Shannan Rodda: LITTLE responsibilities

They looked so sweet and content as they slept.
All snug and warm amongst each other.
I didn't want to wake them-but I had to.
        they are My responsibilities.
I pull back their paper covers; I tense as I await their angry response-
        their abuse.
Nothing yet. Just the quiet.
I undress them one by one. One rouses. Fiery, he screams at me in red!
His shouts and demands shock the others awake-wide-eyed!
They cry and wail and scream. Their wantings flash at me in red.
        Water. Driving lessons. Riding Lessons. Petrol. Lunch money. Zoo excursions.
Play group. Electricity. FOOD! Oh! How could I forget FOOD?

They wave their paper selves at me like a barbaric tribe-cursing me.
The centrewank payments haven't gone through yet. They haven't gone through!

Locking myself in my room I slide down the wall-cowering in my corner.
I can hear them at the other end of the house. Their pounds on my door are deafening.
They know I don't have it. I give and I give! They take and they take! I have nothing left.
        Guitar lessons. School shoes. Soccer practice.
I stand at the kitchen counter and stare at them. One taunts me-her demands in bold. She dances and waves herself about. I launch at her. I wrap my hands around her brittle neck and twist. She tears. In fury I keep tearing. Dismembering. I turn to the others.
        Their paper limbs float to my dirty kitchen floor.

I creep down the hall. They looked so sweet and innocent as they slept. If only they knew mummy's pain of being a poor provider.
        If only they understood the bills were taking over.
                If only they understood.