It's Raining Milk

The everyday experience of a kid living in a dysfunctional family.

It was raining mud.

In reality, Isabelle was kicking dirty water into my face.

But I pretended it was raining mud.

“Retard!”

I rolled over. I had to protect my face, after all.

“Freak!”

I licked my lips. Wondered what was for dinner.

“F****t!”

She meant that affectionately. Really.

Finally, Isabelle got bored and walked away. I sat up. There was mud all over my pants and shirt and face. The raindrops tasted like salt.

Weird.

I was getting wetter. I figured that I should probably go inside.

I sat there for awhile longer. Sometimes, I know I should move, but I don’t. It’s not that I can’t. It’s just that I don’t. The rain was still getting in my eyes.

Eventually, my feet decided it was time to get up. I sloshed my way up the path. My tennis sneakers were brown.

“Bentley?”

I could not tell if the voice was concerned, or angry. I could never tell.

“Bentley!”

It was probably angry. I ran.

“Bentley, Isabelle has been looking all over for�"what the hell did you do to yourself!?”

I made it onto the porch. I stared at her. My mother’s hair made a triangle around her head.

My mother stepped aside as I approached the front steps. “It’s raining mud,” I explained to her.

She shook her head slowly. “What is wrong with you?” she asked. She always asks it that way. It wasn’t a mean way, really. It was more confused. Like she’d been thinking about it for years and still couldn’t make sense of it.

“It’s raining mud,” I repeated.

She sighed and stepped aside. She gave me a little push when I didn’t move quite fast enough. Then she shouted, “Don’t get mud on the floor!” I ended up getting mud on the floor. “Bentley!"

Dinner was chicken and ravioli and carrots.

My father was late. He is usually late.

There were five people at the table.

First, there was Isabelle.

Isabelle is my sister.

She hates me.

She is very pretty.

Joseph is ten.

He likes robots.

He hates all of us.

Then there was my mother and father.

My name is Bentley.

I am six.

I don’t like it when my ravioli and chicken touch each other.

“Kiddo,” my father said, “How was school?” He was talking to Joseph.

Joseph grunted. This was because his mouth was full of chicken.

“Did you learn anything interesting?”

Joseph swallowed. “Robotics expert Henrik Christensen recently predicted that humans will be having sex with robots within four years.”

Everybody knew that Joseph didn’t learn that in school.

“Joseph, that kind of talk is not appropriate for the dinner table,” my mother said.

“Okay.”

“Isabelle,” my father said, “How was your day?”

“We learned about nature,” Isabelle said, twirling a carrot between her thumb and forefinger.

“That sounds nice.”

“Yes. We learned about the natural environment, and pelicans.” She stuck the carrot in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

“What about pelicans did you learn?”

“Oh, we learned all about pelicans. Just everything.”

By this point, Joseph had finished his dinner and was trying to leave.

“Sit down,” my mother said.

Joseph sat down. He flipped her the middle finger.

This incited a lot of different reactions. First, my father got to his feet and told Joseph to go to his room. His face had become swollen and angry.

Joseph went to his room.

My mother started crying. Isabelle gave her a hug. My father was yelling up the stairs at Joseph. I just sat there and tried to keep my chicken from touching my ravioli.

My mother pushed Isabelle away from her. She went upstairs. Isabelle started crying. My dad gave her a hug. I tried to pour myself some milk and spilt it all over the table.

“Bentley!” My father shouted, immediately letting go of Isabelle.

Isabelle giggled.

I just sat there staring at the milk. It had gotten all over my hands. I licked my fingers.

My dad was still very angry. “Don’t just sit there, clean it up!” My father started yelling up at Joseph again. Then he went upstairs. He started yelling at my mother for “upsetting the kids.”

I was still sitting in the same spot. Isabelle walked over to me. My muscles felt all weird and seized up.

“You have to stand it up, Bentley,” she explained. “Otherwise, it won’t stop spilling.” She picked up the milk carton. It was about half full by this point.

She poured the rest of it on my head.

It was very cold.

Isabelle left.

I kept on sitting there. I still couldn’t move. Now the milk was touching the chicken and the ravioli. This was even worse than the situation before.

My father eventually returned. I didn’t know what time it was. He stared at me for several moments.

“Why didn’t you clean it up?”

I frowned. Good question.

His eyes traveled up and down. “What happened to you?”

I could only shrug. “It’s raining milk.”

Author's Note

I think everyone can relate to this story to some extent. I'd love it if you'd review and tell me what you think.