Mitchell's Mustard Blog

May 13, 2017

Bruised

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 1:14 pm

He had come home from school with another bruise, another one to add to the collection. This young boy full of charisma, charm, and joy when encased by the families four walls ached physically and mentally without a peep. His mother could hear him quietly weep in the morning whilst getting ready for school, which in turn made her cry for answers, but he was proud and strong and a shrug of the shoulders was the answer to all. He often came home with rips in his clothing, when doing his washing she would find blood stains on his sleeves, his explanation was yet another nosebleed. She watched her young boy battle in silence, the more pressure she applied for answers the more he closed up and became aloof around her. She had spoken to the school on numerous occasions but they explained that without her son coming forward they couldn’t pursue. A promise to keep an eye out for him was lost in communication because he had come home again with a cut on his head, an accident he had explained. His eyes told another story, a silent uncomfortable story. Over the last year his character had changed, her brave little boy seemed to fear the outside, and worst of all, fear the inside. His brave little smile had left, his charisma had been removed, joy was a thing of the past. She confided in friends and family, ‘troubled teens’ they’d say to put her mind at rest. But she could see the screams behind his eyes, the damage to his body, the way he flinched at movement.

  She had heard him weep again in the morning so she confronted him, no prisoners, she wanted answers. Where had her charming and enthusiastic boy gone? What was happening?

  As she broke down, so did he. He was curled in the corner lost and fearful, she had scared him. She knew she needed to apologise . . .   

   . . . But it was too late, that day he had taken his own life. She wished someone had listened, wished she had worked harder to get to the truth, wished her little baby boy had opened up. But, all the wishes in the world had expired. Stood by his graveside she cried for today, cried for tomorrow, and feared whatever followed.

March 27, 2015

Her little love notes

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 9:35 pm

‘I adore you x’. This was written on the post it note that he found in his suit jacket pocket, he hadn’t worn the black suit for years and was surprised it still fit him, probably due to the weight he had lost recently. He stopped and stared at the loving note, spellbound, lost, loved. She had beautiful handwriting, he knew he was biased, but he loved the way she curled her letters, delicate, passionate, and all without a concentrated effort, it just flowed. He pictured her giggling, running around the house with the post it note pad, quickly leaving love notes for him to find when he returned home from work. And when he found them, she would act blasé, nonchalant, but he could always see the excitement in her eyes as she followed him around the house asking questions about his day, she wasn’t worried about the answers, she just wanted to see his face while reading the notes she had strategically placed. She didn’t always hide them, he would find ‘morning sunshine’ stuck to the bathroom mirror, ‘I’m proud of you’ on the front door, or one of his favourites that he had kept in his wallet, ‘you make me tick’. He had found that note on her pillow a week ago, the morning she had left for work early, on the day she didn’t return.
She would sometimes buy him little presents, something she might stumble across, a little something that she knew he would appreciate. Leaving little post it note clues around the house for him to follow and find her gift. Her infectious giggle would echo round the house while he was hunting, following the trail. He missed that giggle.
He was perched on the edge of their bed in his underwear, he stared at the note. He knew this was going to be the last note he would find in her handwriting, because today, she was the reason he had to wear the black suit, the day he had to say goodbye for the last time. He kissed the note and placed it on her pillow. He knew he needed to get dressed, he didn’t want to, but knew the cars would be here soon.

