The awkward atmosphere at the dinner table was like thick fog. My father cleared his throat and made some excuse of checking in on the chef. My sheepish mother answered a phone, that never rung. And Maisie was in a dreamlike trance, until whatever demanded her attention became to topic of conversation.

“Kira. Do some of that oriii...gum thing and make me a bird.”

“Maisie, you know-“

“Since all we have is white paper, why not make me a dove.”

I stole a glance from Mrs. Rosebud. Her eyes were rolling around like two big golf balls in a washing machine. And the sight of me beginning to fold the paper must have been so brain numbing or uncomfortable to watch she took admiration from her reflection in a silver spoon. Pretty accurate reflection, as that’s what she was; a spoon with a red bob.

Maisie’s eyes were like candlewicks until now, but as I presented the bird, her eyes flickered with flames. She reached her hands out.

“No Maisie. You know I don’t make origami for gifts!”

“Folding paper isn’t a talent darling,” Mrs. Rosebud chastised. Her eyes darted around the table and she swiped up the invitation card. With her feeble fingers, she gradually folded the paper in an elegant fashion. She occasionally raised her head until her eyes connect with mine. Words were not spoken, but her eyes signalled, “anybody can fold paper into shapes.” I was a dog shit to her.

Awkward moments passed on by, until she finally elevated a paper aeroplane in a glorified manner. “Now darling, do make yourself useful now,” she soaked me with pity but then her last words crossed the line;

“Go fetch.”

She javelined the paper plane like a retired Olympic reject. My eyes followed it until it landed into the cat litter tray. I twisted my head back round like the exorcist in that movie- that my parents have never let me watch- but in fast motion. But before I could react my parents both returned to the table and dinner resumed.

After a while it was finally all over. Both my parents did their courtesies. But none of it was real. I approached her in a timid manner; the persona both my parents were used to.

“Here Mrs. Rosebud. Please take what I made for you earlier.”

She must have bit her tongue before wrinkling a weak smile. I hope it draws blood. In her behaved manner, she patted me on the head and bid her farewells, before finally forcibly obliged and took my origami present.

She clicked open the door of her Mercedes Benz. My eyes hovered slightly above to see a white dove perched on the gutter of my neighbours house. I looked at Mrs. Rosebud, looked at the dove, back and forth, again, again and again.

I nodded. The dove dived in a scythe like motion. Mrs. Rosebud fell onto the cobblestone driveway. And white turned to red.

NOTE: Sorry, not my best.