Victor heard the elevator door open, his mother’s quick footsteps in the hall, and he flipped his book shut. He shoved it under the sofa pillow out of sight, and winced as he heard it slip between sofa and wall to the floor with a thud. Her key was in the lock.
‘Hello, Vee-ector-r!’ she cried, raising one arm in the air. Her other arm circled a brown paper bag, her hand held a cluster of little bags.
I started reading The Terrapin this morning before going to work and got through the first, rather unremarkable, part of the story before I had to leave. Still, something just kept niggling me about the characters and the slow reveal of what seemed to be a dysfunction in the characters' relationship.
So, I did what I seldom do and finished reading this short story over lunch.
The slow build and slow reveal of the narration quickly escalated to a level of messed up that was off the scale.
I am still traumatised.
Please send chocolate.