Living Room, Alexis Rendel ‘21

An electric fire crackles underneath the droning voice of a newscaster reporting the same story from the night before. In front, the battle between green and beige plastic rages on a shaggy tan plain as a young soon-to-be general calls out orders under his breath, bringing the men alarmingly close to the dooming heat just as he did the night before. The amber hue of dimmed lamps illuminates the close corners of the room but fails to reach the top of the cathedral ceiling, creating a bubble of warmth for just the living space. A worn blue leather couch rests against the wall, and its sister armchair rests against the stair’s banister. The Father lounges, laid out like a cat, on the armchair and matching footstool, popping nuts into his mouth like candy and mindlessly scoffing at the same annoyances on the screen from the night before. Three curled female figures sit relaxed on three sections of couch cushions. The Mother tucks her legs neatly underneath her, scrolling through her tablet and drinking the same tea as the night before. Ears perked up like a horse, she cringes at the crunch of every nut Father munches on, glaring him down and hoping that her cold, hard stare will catch his attention. Leaning on Mother, Daughter One rests her head and looks up at the dark, empty white ceiling, hoping that her unspoken questions will be answered by an intangible force, not yet described. Her fingers brush up and down the phone she’s desperately trying not to unlock. She looks forlorn and puzzled, definitely questioning a deep thought but in such a way that the thought seems to cause her agony. Of course, if someone asked if she was ok, she’s fine. Of course, she was fine the night before. On the opposite end of the couch, pushed into the deep corner as if trying to conceal her presence from the rest of the room, Daughter Two curls up in a ball of determined stress, her thoughts far away from the room. Her computer, humming with effort, balances on her shaking knees, and a pair of glasses rests on the bridge of her nose, trying desperately not to tip off. The crinkle in her eyebrows and creases on her eyes signal the effort and strain she’s putting into a task night after night which will eventually be irrelevant in only a few months. Yet the strain and the stress continue, and the computer will hum for another hour or so as the glasses cling to the clip of her nose for dear life just as they did the night before. The television speaks, the Father chews, the Mother scrolls, the Daughter stares, and the Daughter strains.As if frozen in action, these figures pose in a tableau, unwilling and uninterested in motion. Only the commander-general disrupts the stagnant energy of the room, running around like a child in a museum watched by frowning spectators. Every so often, a brief shift, a sudden unwelcomed breeze, changes the feeling in the room. The tableau breaks just for a second. The Mother looks at the kitchen across the open space, frowning at the leftover dishes, food, and trash from dinner earlier. The Father peaks up at the son (the young commander-general, excuse me) and opens his mouth slightly as if to warn him about the danger his army faces as their commander-general leads them closer and closer to the blazing heat. Daughter glances at her phone’s

screen, checking once, twice, pause, then once again at the empty notifications, wishing someone would text. Daughter Two sighs, still staring at her screen, hoping that a stroke of inspiration will come down from the empty, white ceiling and provide her the ability to finish the work, which takes up all her brain-power. No one utters a word, ordered not by the young warlord rolling on the floor but by the looming, unfinished description of their situation, their position. There was so much to say at the dinner table. They had recollections of workdays, jokes shared from friends, and brief comments about the lack of salt on the chicken. Perfect smiles and exuberant laughter lit up the room, already completely illuminated in every corner. Energy at the dinner table burst out of the kitchen, into the dimmed living room, up the stairs to the dark bedrooms, almost reaching out the windows on the pitchblack street. Now that energy lives with the mangled chicken bones, the stains of ketchup and the scattered plates on the cluttered kitchen table. The mixed air above the diminished living glow and dark empty ceiling captures the unspoken words, keeping them in a foreboding holding cell filled with unresolved sentiments, and the unfinished description of their existence. The family sits like Greek figures in motion, resigned to repeat the same tasks dutifully, resting in amber for now but destined to ascend from the living glow into the dark upstairs. Father coughs. Everyone startles. Mother’s eyes narrow. Daughters turn their heads. The unaware commander-general continues his siege. The clouds dangling above begin to churn and thunder as the previously stagnant figures begin to break positions. Cracks emerge in the amber and marble protecting the peace and civility of the tableau. Eyes remained fixed on Father. Father takes a sip of his water, picks another cashew from the bowl, and chews with his jaws smacking against each other, just as he did the night before. The seemingly picture-perfect scene resumes, now with clear cracks and crevices marred on the statues forever. The bedrooms remain dark, the street is still pitch black, and the rosy hue of the living room dims the joyous camaraderie once shared between the people now living separately, strangely around the room. Father chews and scoffs. Mother scrolls on her tablet. Daughter One questions wordlessly, staring into the empty abyss. Daughter Two frowns at a blank screen. The commander-general ends his battle and runs upstairs, leaving the cracked statues in amber and the dying glow of the living room behind, escaping to the bedrooms just as he did the night before.

Alexis Rendel ‘21 Scholastic Gold Key