March 20, 2015

No. 27

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 8:02 pm

The pink and yellow petals merge the room together, a comfort blanket for the open minded. One room broken down into loving compartments, a collage of old and new, vintage and modern, love and hearts. All mirroring that of the beauty that resides. A creative mind that shines through in her surroundings, showing her touch, leaving a trail like a whisper, enough to know it was once created by her, and will stay that way until she decides otherwise. Scatter cushions and striped boxes, blankets and candles, all add to the surroundings that whip you up into a relaxed frenzy. Your personal nerves in battle with the rooms aura of comfort, standing on the edge while wrapped in cotton wool. Vacant picture frames waiting to be filled with memories and laughter, finding it hard to choose which smile from which day, they can’t all be on display, there are so many. A mesmerising clock hand, ticking in the background to remind you that time is still moving, but not for one moment are we in a rush. A brown leather sofa delicately carving the room in two, holding memories, heartache, and heroism. It will wrap you up in all occasions and remind you that taking a moment is good, good for you. Placement of ornaments that arouse thought, crystals to strengthen a mood and breed vitality into the room, all complimented by the faint hint of sage in the air to fluff and plump your negativity to a non existent state. The warmth and love between these four walls expelling any disbelief that this is a haven, a home, her home. A home of love, peace, and sanctuary.

November 7, 2014

Home

Filed under: Just a Thought — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 9:46 pm

Her hair cascaded across the pillow, claiming its place. He tucked her hair behind her ear, like that of a curtain in a theatre, giving full visibility of the beauty behind. She held such strength, even as she slept, it was moments like this that he wanted to wake her up and tell her, tell her that he was happy, content, in love. He knew too well that by the time she was awake, the life they shared would cause him to forget. He knew that wasn’t an excuse, he knew that he should try harder to remember, but he also knew that this wasn’t the first time he had wanted to wake her before he forgot. As she lay naked, he admired her, she had the perfect balance of beauty and sexy, she often misplaced this fact, he never did. She would become coy if she woke and saw he was watching her, curling up under the duvet like a young, shy version of herself, but he could always see the smile in her eyes. As she stirred, she moved, place her head on his chest, entwined their legs, kissed the tattoos that coloured his torso. It didn’t matter where they woke up, where they had been, or where they were meant to be, that moment always felt like home. She is his wife, the mother of his children, his best friend, and forever his confidant. He would walk the earth, burn the sky, just to be home.

December 22, 2013

The death of a fisherman

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 4:22 pm

When the waves crashed against the side of the vessel, the boat was thrown side to side like a rag doll in a playful dogs mouth. The grey stormy sky a similar colour to the sea, the boat seemed to advance towards a future of nothingness. They all had families waiting for them to return, longing to hear the cheers of loved ones as they step onto dry land, a fond memory from each trip. Only he longed for the next outing. Spending weeks aboard and his body became used to the rocking, the unsettled sea waiting to swallow his boat in one almighty gulp. He could never explain how much he loved the sea because it would always be his worst enemy, it had beaten him black and blue, it had taken his men from him, taken the soul and life from the back of his eyes as he watched it claim victims, people he knew. Returning to tell their wives that life was now different, the expression on their faces as he became the enemy and not the sea. He had battled with his foe for many years, the creaks and groans of his boat had become his home, longing for his family but knowing he couldn’t stay on dry land for long. He couldn’t get the rush that he experienced at sea, she was his ugly mistress that could turn her mood at any moment and test the boats ability to perform, a battle with a beast that took no prisoners in a moment of weakness. He always believed he would die at sea one day, hoped he would be taken by her, they teased each other even though he knew she would win every time if given the chance. He felt he wasn’t ready just yet, she had taken so much but still had so much to give. She would rest like all other things, to build up her strength for her next attack, the calm before the storm. He watched her build, watched her huff and puff around them. He found beauty in her anger, this seemed to provoke her strength in some way.
Pain surged through his chest as he collapsed, If only he knew that his wild mistress wouldn’t claim him after all, would he have returned? Taken his last step onto dry land, to leave her crashing at his back, tempting him to return. To think that it would be his own heart that would fail. As he crashed to the kitchen floor his first thought were of his family, but to them he had become a stranger. He longed to feel the sea around him, drag him under and pull him into her, to feel her anger around him. Take him under her ice cold wing to numb him from the pain, they had toyed with each other for so many years, it didn’t seem right to die without her. He missed her whistling in his ear, baiting him to make a mistake. He wanted to be taken by her, she deserved to win this battle, but it was not gods will.

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