The Tantrum
BAM!
Matthew slammed his bedroom door, hard, and crouched in the corner behind it, tears of rage welling in his eyes. He was only 10 years old, and furious at his mother. He squeezed his favorite Pez Dispenser, a Spiderman, so tightly in his hand he thought it might crack. “Matthew? Sweetie? I know you’re upset but I can’t talk to you when you’re this way.” It was Martha’s voice. It was nice to hear Martha. She was a grown up, but a lot younger than Matthew’s mom and came over to Matthew’s house sometimes when his parents were away. When Matthew wasn’t angry, he liked playing with Martha. If he could choose, (which he never could), he even preferred Martha to his dad. His dad got angry a lot, and could be scary. But Martha was OK.
Sometimes.
Matthew liked when Martha read him stories. But Matthew didn’t want to talk to Martha right now. He wanted to talk to his mom. No, he didn’t. He didn’t want to talk to ANYBODY.
Matthew squeezed his Pez Dispenser even harder. He was trying to crack it now. He wanted it to break, so his Mom would know she’d made him so upset that he’d broken his favorite Spiderman, and she’d know what a huge mistake she’d made, because she knew that Spiderman was his favorite and when she saw it was cracked she’d know how upset she’d made him and then she would start to cry. She would be so disappointed with herself that she’d made Matthew break his Spiderman that she would Never. Do. Anything. Like. This. Again.
He squeezed the Pez dispenser as hard as he could. It didn’t crack. He used both hands. It still didn’t crack, which made him angrier. The anger surged in him, and he fought back tears, which only brought a fresh surge of rage. Matthew hated that feeling. Boys didn’t cry!
“Matthew? When you slam the door like that, it’s dangerous” said Martha’s voice through the door. “HMMMPH!” was all that Matthew could manage. She didn’t even hear him. Nothing was fair.
“Martha? What are you doing up there?” That was a male voice, from downstairs, but not his father’s. Matthew didn’t care who it was. He felt the cold metal of the lower door hinge pressing into the middle of his back. It hurt a little, so he pressed even harder. The pain sharpened, which made him angrier, but in a strange way, made him feel a little better. Taking action, even if that action caused pain, made him feel a little more in control.
"Are you serious right now?” The male voice was closer now. He’d come up the stairs. Matthew didn’t recognize the voice. The doorknob started twisting. Matthew shifted his body, pressing his back against the door. “No, Bill, don’t-” Martha said. “Just. Let it alone. Don’t roll your eyes.”
The doorknob clicked back into place. Matthew heard steps moving back down the hall, and down the stairs. “Ridiculous” he heard Bill say. “Well fuck you, Bill,” spat Matthew, putting a whiny emphasis on the name “Bill.” Swearing gave Matthew a charge, and he liked the way it made him feel. His mother would hate it. “And fuck you too, Momm-” Matthew stopped. He was still angry, but he didn’t feel quite right saying that about his mother, even if she wasn’t in the room. He was massively upset, but he still had his limits. He loved his mother. Matthew couldn’t fight it any longer.
The tears came.
Down in the kitchen, Martha was making a show of loudly opening the cabinets and getting the tea kettle out. “DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME” Martha said, “I’M JUST GETTING SOME HOT COCOA READY.” She put the water on full blast and started filling the kettle. “HERE COMES THE WATER” she intoned, for an audience of one.
Matthew did like hot cocoa. He could hear Martha bustling around in the kitchen, and he felt a little better after crying, even though he’d never admit that to his father. His father hated crying. Matthew opened his bedroom door a crack. He didn’t want any stupid hot cocoa. But with the door cracked a little he could at least hear what was going on.
Martha glanced over at Bill, who was still clearly frustrated. “For the life of me, I don’t know why you do this” he said. Martha ignored him. “NOW WHERE DID THOSE MARSHMALLOWS GO?” She loudly banged the kettle down on the stove and turned on the gas, letting the starter make its CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK sound for a few extra seconds before twisting the flame on high.
WHOOSH!
The flame burst on, and Martha jumped.
She gave Bill a little half-smile. “Bear with me, will you?” He didn’t reply, but her expression got his attention. They had only been dating for a little over a month, and the last time he’d seen that look, she’d been wearing significantly less clothing. He smiled back. “Can I make you a cup of tea?” she asked. He was still ticked off, but it was nothing worth going to war over.
Bill nodded, and was about to cross the kitchen to embrace her. She turned from him, facing the stairs, and shouted “OH, THERE’S THE COCOA MIX! NOW. HOW MANY MUGS SHOULD I MAKE?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake” Bill said, even surprising himself by how quick to anger he was.
“This is ridiculous!” He stormed up the stairs, headed for the bedroom. “Bill!” yelled Martha after him, “don’t!” In the bedroom, Matthew heard the steps coming, much faster now, up the hallway towards his room. “This is bullshit!” Bill yelled over his shoulder. “I’m going in!
