Bob sat in his bed and read , while trying to tune out his mother's shouting in the living room. It really was inconsiderate of Mother to make so much noise, especially when her firstborn was ill and needed peace and quiet to recuperate. Though Mother eventually quieted down, Bob still couldn't get any peace. Cecil came into the bedroom with tears in his eyes and smudged make-up on his face, and Bob resigned himself to having to comfort him, or at least try to do so. It was just an obligatory brotherly duty.
"What was Mother shouting about?" Bob asked hoarsely, ignoring the pain in his sore throat.
"I was only practicing how to put on clown make-up," Cecil said with a pout. He rubbed his streaked, rouged cheek and sniffled.
"I did warn you not to use Mother's cosmetic set without asking for permission," Bob said.
Cecil sniffled again. "Why does Mummy have to get so...furious all the time?"
Cecil's nose started to run, and a repulsed Bob handed his tissue box over to his brother.
"That's just how she is, Cecil. There's no way to change her, nor is there a good way to understand how she thinks."
Actually, Bob did sort of understand. His mother could be quite dramatic, even off the stage. Her tendency to feel emotions in extremes could at times serve her well on the stage, but never in real life. His mother's fury could be an especially destructive force, leaving behind shattered feelings (and on occasion, shattered objects) in its wake.
Cecil pouted and said, "Is there any way to stop Mummy from getting upset?"
"She can usually do a decent job of that on her own," Bob said, thinking of how his mother had once described composure to him when he was little. "We just need to aspire not to be too temperamental."
Bob would think back to this sometimes. Perhaps his attempts to keep his temper at bay only made it worse when it did surface. That might explain his vindictive streak. Really, Bob's desire for vengeance was really his own fault, but it felt easier to blame others.