Good morning all and welcome to Wednesday. I know we had a three day weekend and so got a late start on the week, but saying that makes me feel like I am missing something. Like there is something I forgot. Even though I know I haven’t. Still, it seems magically we have reached the middle of the week. So Shall we get on with out prompt to start the day? Excellent.
I don’t know why I made him an older child of the house instead of one of the parents. t just seemed right for the story. Not that I know the story, but I kind of want to know the story.
Wednesday, September 8th: The kettle began to whistle.
The kettle began to whistle. It was a soft sound at first a mere disturbance vibrating at the edge of the spout. As the water boiled the sound became more insistent, shrill and grating, slicing through the morning air. He lifted the kettle off of the burner and turned down the flame. The whistling stopped but he could feel the boiling water beating against the insides of the old copper kettle. He took it over to his mug and poured it over the tea leaf filled metal ball.
The water turned from clear to a murky brown upon contact and he left it to steep, moving the kettle back to the stovetop and placing it on one of the cool burners. No one in the house stirred. He half expected the sound of the kettle would have called them down and he was grateful it did not. Grateful for the few more moments of quiet he could eek out of the morning.
Once the others awoke the very walls would reverberate with the cacophony. It used to be easier to deal with. Easier to tolerate when the noise was temporary. When he knew that they would arise, there would be chaos and then silence as the house cleared. Then he could work. Then he could think.
Now no one left the house.
When the weather was nice, he had a temporary reprieve by booting all of them into the garden for at least a few hours. He moved to the window looking out into the garden and glanced up at the sky. It was slate gray. There would be rain before long. He could tell. The air had been chilled the day before as well.
‘Cold and wet,’ he thought.
There would be no reprieve. They would remain in the house all day. He had one hope. It was a slender one, but it was all he had. He needed to get some work done. He needed quiet.
The day before he managed to clear part of the attic space. It wasn’t much space but in the center of the attic, just under the ridge where he could actually stand up straight. It was enough space for a small table, a place he could use as a desk. His power cords would stretch to the one outlet and there was enough light from the overhead bulb to work. He thought, it the first floor remained the dominant space for the day’s activity, that he might be able to escape to the attic and get some work done.
He had his laptop, his cell phone and most importantly his noise cancelling headphones already stationed. He just had to make his escape and hope that no one came looking for him. That was the trick. The escape. He knew that somehow perversely wherever he escaped to work would become the new hot spot in the house. The venue where everyone would have to go. Everyone knew he worked and that he pulled money into the household, yet no one really took his work seriously. He wondered if it was because he was young or because his family didn’t understand what he did. His parents were thrilled that he was kicking income into the family. But no one seemed to realize that he needed space and quiet to work.
He picked up his mug, hoping to make his escape to the attic before the others could follow.