A Dare For Love - Marco's Story

Marco was starving. He was always ravenous after school, and he wondered what his mum would have for him today. Maybe it would be those fabulous chocolate chip cookies; they were huge, all soft and chocolatey, they were delicious. He got off the bus at the end of the drive and wandered up towards the house. He would sit in the studio listening to the music mum was playing; he would eat his cookies and watch her paint.

He loved watching his mum paint he wondered if she had finished the rainy picture, it was all black skies, and that thing in France, that tower thingy, sounds like trifle. He loved the lightning that was striking it. Mum said it was symbolic. He was not sure what that meant, but if his mum said so, it must be. It might be something to do with his dad. He missed his dad, and he didn’t know when he would be coming back. Marco was sure his dad hadn’t meant to leave him, even though he had heard Mrs Hutchinson saying that it was cruel that he had left without saying goodbye. He had left though; he had left him. He’d gone to France to see someone who danced on laps, that was odd too, how could you dance on someone’s knee? Weird. He still had his mum, though, she would never leave him, and they would always be together.

Mrs Hutchinson would have gone home by now. Thursday was her half day. He had enjoyed going fishing with Mr Hutchinson the other weekend; they had caught loads of perch. Mr Hutchinson wanted to catch a pike; he said there was a big one in the river. It had been on the end of a line, but it had escaped. Now this fish was getting bigger and bigger each weekend.

Marco opened the back door, dumped his school bag on the kitchen table and went to look for his mother. He made his way down the chalky painted hallway, through the dining room, and along to the sitting room. Both were empty the lace curtains blowing in the breeze coming through the open windows reminded Marco of a painting his mum had done. A girl in a lacy skirt she had set part of the painting in this room, flounces of lace and tiny ornaments, and a girl with just a lace skirt on, her hands lifting her hair up, and her bumpy bits pointing upwards. He didn’t think it was a rude picture; it was just a girl stretching in the sunlight. He liked it; it was so peaceful, she was so clear, the rest of the painting all blurry and sunny, like in a pleasant dream.

The studio was empty too, there was not even any music playing, and that was strange, there was always something to listen to even if it was only the radio. The house was so tranquil. Running to her bedroom, he knocked on the door, “Mum, are you there?” Slowly he opened the door wondering if she might have been having a nap, she did go to bed very late. The en suite door was open, and he couldn’t hear any sounds coming from there. He went to sit on the bed, resting his face on his mum’s pillow, it smelled of her perfume, he couldn’t remember the name, but came in a square glass bottle, oh, and it had a label on it with a number five. He lifted his head; there it was on the dressing table, half-empty. He didn’t know how he would be able to buy some more for his mum when it ran out now that his dad had left them. He sat up, where was his mum, she’d never done this before, she was always there for him. Marco sat up he could see into the bathroom through the triple mirrors on the dressing table. Why did it look like there was red paint in the bath?