Excerpt: Contempt for The Blind/Untitled WIP

The woman's warm mahogany hair seemed to embrace him, just as her arms did, and the black-haired child giggled. This was what he lived for; to be loved by mummy, to be the only object of attention in her entire span. When he was around, she had sapphire eyes for nobody else, not even her husband, who doted on the child, too. Daddy wasn't there too much, though. Daddy, as mummy always said, was 'bringing home the bacon', and so, when his father arrived home, the four-year-old had always suspected that, inside his big black briefcase were rows upon rows of pink slices. He never had the chance to learn that, instead of cold, pink meat, the briefcase contained an array of papers, with increasingly distressing facts and figures printed upon them. The four-year-old had never been allowed to explore his father's briefcase, either, because whenever his father arrived home and the boy ran up to hug him, he would take Justin in his arms and swing him around in wild circles until the child grew dizzy. He always insisted he was not dizzy to his mother, but then he would faint on her coral-clad shoulder when she picked him up, the floor beneath her spinning.
A couple of times, he had thrown up after this had happened, but these little accidents were always attributed to his age, and he never got in trouble for it. He never got in trouble, anyway. He had taken his crayons out, once, when he was three, and drawn big, yellow flowers all over the magnolia wallpaper. His mother's friends had later said he needed to be disciplined, but his mother had praised his artwork, and stated she knew what he would grow up to be. His father had not been angry, either. He had never once seen his father angry.
Tonight, though, it was different when his father came home. He was not clutching bacon in his hand. He was clutching a piece of paper, black and white printed all over it, and his hand was shaking. His parents had hurriedly shut him away in the next room, with his grandfather, who could not see him. He was on the old man's lap, small, sticky fingers raking through his grey marl beard, but the old man hardly reacted. His eyes were milky, as though they had once been a vibrant shade and painted over with thick dollops of white. The child had never understood this, and whenever he had tried to ask his parents why grandpa never saw him, he always received the same, haphazard answer: 'grandpa is blind'. He didn't know what blind meant. Maybe it meant that he sat stock still all the time, and only reacted to the loudest of sounds. But the warm weight on his knee that took the form of Justin caused a small smile to break on his deeply lined face.
"Are mummy and daddy talking?" The old man asked, finally, his deep voice resonating with kindness. Justin didn't know what to say in return, and so he nodded, but his grandpa didn't respond. He followed this small gesture, with the smallest mention of the word 'yes', the continued to stare at his grandfather's milky eyes.
"Why the hell would they do this, though?" Her mahogany hair was flying wildly about her face, her husband looking much older than he ever had. He shrugged in her angered presence, and sat down heavily in a chair that was most certainly on it's last legs. He didn't look at her, but instead focused on the paisley carpet, a relic of over fifty years ago, now; an era he didn't remember. He didn't know why it was there.
"They were talking about 'bigger things'. Said we had no choice in the matter." A squawk of indignation told him his wife wasn't pleased.
"We're doing fine, though. Why should we need it?" Once again, the man shrugged, and he didn't need to look at her blue eyes to know they were on fire.
"Not as fine as you think. They say this'll make things much better."
"My ass it will. It won't do anything. We'll just be stuck in an even bigger rut."
"Jessica ... " Suddenly, she stopped in her tirade, and her husband looked up at her, their eyes meeting. Behind all that fierce strength, behind the blue flames, he saw something that only he could see in her. She was terrified of this news, of this idea. She had never much liked medication, and the thought of becoming dependent on it was almost like a phobia to her. He watched as she sank to her knees, tears blossoming at the corners of her eyes, though she would never let them flow. Never. He curled an arm gently around her shoulder, unable to smile reassuringly. There was nothing to reassure her of. The truth was, their futures were both predictable and unpredictable. He alone knew what was to come, but he could not thoroughly see it. She knew nothing of what was to come, and would soon be blinded by the domestication which she so hated. She loved suburbia, and it’s green grassy front gardens, where she could plant a garden of pretty flowers. She loved the people, and the way they interacted with her, and most of all she loved the fact that her son could play freely in their yard without the fear of someone snatching him. But domestication was not for her. If everything she loved collapsed around her, and all that was left was motherhood, it would eventually kill her.