Man in the moon
"Roger?" he gave no response, just staring off into space. "Roger," he repeated, louder.
The young man shook his head, "Yeah?"
"Where do you go when you do that?"
"Somewhere else, what did you want?"
"Oh, mum says we have to set the table."
"That sounds about right."
"Let's get to it then, ok?"
"Yeah," Roger stands up and follows his brother into the dining room.
The table is set, their mother puts down some food and sits down at the head of the table, their father was not coming home for dinner tonight. "So, how were your days?" she asked them, as she always did.
"I probably got distracted at some point at school, if I went today," Roger replied, not touching the food, not that he usually did.
"My day was fine," his brother said, liberally helping himself to the food. The brothers seemed to make up for each other, with food anyway, their mother thought to herself.
"How was your day..." Roger trailed of, his mother only replied because she was the only person at the table who hadn't told them already.
"Well, my day was alright, noting too stressful at work."
"It is just a shame that home makes up for it," Roger said, his family looked at him strangely. Roger grabbed the carving knife out of the roast that their mother had left in the oven today.
"What are you doing Roger?" their mother asked.
"Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt anyone," he smiled at them and got up, taking the carving knife as he headed for the front door.
"That was weird," Roger's brother said, shrugging his shoulders. "But he did say he wouldn't hurt anyone, so it will be fine."
"I suppose you are right," she said as her second son started helping himself to more food, eventually resorting to just using his own knife, Roger had the carving knife. She looked down the hallway once more, but then decided it was just more of the weird stuff that Roger did.
Nothing happened and their mother started eating, methodically cleaning her plate of food, the opposite of her husband and her second son, like Roger, when he had eaten.
There was a thump at the door, their mother started in her seat, there was another thud and she stood up, the door smashed open on the third impact, and the woman ran into the hall, to see a man in a balaclava stopped inside the door.
Roger held a knife to his throat, like he had been standing there, waiting for him.
"What are you doing, friend?" the man asked, his voice was deep and husky, and very afraid.
"Would you kindly drop your gun, friend," Roger instructed, using exactly the same inflection as the man in the doorway, only less scared.
"Of course, friend," the man pulled out a gun from his back pocket, and dropped it on the ground. "Anything else?" he asked.
"Not for you, friend, just stay still," he turned his gaze on his mother, it was focused and complete, solid somehow. "Mother, would you kindly call the police?"
His mother scurried away to the phone, his brother was leaning back on his chair, looking down the hall. "What is going on there, Roger?"
"Nothing really, just go back to eating, brother."
"Fine by me."