Friday Flash: The Model Family

Clare stared at her wedding ring, hanging off the tail of the porcelain cat on her nightstand. It was the first jewellery hung on it since she'd moved out years ago, but the china cat still looked unimpressed.

"Morning love," her mother said, entering without a polite knock. She deposited a mug of tea next to the cat. "It's a beautiful day, let's get moving."

Clare gripped the duvet tight under her chin, catapulted back into her teenage years. "There's nothing to do today," she muttered back.

Her mother's frown, established in Clare's school years, was still fresh. "Moping isn't going to make anything better. How's your shoulder?"

"Sore."

"That eye isn't looking too clever either." Clare waited for the usual tirade against her husband, but it never came. "We're clearing out the attic today, so get dressed and help me after breakfast."

"Can't that be done another day?"

"Not if you want to bring any of your things over."

Clare sat up, it made her face throb. "Eh?"

"Well you're not going back after what he did to you. So you'll need to move back here, won't you?"

Clare frowned, which made the black eye throb even more, but she couldn't think of an alternative. All of her friends had given up on her, Mark had killed her social life as easily as the houseplants. "Just until I get back on my feet," she said, trying to keep some dignity.

Her mother left her to dress. It didn't take long, there was no choice to be made; she only had the clothes she'd arrived in last night. When she saw that they were washed and ironed, draped over the back of the chair in the corner, Clare almost burst into tears.

She inspected the bruise across her collar bone before wincing her way into her t-shirt. The black eye was not yet aptly named, but soon would be. She pressed along her right cheekbone gingerly, thinking about the accusation that had earned the punch. Why had she said anything?

The loft ladder was already extended into the hallway by the time she'd forced down some toast and she heard scuffs and scrapes coming from above. She climbed, favouring her uninjured arm, and peeped over the lip of the ceiling. The boarded out attic was large enough to stand up in and store a lifetime of junk.

"Don't move anything," her mother said, elbow deep in a box. "Just help me by saying what's to keep and what's to throw out. A lot of this is yours."

"It is?" Clare scanned the boxes, wondering what was hidden within.

"Oh, look at this," her mother said, beckoning her over to unveil a large object covered by a dust sheet. "Do you remember when your father gave this to you on your birthday?"

She nodded, dumb. The dollhouse was still in great condition, lovingly made by her late father. Clare's fingertips felt cold, her lips started to tingle. How could she have forgotten about it?

"You were so excited! And you kept it so neat…"

Clare nodded again, remembering why. It made her throat tight.

Her mother chuckled as she released the clasp holding the house shut. "I'll never forget that day you came running down the stairs in a panic, do you remember?" She didn't look at Clare, who sucked in a lungful of air to keep the nausea at bay. "You'd spilt some water on the little rug in the dollhouse and you thought our front room was flooding!"

The inside of the house was revealed. "I really did think it would happen," Clare whispered, inspecting the rooms. "It was a copy of our house, it made sense."

"To a seven year old I suppose," her mother shrugged. "Wasn't your father talented? We should clean it up and move it downstairs. It's a family heirloom now."

Her mother moved on, sniffing slightly, leaving Clare to crouch in front of the neat little rooms, the kitchen with copper pans and Aga, just like their old house used to have.

Her eyes tracked the stairs up to the landing where the mother doll was lying, probably displaced when the house was carried up to the loft. She plucked her out, bringing her into the light to see one of her arms hanging loose in its joint and a dent where her right eye had been.

She closed her fist around it, shutting her eyes against the panic of her childhood. Just a coincidence.

When she was ready, she looked for the father doll and the little girl, the one she'd related to far too much, but she was nowhere to be seen. Neither was the tiny wooden father, but then she noticed the lump in the bed of the 'master bedroom' and pulled off the tiny rectangle of fabric that was the blanket.

The father doll was tangled in the embrace of a plastic doll with bright blonde hair and a waist smaller than its neck, a cheap Barbie clone.

Clare felt like she was either going to burst into tears or hysterical laughter, perhaps both. She put the mother doll safely on the sofa and then pulled the model cheating scumbag away from the model whore, chucking the latter into the bin bag with huge satisfaction.

"Are you alright love?" her mother asked.

Clare looked down at the doll, no longer the one she thought of as her father. She pinched its head, about to twist it off, but then remembered that her real father had carved it by hand. Instead, she flipped it upside down and stuffed him head first into the tiny toilet.

She brushed off her hands, turned to her mother and nodded. "Yeah, I'll be okay." She waited for the panic, the nausea. There was nothing left but the decision and a desire for a nice cup of tea. "I'm going to get a divorce."

"About time," her mother muttered. "I'll put the kettle on."

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P.S. If you liked this, you'll love From Dark Places; an anthology of 25 dark short stories.