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Tilda glanced from the dirty dishes in the sink to her son, frowning.
“I told you to wash these, you lazy, good for nothing brat,” she snapped.
“Why should I? They are not mine.”
She reared back, eyes wild. “Since when do you talk back to me, you ungrateful-“
Andrew’s hand whipped up to block the blow meant for his face, squeezing Tilda’s wrist in an iron grip as he spun her around and twisted her arm tightly behind her back.
“You do not know me well enough to speak to me like that,” he whispered directly into her ear.
Tilda froze. “An- Andrew? Let go of my arm, sweetheart. I told Aaron to do the dishes, this is a simple misunderstanding.”
“Oh? The bruises on his back? Were they a misunderstanding? The split lip and black eye when I first got here? Those too, hmmm? By the way, I do not like that word. Stop using it.”
He twisted harder. Tilda yelped and turned her body to lessen the strain. “You’re going to break my arm!”
“Possibly,” Andrew tilted his head and shrugged. He reached into the sink and pulled out a cup half full of cold coffee with cream and held it up toward Tilda’s face. She flinched and leaned her head away as if to avoid a burn.
“Hmmm. What’s this?” he drawled. “Pink lipstick. How very 1950s housewife. I prefer chapstick, myself, and pink is not Aaron’s color.”
He opened his hand and the cup clattered to the floor, splashing both of them as it came to rest on its side. Tilda jolted, but Andrew ignored the mess. He picked up a mostly empty wine glass with the same lip imprint.
“And this? Must taste like shit if you didn’t down the whole bottle.” He sniffed. “Ugh, it reeks. I’m a whiskey man myself, given the choice,” he continued conversationally, “and Aaron likes beer, though someone really needs to expand his horizons beyond the cheap, watery piss he drinks. Perhaps he shares your pitiful palate.”
The glass tumbled from his hand and broke into large shards and small glittering pieces mixed with random splashes of red. Tilda released a sob and tried to pull away.
“Andrew? Mom?” Aaron stood in the kitchen doorway, nervously twisting the hem of his t-shirt. “What’s going on?”
“Mommy Dearest thought I was her favorite punching bag,” Andrew said, releasing Tilda with a slight forward shove. “She decided you needed a slap across the face, so we’ve been having a little chat.”
Tilda staggered away from Andrew, cradling her arm, but said nothing.
“Is this about doing the dishes?” Aaron asked, voice cracking, one hand tugging through his hair. “I did them last night like you asked and ran the dishwasher, Mom.”
“It is about Tilda keeping her fucking hands off of you,” Andrew said, pointing at his twin.
He took a step toward their mother; she took a matching step back.
“If you hurt my brother again, you will regret it,” he said softly. “Nod if you understand.”
Tilda nodded yes.
“Do you need me to explain in more detail? Provide you with a list of things that I might do to protect what is mine?” Andrew pulled a razor blade halfway out of his black arm band.
Tilda shook her head no and took another step back.
Aaron approached slowly with a broom, which Andrew took and leaned against the counter.
“We will leave you to clean this up,” he said. “Yes?”
Tilda cleared her throat. “Yes.”
Andrew tapped two fingers to his temple in salute. “Good talk. Let’s go,” he said, tugging Aaron behind him. “We’re finished here.”