The Meal That Was Never Eaten

One cold winter night, I made my way down into my kitchen. I walked through the archway that connected the kitchen to the dining room. My feet were bare, like always. The coldness of the tile had never bothered me; however, right now, it helped me feel numb to all the emotions that were going through my head.

My friend had come over to cook dinner for my father and me. He had his head in the fridge, trying to decide which meat to cook. I walked past him, stopping to look out the window above the sink at the night sky, which looked as gloomy as I felt. In that moment, I shook that thought from my head.

I looked around the room and found that the only available counter was the one by the sink. One counter was covered with the vegetables my friend had just finished cutting up. Another held all the spices I guessed he was going to use on the meat once he chose it, so it was basically a game of eeny, meeny, miny, moe... where should my butt sit?

With nowhere else to sit, I walked over to the cabinet by the sink and sat in the middle of my brown counter. I nearly hit my head on one of the upper cabinets, but I did not. I was really not thinking straight at the time, which I knew was why that had almost happened. Considering I was sitting on the counter, if my father had seen me, he would have just yelled at me some more, as he always said it was meant for cooking, not for my butt.

On account of I was mad at him, right then, I did not care.

I placed my hand on my cheek but flinched at the contact because it was still hurting, then just watched my friend as he made his way around my kitchen like he was the one who lived here, not me.

He kind of did, now that I thought about it. He had been over so many times to cook us dinner since my mother had left. He had mostly started doing it because I would not stop complaining to him that I really hated my father's cooking, until one day he showed up at my doorstep and said, "I'll be doing the cooking from now on." The look on my dad's face had been priceless.

Thinking about the expression on my dad's face that day made me smile, and seeing my friend so at home here did too. I watched him as he worked, moving around the kitchen like he was practicing a dance. But I could not smile for very long, as smiling made my cheek hurt.

I did not think he even noticed I had entered the room or that I was sitting there watching him.

My friend finished picking the meat and seasoning it. It looked like we were having pork tonight. He was now standing by the stove, which was right next to the sink and the counter where I was sitting. The same stove happened to be right next to the back door, which I would have loved to run out of at that moment. Anything had to be better than staying in this house with him. But at least I still had my friend.

I made a sniffling noise at the thought of that, and that was when he finally took notice of me. I was sure, from my expression, he could tell I had something on my mind. So, he turned off the burner, put the pan in the oven so the meat could finish cooking, looked at me, and asked, "What up?"

"Well, you see, my dad and I just had a fight and..." I told him while trying to hide my red cheek.

"And so that's nothing new," he said, making his way closer to me.

"Well, this time he slapped me," I told him as I moved my hand to reveal the slap mark.

"He did what?!" he all but yelled while taking a good look at my face.

"Slapped me," I whispered this time. After facing my father's anger, I was a little scared of his too.

I watched as his face turned red with anger. He turned, walked out of the kitchen, and up the steps to my dad's room. I could hear them screaming at each other all the way from the kitchen.

"She had it coming. She is too much like her mother!"

"That does not give you the right to hit her!"

"Stay out of this!"

"I can't when you're hurting her!"

"And who are you to tell me what I can and cannot do in my own house?"

I could not listen any longer. I covered my ears. It did not really help.

‘Why, oh why, did I have to tell him what happened? Was my dad going to hit him too? What was going to happen to dinner? Why was I even thinking about that right now?’

‘Please, oh please, Lord, let my friend come back down those steps safely.’

It felt like it had gone on for an hour or two, not the twenty minutes it actually had.

Some time later, my friend came stomping back into the kitchen. He went to the fridge, got a piece of meat, put it on my face, and looked at me with understanding in his eyes. At that moment, I just cried, knowing that my friend cared that much.

Once I had calmed down from crying, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and said, "Call your mom. You're not staying here any longer."

Those words had me crying all over again.

Once I had calmed down the second time, I took his phone from him, took a deep breath, and dialed my mother's number.

"Hello there," she said. "I guess it's time for me to come get you. I told you from the start this was going to happen. You should have just listened to me and come with me when I left."

As soon as she said that, I started to cry. She had been right all along. Hearing her say it out loud made everything feel real.

‘Why had I never seen this side of my father while they were together? Why had I never seen what he was really like? She had protected me from all of it. She had tried to when she asked me to go with her. I just was not ready to see it.’

While I spoke to my mother, my friend slowly started packing up the dinner he had made into containers. I figured he was getting ready for my mom to come get me.

Moments later, we heard my mom's car pull into the parking lot. My friend had helped me pack away what little I owned. He then helped pack me into the car and closed the door behind me. I took one last look at my friend as my mom and I drove off. The last thing I saw was his back as he started to make his way back to his own house. I hoped that one day I would get to see my friend again.