Pot Roast Concussion

A fractured family of a mother, two girls, and two boys sat routinely at the dinner table ready to ingest a steaming pot roast, a rare treat for the broken home. Meals were usually eaten in relative silence, save for the occasional lip smack and slurping sounds found in most Midwestern households. If any conversation erupted, the mother usually initiated it, but talk was sparse. The verbal silence this evening was broken not by the mother, but by the eight year old boy, Steven, who requested butter in a most unorthodox manner. "Pass the Buddha, please." Thwack! The mother, within arm's length, savagely slapped little Stevie flush across his cheek. Shock hung in the air as everyone at the table froze in anticipation for more violence to follow. "Blasphemer! Where did you pick up that heathen word, young man?" Stevie made no response, his hand slowly crept up to his reddening cheek. A cold second lingered. Unexpectedly, Stevie let out an abrupt laugh. The mother's face contorted in raw disbelief. Stevie began to let out a series of guffaws like a geyser releasing long built-up pressure from the bowels of the earth. "Oh, ho, ho.... you want to be a little smart-ass?!" The mother rose from the table and began to pace behind Stevie. By this time, he was so petrified by the inevitable consequence, his laughter became hysterical, with snorts accenting each burst. Martha, the twelve-year-old, smiled slightly, unable to hide the amusement of watching Stevie defy their domineering mother; although, she knew a new kind of storm brewed in the mind of her mother like no other she had seen prior, a volatile electrical storm more physical in nature compared to the many verbal squalls of the past. A broom leaned in the corner of the room; the mother grabbed it with vigorous intent, using it for a purpose other than house cleaning. She loomed over Stevie with an ominous smile stamped on her weathered face. "You think it's funny, makin' fun of baby Jesus?" Whack! Stevie let out a hiss as the broom handle came down on his soft skull. "What do ya think now, you little cocksucker?!" Stevie let out such a burst of giggles little fragments of food shot out over the red-checkered table cloth. Whack-whack-whack! Martha stopped smiling. She could see knots beginning to rise on top of Stevie's head like an ultra violent Bugs Bunny cartoon. By now, the youngest boy, Charley, screeched in horror, and Rita, the second oldest, stood up and ran into her bedroom being as inconspicuous as possible. Stevie continued to laugh, but the tone began to change. His eyes blackened with dilation. Madness crept behind the veil foreshadowing events which would take place years later. The mother sat back down after one final barrage. Her breathing had become labored. She sat glaring at little Stevie who still softly chuckled. She then, unexpectedly, let out a loud guffaw mingled with a shaking head of perplexity. She speared a hunk of meat on her plate and greedily began to eat as if nothing had taken place. Martha stared, incredulously, at her mother. She slowly rose from her chair and crept from the room holding back tears for her abused brother. Little Stevie would never be the same.