Just as Bill placed his hand on the edge of the bedroom door, which was slightly ajar, it slammed on two of his fingers with lethal velocity. The fingernails on his middle and ring finger shattered.
“AHHHHHHHHHHH!” Bill howled in pain, and pulled his hand back. It was dripping blood, and his fingers were already swelling. At least two of them were obviously broken.
“Bill! No! NO!”
Martha was running up the stairs. Clutching his wounded hand under his armpit, Bill kicked the doorknob with full force, blasting the door open. He stormed into the room, which was barren and charred, the evidence of the fire that had ravaged the upstairs still blackening the entire room. Martha ran in behind him, in tears.
“There’s nothing in here, Martha! NOTHING!” Bill slammed his good hand against the ruined wallpaper, sending soot flying. The smell of ash and rot filled their nostrils. Martha’s eyes widened in terror.
“That’s. Not. True. Bill.” Martha said.
Her entire body was shaking.
BAM!
They both jumped as the bedroom door slammed. It slowly creaked open and then slammed again.
BAM!
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
Bill and Martha dropped to the floor as the door kept slamming, and slamming, and slamming.
“What did I do?!” whispered Bill, his back pressed to Martha’s at the center of the ruined room. Tears were streaming down Martha’s face. “Calm down, Matthew!” She called. “Please, Matthew. Please. Calm down.”
BAM! BAM! BAM! The door slammed over and over and over. The mirror above the charred bureau, already rotted and burned out, slid out of its frame, and fell to the floor, where it broke into jagged shards.
Downstairs, the tea kettle started whistling. The water was boiling. It rose in volume to a scream.
The door kept slamming.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
“Jesus Christ in Heaven” stammered Bill.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
Bill was crying now, too, his head cradled in his hands.
BAM!
“Matthew. I know you’re upset with us.” Martha’s voice was shaking, but a fundamental kindness could be heard in it.
BAM!
“You’re upset with everyone. But if you let us go downstairs and get the cocoa ready, maybe we can talk later?”
Silence.
With a long, lugubrious creak, the bedroom door yawned open.
Bill made a move for the door.
BAM!
It slammed again.
The kettle continued to scream.
“MATTHEW.” Martha’s voice was firm. “We can’t start the cocoa if we can’t get downstairs. Bill is sorry he barged in. Aren’t you sorry, Bill?”
Bill was a mess.
“I...I’m Shorr- ry” Bill slobbered. He steadied his voice. “I’m very. VERY. Sorry. Matthew. I’d like to go downstairs now. We’d...we’d like to go.” Martha took over. “Matthew, We’re going to go downstairs and turn the kettle off. We can come back another time. We’ll go down the steps, through the kitchen, through the garage, get in our truck and we’ll go. I’ll come back when you’re less upset. And I can read you a story.”
The door slowly creaked open again.
“Come on, Bill.” said Martha. She led him through the doorway.
CLACK.
The door closed behind them.
“Just keep walking,” Martha whispered to Bill as they slowly made their way down the stairs. “I’ve contacted Matthew before, but I’ve... never seen anything like this.” Bill stared at her in disbelief. “I was Matthew’s babysitter last year. His mother was always a little… jumpy. Her husband… hit her. Maybe did worse sometimes. He was a violent guy. There were signs, I just didn’t want to see them. I guess I just focused on Matthew. It’s why I kept coming back…even, after.” Bill looked back up the stairs towards the bedroom.
“After what?”
“Back in February, Matthew’s mother cut her husband’s throat while he slept, torched the entire upstairs and took off.” Bill stared at her in horror. “ The real mystery is why she didn’t take Matthew with her. He was asleep in his room. He was only 10. Just a horrible thing.”
Bill looked at his mangled hand. Two of his fingers were twisted straight back at the upper knuckle. The fingernails looked gruesome.. “Let’s get you to a doctor,” Martha said. She grabbed the keys to the truck from the counter, took Bill’s good arm and slowly walked him towards the door to the garage. They both were crying.
Upstairs, Matthew shifted away from the back of the door. He’d changed his mind about his Pez dispenser. He was glad it wasn’t cracked. He was much calmer now. Actions can make anger go away, even if they do sometimes cause pain. He’d learned that from his father. Matthew was still upset at his mother, and really angry at Martha’s dumb friend for barging in, but despite all that, his tantrum was over. He felt the beginnings of a smile cross his face. He opened the bedroom door a crack, so he could listen again. He wanted to listen, because he knew something that Martha and Bill didn’t.
He knew that his father was waiting in the garage.
And his father never put up with crying.
About the Author
Ritch Duncan is a writer, comedian and social media professional living in New York City. He is the co-author of The Werewolf’s Guide To Life: A Manual For the Newly Bitten and has written comedy for Saturday Night Live, Billy on The Street, and Cookie Monster. He is the Editor-In-Chief of Deathbed.
Read more of Ritch's Deathbed stories.
Image Credits
- "Bone" line breaks, original art by Becky Munich.
