#shift in dynamicssss

[ego-meliorem-esse]

A Clear Shift

1942(ish), London

Amidst the tumultuous turmoil of war, the Kirkland family found themselves gathered in the solemn atmosphere of Arthur's countryside estate, located on the outskirts of London. The living room, or rather the parlor, served as the setting for this tense encounter. The once-grand parlor,  contrary to the turmoils of war itself, was adorned with no signs of wear and tear. The room, bathed in muted hues of deep mahogany and faded gold, bore no witness to the toll that the conflict had taken. The wood paneling had not lost its sheen, its edges weren't marred with scratches or scuffs. The vibrant, newly installed wallpaper, showed no sign of peeling at the corners. It still very much showcased the semi-vibrant pattern chosen by its owner. The room was adorned with antique furniture, the air heavy with an unspoken tension that seemed to permeate every corner. It served as a temporary and solemn gathering place for the Kirkland household. The somber atmosphere hung heavy in the air as if the weight of the world had settled upon their shoulders.

Seated around a once expensive, sturdy wooden table were Matthew, Zee, Jack, and their father Arthur, each one bearing the visible marks of war, bandages wrapped tightly around their weary bodies. Their countenances mirrored the weight of their experiences, etched with lines of concern and shadows of exhaustion. The war had taken its toll on them, physically and emotionally.

Alfred, the only one not seated at the table, occupied the couch on the opposite side of the room. His piercing gaze surveyed the book and its contents. His eyes conveyed an unyielding determination and a sense of detachment. Alfred sat quietly. Much more quietly than he had ever sat anywhere. More quietly than he was known for sitting. For once a grand room was not filled with Alfred's thunderous voice, but rather the lack of it.

Alfred was seemingly in his own world, burdened by his own thoughts and concerns.

Jack and Zee sat opposite their father at the much too-long table, simply watching and enduring the scene unfolding in the room. Or rather, they were watching the lack of a scene. Usually evenings like this resulted in shouting, arguments, and someone getting thrown out of the house by midnight. No such thing happened the entire evening and while they were glad a sense of normalcy engulfed the parlor and its occupants, a sense of unease resided within its walls as well. Namely, the source of that unease sat right opposite of them.

Arthur, for once not sitting at the head of the table, but rather at the side of it, grasped a bottle of not-at-all-expensive American whiskey in his hand, drinking from it slowly and yet with a certain urgency. A lone figure, illuminated by the dim light filtering through the partially drawn curtains. The amber liquid seemed to fuel his frustrations and exacerbate his anxieties. Each swig, lacking Arthurs's usual politeness and propriety, seemed to fuel his frustration. Despite his current engagement in this particular vice, his words weren't any more slurred or unclear. In fact, Arthur had seemed to only find his footing and eloquence in the matters at hand when his glass was only recently empty and refilled as needed. And Arthur had deemed it a necessity indeed.

As the room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the occasional sound of Arthur's ungentlemanly gulps of the American corn whiskey, his children exchanged worried, yet at the same time quite numbed glances.

Matthew dared to suggest that perhaps it was time to retire for the night. His voice was laced with worry.

"Maybe it's best if you put that down and get some rest," Matthew cautiously ventured, his eyes filled with genuine concern.

Arthur, his words surprisingly unslurred by the effects of alcohol, dismissed Matthew's concern with a wave of his hand, demanding the undivided attention of his children.

"Matthew, I unequivocally do not need your lectures today," he retorted sharply, yet not as loudly as he had wished. His tone laced with frustration and alcohol-infused defiance.

Matthew recoiled slightly at his father's curt response, his voice lowering in tone.

"I'm just saying... you'll feel better if you rest, considering your injuries and all," he added, his words trailing off, not knowing how to finish the sentence in a way that would make Arthur listen and comply.

"Oh, now you find your voice?" Arthur snapped, his anger bubbling to the surface. "Now you have the cheek to command men around?" His voice dripped with bitterness, an underlying resentment that had been building over time. Though, presumably, the anger released was not really aimed at Matthew personally. Not really.

"Truly, I would have loved to see that resolve and strength of will during the shit-storm that met us at the damn Dieppe." Dieppe became a textbook example of "what not to do" in amphibious operations. And while Arthur knew that there was nothing Matthew could have done to prevent the disaster, his anger wasn't really looking for a rational approach.

Matthew fell silent, his eyes slightly downcast, his attempt to help met with scorn. He felt the weight of his Arthurs disappointment bearing down on him. In situations like this, where he attempted an altruistic approach with his mentor, the aim of the metaphorical gun only seemed to turn towards him.

At last, he backed off and settled back into his chair, silently pondering his fruitless efforts. As he was used to doing.

