"A whitish porridge is consumed in the uncooked stage as the basic food. Deal with it."
Huh? What's that supposed to mean?
I don't know, the old man must've gone berserk. What do you expect? He's pretty fucking old, you know and I don't think he remembers us anyway. I don't think he knows who you are, for sure. Why would he remember a small runt like you?
Hey, that's mean.
The big one teases the little one. It's the way it always has been. And the little one snaps his teeth, hoping to make up in speed what he lacks in height. His brother torments him, but there is love, they both know. Intermingled with all the hate and viciousness, there is love in its purest form. The kinship of brothers, who would die for one another.
Very possibly by each other's blade.
The older one reads the letter again.
What's he want with the porridge?
I don't know.
You don't suppose he's forgotten?
What? No, surely not. He's not that bleeding old. He won't forget that fast, he can't.
Because really, this is their worst fear, that the old man will one day forget how to feed himself, that they might find him dribbling uncooked porridge down his chin and then, all their freedom will be spent. They will have the old man hanging, like a heavy stone from their young necks, unable to care for himself, and not yet ready to die. Still, it could be worse, they reckon. Mattie's grandpa forgets the toilet, not always, but most days. And they listen to Mattie, on the one night he allows himself to come down the pub and they think him too has gone a little crazy. Keeps muttering to himself about the old man shitting himself out of spite. The two boys find it hard to believe anyone would do that. Seems somehow too low, even for spite.
Still, they decide to go check on their own decrepit old man. Make sure he remembers them essentials.
The woman from across the street is lost. She's dreamed of many things, but the utmost reach of her imagination did not go beyond picturing her usual life in a new setting. And this is clearly not the setting she's envisioned for herself. Once more, she must remind herself she is not there anymore, that her neighbors have come and gone and might as well be dead, for all she knows. Unfortunate circumstances, they'd said and her son hadn't quite been able to look her in the eye as he said it.
Or rather, that bitch of a wife said it. Young people forget so easily. She's forgotten how the old woman took them both in when little Richie's parents threw them out, calling her a harlot destroying their son's life. How the old woman looked after the young lovers, helped them until they were ready to fly for themselves. The girl's forgotten and her love's turned into hate. Even worse, she's poisoned Richie, her only grandson, against her.
'We don't need her round the place, not with the baby coming and all,' she'd said when she though the old woman wasn't listening.
But the old woman heard everything. They were planning to call the little one Abby, because it sounded like 'baby' and yet, it wasn't. Terribly clever, or at least, so they thought. And for Abby to have space, the old woman had to go.
They'd stuck her in here, even though she would've been much happier in a flat. A bedsit, or even just a renting room, the old woman wasn't picky and she liked so much her solitary life. But they couldn't let the old woman go on her own to a bedsit. God forbid she take ill and need their help. They'd be too busy with the baby to come and feed the old woman soup. Sure, she wasn't sickly, but you could never quite tell.
'Let's be on the safe side, shall we?' the pregnant girl had said, a false smile on her treacherous little teeth.
And now, they were over there on the safe side and she was stuck in here, alone but for the old ones. The dying ones. Her kin.
Each time they come, which is lesser and lesser now Abby is born, they tell her she ought to make some new friends. She stays in her room all day long and reads, never talking to no one, and they worry. But she doesn't see what was wrong with her old friends, the ones she had when she wasn't the old one. Back when she had a name.
Friends, neighbors, a life.
'Why red?'
There are voices in the corridor and the old one steps out to see what the racket is about, but there is no one in the corridor. She stares down the darkness and the darkness stares back. 'Who's there?' she asks, unafraid in her heart, but her voice a mere whisper. Because the darkness has a way of making little mice of all of us.
'I like red,' somebody says, ignoring her. Outside her head, life goes on.
'But we only have blue, you see,' another voice replies and the old one knows this voice. It's one of the orderlies. No, what's it, what they call them, the nurses? The girls, as she thinks about them. Because they're really just girls. Sooner or later, they'll all leave, find themselves with a swollen belly like the young ungrateful girl who kicked the old one out of her house. Might kick out some nans of their own...
But now, she is not. The young orderly is arguing with someone, a man, and the old one takes a few more steps, certain now there is nothing to fear. Nothing more than in general, anyways. She walks out into the common room to find a man sitting at the table, a blue bowl in front of him. He's looking at the orderly and the orderly looks at the old one, in surprise.
'Mrs Withman, did we wake you?'
The old one nods and catches the man's eye. It surprises her, there's something...awkward. Two grown human beings who find themselves baby-ed by a girl young enough to be their granddaughter. And they look at each other like two chided children, who think they're too old to be chided. Mortally embarrassed.
'Mrs Withman, this is Mr Trotter, he's only just arrived.'
'Yes, and this woman won't for the life of her give me a red bowl for my porridge. I've told her, I don't see what's so bloody hard. It's just a bowl.'
'But we only have blue, sir,' the orderly mutters, but the old man won't relent. Because see, he always had his porridge in a red bowl, back when he was at home and he doesn't see why his life should change just because those two louts of nephews of his say otherwise. It's not their say and he's told them time and again, no, he has not gone mad, thank you very much. But they wouldn't listen. They never listen, in the end.
Mr Trotter looks over at the old one again, who nods too little for the orderly to see, but just enough for him to close his eyes and eat his porridge. He goes to bed that night, making no fuss, even though the sheets are crisp, not like the ones at home and the air is stuffy.
Tomorrow, they shall plot their escape, he knows, him and the old one. Tomorrow, they shall take their names back again.
This is a piece of freewrite fiction written in response to 
's 3 weekend prompts (in bold). I know I haven't done one of these in a while, but only because I have been quite busy with my writing outside of Steem and I needed to focus on that.
Thanks for reading,
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