and you’re going to make me eat your gross cereal! Nick hurled his bowl into the sink, where it chipped on the stainless steel, taking a small sharp chunk out of the white porcelain.

That was how it had started. Over cereal. Then Nick had cursed at them, threatening to call his social worker. He had stormed out of the apartment barefoot, slinging a backpack stuffed with nothing but a blanket that hung out like a dead thing, its fibers caught in the zipper. Her husband had followed at a distance as Nick wandered through their neighborhood, shouting obscenities.

“Babe?” Her voice hung in the air, low and numb. Her husband stood at the sink, staring at the dirty dishes and the fading light. “I can take care of the dishes tomorrow.”

He put down the sponge, its bubbles seeping out onto the stainless steel, where he knew they’d leave residue. He left it there, wiped his hands on the dish towel, and walked slowly into the living room. His wife still sat on the couch, her knees pulled up and her eyes not quite focused on the room in front of her. He sat down beside her, the old couch creaking under his weight.

She spoke into her knees. “I can text his worker and tell her that we’re still open. He might change his mind in the morning.” Her phone sat beside her on the coffee table, but she didn’t reach for it.

He sighed, a rough, aching sound. The day had scraped over him like sandpaper, leaving him colorless and raw, a whitewashed wall bleached by a scorching sun. “You said it today. Nick has to learn that his actions have consequences. He has to learn that he can’t treat people this way and then come right back like everything’s fine.”

“I know.” With a breath, she set her chin on top of her knees. A tremor crept into her voice. “I just don’t want to be one more person who gave up on him, you know?”

He dropped his eyes to the worn, ornate rug on their hardwood floor.

She kept her eyes fixed at some far distant point, out past the walls, past Nick’s schoolbooks that still cluttered their bookshelf.

She had known what she was getting into, she told herself. The boundaries he pushed, his sugar addiction, his constant need for activity and stimulation, the way he needed help with every step of his morning routine – she had known to expect these things. Video games and sugar had been the only constants in his life before he came to them.

But the asking, again and again – Can I play video games now? What about just for an hour? Thirty minutes? I won’t stay up past ten. Just a few more minutes?

Their snack foods disappearing overnight – they’d had to lock their cupboard to keep him from sneaking food while they slept.

Having to call their neighbors to warn them – Nick’s on his way over. Hide your cookies. He’ll eat all of your granola bars if he finds them. Put the ice cream in the deep freeze, or it will be gone.

Telling him every morning – Okay, now put your sock on. All the way. And the other one. No, put it all the way on. Socks before shoes. Now you can put your shoe on. Don’t forget to tie it. Two bunny ears. Double knot. No, you need to put on your other shoe before you get your backpack.

And then when he got into the car, he would still somehow be missing one shoe, and they would have to go back inside to search for it. And then he would leave his lunchbox on the counter, and the process would start all over again.

It wasn’t his fault. Just like the food stealing and attention-seeking weren’t his fault either. But goodness, sometimes it felt intentional. Sometimes she felt like a shaken-up bottle of Coke just waiting to be opened.

These things hadn’t surprised her. But they had worn her down like the threadbare rug on their living room floor, patchy and rubbed so thin that the beautiful colors and patterns were faded to mottled grey.

A disrupted placement, that’s what his social worker had called it. Disrupted, as though this single argument over Captain Crunch had shattered their chances with Nick, as though everything had been smooth and fine and normal before this morning. But their life with Nick had never been fine or normal, and it certainly had never been smooth. The disruptions had built and stacked on top of each other, a wobbling toy tower, until a box of cereal was enough to knock it down.

It had been Nick’s decision to call his social worker, to leave.

But it had been their decision to agree.

That afternoon, when Nick had climbed into his social worker’s car with a suitcase full of all his earthly belongings, suddenly he had started to cry. Maybe I could stay tonight. One more night.

She had balled her fists and said the right words, the words that were supposed to teach him consequences, accountability. Nick, you told us you want to leave. I’m going to follow through with what you asked for.

She had felt guilty for her relief. Shouldn’t she be grieving? What kind of monster was relieved to see a child go back into foster care?

A monster like her.

She was relieved that she could sit in her living room without hearing the jittery blasts of video games. That she could complete a full sentence without being interrupted. That she could sleep through the night without waking up to find Nick trying to pry open the lock on their pantry. That tomorrow she wouldn’t collapse from exhaustion and frustration by lunchtime.

And tomorrow she wouldn’t go to the park after school and watch Nick corral shy neighborhood kids into a game of soccer. She wouldn’t have an impromptu game night to teach Nick how to play Candyland or Sorry or any of the other games that kids don’t learn when they grow up homeless. She wouldn’t read Hatchet aloud at nighttime; her green leather bookmark would waste away on page 97.

But there were things she would have to do tomorrow. Call his school, tell them that he was transferring back to the public school district. Talk with her social worker again, and with Nick’s, to do paperwork. Fend off questions from anyone who asked where Nick was.

And Nick, he would go back to his old foster home, where he and three other teenage boys would eat junk food and play video games for hours on end. Where he would be in his element, the place he was used to, where he knew the expectations.

But what had they tried to give him that wasn’t good? A private school, clear boundaries, a healthy diet? They’d tried to break him of his sugar addiction, teach him to use a planner, help him finish his homework – to give him the things other children had. But those were things he didn’t know. He knew video games and sugar.

So that’s what he chose.

And what had they chosen?

“Do you want to talk about it tonight?” Her husband sat slumped back against the couch.

“Maybe tomorrow.” She hugged her knees tighter.

Her husband glanced at the remote. “You wanna watch something?”

She shook her head.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and stared at the lock screen.

A few times he cleared his throat, but he said nothing.

Then he got up, put his phone back in his pocket, and went back to the kitchen sink.

She set her chin on her knees and shut her eyes. From the kitchen, she could hear the hiss of hot water; the clink of glass, steel, and porcelain; and the soft scraping of the sponge as flakes of cereal sloughed off their bowls, leaving behind only a blank, white surface.