In that tense moment, Alfred, who had only come out of his own thought and gazed up upon hearing his fathers scorn filled voice, observed the scene unfold. He rose from the couch without a word, setting down the book he was reading in a calm and slightly eerie manner. He strode purposefully toward the table where his family sat, his expression unreadable and uncanny. The room and its occupants barely registered his approach as he lifted the bottle from the table, his emotionless eyes fixed on his father.

With a sudden shift in tone, Alfred flung the bottle against the wall with all his might. Indicating his disapproval of Arthurs's words and settling the matter without any use of his own. The sound of shattering glass shattered the room's uneasy silence, and the fragments of the bottle scattered across the floor like the exploded shrapnel parts of a handheld grenade.

Arthur, his eyes widening by mere millimeters, did not utter a word. His face was unchanging. Alfred stood tall beside him, his gaze unwavering, an unspoken declaration of his strength and authority. The shift in the power dynamic was never as obvious to the onlookers as it was at that moment.

Alfred turned away, retreating to the couch, his face a mask of unyielding composure.

He picked the book up and reticently continued where he left off on the page.

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of the shattered bottle a tangible metaphor for the fractured relationships and undeniable swap in dynamics within their family. Arthurs's anger, if even present, was meticulously hidden behind a facade of stoicism. He stood up on his wounded leg, aided by his cane for support, and without a single word he made his way through the dark hallway, up the large, creaky stairs, to the master bedroom. The sound of Arthur's footsteps and the rhythmic clack of his cane echoed through the hallway as he retreated upstairs. The weight of his absence lingered in the air, a stark reminder of the changing hierarchy within their family.

Zee, breaking the silence, mumbled under her breath, barely audible but laden with significance, that she too should retire for the night. Her voice carried a mixture of resignation and, surprisingly even to her, relief. The weariness of the situation was etched on her face. Jack, his gaze fixed on Zee's retreating and visibly fatigued figure, followed suit without uttering a word, silently beckoning Matthew to accompany him.

Matthew, caught between the remnants of Arthur's authority and the newfound power Alfred had asserted, rose hesitantly from his seat, his gaze never leaving his brother at the opposite side of the room. He exchanged a brief glance with Jack, the weight of unspoken words passing between them. With a nod, Matthew followed him, their footsteps fading into the distance, leaving Alfred alone in the parlor.

He remained seated, the silence enveloping him as he stared blankly at the word-filled page before him. The room, once filled with the echoes of heated arguments, now resonated with the quiet realization that their lives were starting to and were going to change. Alfred's emotionless facade masked a tumult of thoughts and feelings, his mind a labyrinth of complexities.

Outside, the world engulfed by the night's murkiness continued its relentless march, oblivious to the fractured harmony within the walls of the manor. The war raged on, each passing day leaving scars both seen and unseen.

As the final embers of the candle (because Arthur insisted on candles while they resided in the manor) in the center of the table flickered and died, Alfred closed his eyes, allowing the silence to envelop him even for a moment. Silence was never something Alfred liked. And while that could mean peace to everyone else, for Alfred silence meant unease and boredom. Though unease he could stand, boredom he could not. In the stillness of the parlor, he sought solace by turning on the radio on the cabinet next to the grand table his family was occupying a while ago, finding temporary refuge from the tumultuous realities of their wartime existence, as well as the anxious silence he seemed to avoid like the plague.

The night pressed on, leaving the manor cloaked in darkness, its occupants scattered to their own private realms of introspection and unrest. The only source of sound was the radio Alfred kept on as a way to ease his discomfort with quietude. Alfred couldn't help but wonder about his siblings' worries and the unrest that plagued their minds. He had no doubt in his mind that new, uncertain things were afoot. Change was coming. Change of his own making at that.

Good thing he had no problem with change.

But for now, they remained suspended in the suffocating grip of uncertainty.

Alfred looked at the ridiculously oversized Victorian grandfather clock in the corner whose ticking had stopped a good 5 years ago. He sighed, deciding that 3 am was a decent time to retreat to his room and go to sleep. He calculated that if he fell asleep in half an hour and woke up a bit earlier than 8 am, he'd get at least a solid 4 hours and 30 minutes of rest. Nodding to himself, he turned off the radio, which by now was playing an unknown tune from the 1920s. He went to blow out the candle but realized it had already reached the end of its life. Alfred realized he was sitting (now standing) in almost complete darkness for quite a while.

The remnants of shattered glass glimmered on the floor, which only now started to annoy Alfred. Deciding against cleaning up the mess, he stepped over it and closed the door behind him, leaving the room pitch black.

----

what can I say: Arthur, whiskey bottles and those same whiskey bottles being thrown at a wall are my kryptonite.

I have a part 2 but it's not really all that related to this situation hmmmm