SHADOWS OF KAYLA

DEALING WITH NEW TYPICALITIES

Festus.

The vapour ascending the pot of boiling water, the sizzling sound from the frying pan, the tinkling sound from the microwave—the welcoming warmth and aroma that simmered in the kitchen were the things that cheered me up and made me feel human. My family used to be added to the list up until a few months ago when I lost the one person I always looked up to—Mum.

Dad had changed so drastically in those past months, that it was impossible to tell if he had always been like that or it was because of this person who had dared to try and occupy the “mother” role in my life…and of course, a new brother I didn't even need or ask for.

I was a nineteen-year-old high school graduate. I promise I wasn't one of those kids who hated when their parents got new partners. I was going to be cool about it, until I saw Stephanie and her almost seven feet tall son, James. Something just wasn't right, I could feel it deep down in my heartstrings. Of course, I felt suffocated in my own home since their arrival.

The kitchen was my seat of consolation. It was my mother's best part of the house. Camilla was a popular chef in the city, who had her own restaurant and TV show. As they say, the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree, I was just as good a chef as my mother was.

Mum managed lung cancer in the early years of her forties until the cold morning she pegged out. I tried not to grieve her death for too long; She wouldn't want that. But given the recent state of the house, it was harder to not remember those sweet moments and not drop at least a tear.

Although most of what my mother owned was willed to me, I couldn't take possession of them till I finished college, according to what the will stated. This young adult couldn't wait to finish college and take over his mum's business. Once that day came, I was going to move out of the house and finally breathe peace and freedom. However, these past few days, I had a feeling my fuel of patience was going to run out and I would have no choice but to move out before that time came.

I took off my gloves and wiped my wet hands on my apron.

Okay, a little intro…

I'm a brown-haired dink, who asides from his pleasing-to-the-eye facial features, is intellectually bright. 5'11, slim, pale skinned, and blue-eyed. Except for the fact that I bear my father's name, there is probably no other proof that I'm his son. Anyone could make this out from my good looks.

“It's the wannabe chef again,” James called while he arched his head to enter the kitchen.

Hearing James's voice sang the "Wednesday morning ruined” song in my ears, but I didn't turn or give him a reply. It would be just best if I didn't give him words to feed any unwanted conversation.

“I'm talking to you, bro.” He gave me that annoying smirk of his. Bro? As if.

James was a year older than me and he had just gotten into college the previous year. Other than that I don't have anything to say about him. Okay maybe he was just a little bit handsome, but damn I wish I had that lush black hair of his. Enough of James. I wished he would get his a*s out of the kitchen and not annoy me so early in the morning.

Be cool, Fes. I told myself.

James ambled to where I was by gas stoves and leaned by the sink for God knows what. I could swear I saw the dried drool on the corner of his mouth the split second I glanced at him and it teeded me off.

“Looking at how you're so serious with kitchen work all the time…like a woman. I wonder if your mum…”

I swear I wasn't going to let him finish, because I knew he would have pissed the s**t out of me, had I let him complete that statement.

“f*****g shut it, man!” I flared, pointing the spatula at him. How dare he?

Speaking of “hows”, how could I have known the hot oil from the spoon would get on him?

“Ow!" James screeched, a little too loudly for such a tiny mistake. Like I get tons of those every day, so what? Anyone who had been there with me would know he was only trying to get attention. At least this was what I thought until I actually saw his left jawline (where the oil burned) was already red.

It was much worse than I imagined. Even I would have hated it if I got a scald on my face of all places. I really felt sorry for the accident, but I didn't want to get too apologetic as well. None of this would have happened had he minded his business.

“Look at you standing there like you have done nothing wrong. The least you could have done is to apologize or get him the first aid.”

Yeah right, I should have expected dad. It was now a good-son-bad-son-and-father scenario.

Anyway, I said nothing and hoped no one else would. But he wasn't done talking.

“Grow up son, and stop being a whiny child. That's your brother, he's my son too, so be considerate and stop being childish,” Dad said rather inconsiderately to me.

“Don't you think that was so unwarranted? What has such a mistake got to do with growing up or being childish? I never bothered anyone here, rather everyone seems to be getting on my nerves. If you need an avenue to preach to me about growth, it shouldn't be one where I wasn't entirely at fault,” I boiled.

Dad looked straight at me without a word escaping his lips. My blue eyes met his brown ones without flinching either.

“We need to talk,” he finally spoke.

“No, we don't. I'm sick of hearing you drag mum's death into everything,” I retorted, took the apron off my neck, dropped the spatula, and stormed out.