I was born on December 14, 1946, and raised in the bucolic village of Lansing, Iowa, which then and now has a population of around one thousand hardy souls. Before air conditioners and television, everyone stayed outdoors as much as possible during the summer months. We all knew those residing near us, and being considered a good neighbor was important. Lansing had no police officer (or traffic light for that matter), and no government social nets existed. But more vulnerable citizens were closely watched, and even those who had little shared their meager lot with others in acute need. Despite many being hardworking, highly motivated WWII veterans, everyone struggled financially, yet somehow managed to get by. However, there were rare exceptions to this latter situation, and I believe one such anomaly at least partially explains the core of my story. When I completed seventh grade, my 11 schoolmates and I had been together since kindergarten. But at the beginning of eighth grade, a new student, Joyce T., joined our ranks. None of us knew her …

We are all deathly quiet but mum, at least, has an excuse. She’s got the machines to make noise on her behalf – the beeps and the breathing – and the doctors are kind of her spokespersons. Dad says nothing, seems lost, and I hate him for it. Say something, you pussy! If he doesn’t say anything, I can’t; and if I can’t then neither can my brother. It’s like this back in the house. Everything’s quiet there; everything’s wrong; everything’s out of balance. Only dad’s voice is heard, that is when he does speak. We eat only his choice of food and what he decides he can cook, even if what he decides is beyond him; we watch only his choice of telly, at least until he falls asleep drunk in his chair. The night it happened, I remember hearing him through the bedroom wall, asking mum if she’s all right over and over before finally calling the ambulance and then, when it arrived, him trying to explain and just messing the whole thing …

“It’s third gin, third vermouth. You can’t do anything right!” she says with a smile more precious than diamonds, pushing me away from the kitchen island to perform her witchcraft with bitters and gin. I don’t protest, and quietly sink back into the couch. Proportions don’t matter to me. Nothing does. She’ll be gone in an hour and never return again. I’ve been living this life of a silent observer for the past three years. They come and go, telling me I can’t do anything right, asking where I keep the frying pan, or if there’s a takeaway nearby. It’s a beautiful prison I’ve locked myself in, and I pay a handsome amount in cash every month to a man named Miguello. She brings me the glass and sits beside me, looking for the remote. I just hope we’ll watch something longer than life. But we never do. Nick Struutinsky is an art history explorer, producer, and writer based in Serbia. When he’s not working on a new script, he publishes short stories on Medium. …