Written by Grace Magee
Content Warning: Implied Self-harm, Suicide attempt
“I told you, I’m not hungry.”
“Ach, now, but I am,” his granny said, glancing over her shoulder.
As he grated the potato, it made a gentle swish swish swish before it landed in the bowl. When he
sieved flour over the soft spuds, it puffed up white clouds as it fell. The delicate shapes of angels and
fairies hung in the air, before they fell to Earth. Granny was the only person now who didn’t freak out
anytime he went near something sharp.
She was washing her hands in the sink by the window. The window pane was old and thick, the kind
they just don’t make anymore, and it distorted the outside world ever so slightly. All they could see
out of it was the dark green of the garden, and the sunshine bouncing off of it. Perhaps they were the
only people in the world.
She turned and dried her hands on her apron, smiling at nothing, “Ah, that’s good now.” She nodded
to the potatoes but not quite to him. “Give it a stir and then we’ll add in the rest.”
He moved the rest of the food to the chopping board they were sharing. There was more than one, but
they liked to work together, elbow to elbow.
“Try to eat one anyway. You need some meat on your bones, love.” Her hard fingers pinched his arm,
not unkindly. “Hospital’s a terrible place for losing weight. It’s not a place for rest, funny enough.”
‘Hospital’ was a kind word for where he’d been, but he knew his granny didn’t have the heart to
verbalise it properly. At least she could acknowledge it at all, not like his parents, his siblings, his
friends. It was going to be a long summer.
“I’m just not hungry, Granny,” he said.
“That’s because all you’ve had for near three months is hospital food! Just wait till you get this into
you, then you’ll see. Some good, proper food.” She would not be argued with.
As they cooked, Granny kept thinking of little tasks to give him.
“Here, stick some salt ‘n pepper in that, will you?”
“Melt the butter in the pan for me, love.”
“Whisk the yolks with a fork and then fire them in, pet.”
Always a task, always a nickname. No eye contact, not yet.
The awkwardness between them made it so that he just couldn’t quite fit with her. He could tell she
was keeping busy by doing things more thoroughly then they’d ever been done before. Dicing
vegetables into grain-sized cubes and brewing her tea extra long, just so she wouldn’t have to think
too hard about what he’d been through. And what he had done. Like a jigsaw piece that had gotten
chewed, or swollen, it should click, but it just didn’t right now. Maybe it couldn’t ever again. He felt
like a baby. It was hard not to, in Granny’s kitchen.
He focused on the colours, surrounding him on all sides, keeping him safe. It was a technique the
counsellor at the psych ward had taught him, when he couldn’t handle anything else.
The yellow of the yolks, the green of the leeks, pink and white bits of bacon, blue bowls, orange juice.
The firm heat pressing against his face from the old oven. The softness and rawness of exposed skin,
which had been covered in bandages for so long, now open to the air again. The strung silver of
Granny’s hair, and her dark brown eyes. Rosy lipstick kiss on the cheek. The edges of the boxtys
crisping up golden in the black pan.
When she divvied up the slices, she gave herself a big ol’ one, laughing at the size of it. Neither of
them commented on the size of his piece, which was mercifully small, but pointedly there.
“Let it cool for a wee second, love, there’s no need to rush it.”
No need at all.
.
Grace Magee is an Irish writer from Belfast city. She loves horror and humour, and believes the shorter the story, the better! She’s been published previously in Sublunary Review, Awkward Middle Children, All Existing, and others. She’s on twitter @grace_e_magee.