Gavin Austin

Contained

My father’s big hands are as ugly as the Sunday roast. Tentatively, I push my fork into the peas but avoid the meat. He watches, his eyes as cold as the blade of the knife he used to butcher the lamb. The rejected twin I’d helped to raise. “Eat!” he barks.

School holidays begin, and we are warned not to build a treehouse in the old gum behind the hayshed. My older brother knows better. I am seven and follow without question.
 
A dry branch cracks and gives way. I plummet to the summer-baked earth, breaking an arm.

Thundering from the house, my father strikes my cheek with the back of his hand, grabs the neck of my shirt and bundles me onto the back seat of the car. “Boys don’t cry,” he hisses, driving to the hospital. Stubbled jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving the road.

old bucket
rusted
from the inside

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About the Author

Gavin Austin lives in Sydney, Australia. Gavin writes short fiction, short plays, and poetry. His work has appeared in many Australian and international publications.