Amson, 18, "Father"

Having paced around my room thoroughly, I clasped a lone action figure that lie on my desk, clad in a noble, grey armor. I was left alone, my Dad speaking with Ty within he and my mother's bedroom.

Minutes seemed suspended at the time, along with any comfort I might derive from the familiarity of my room, and knowing my mom was probably going to wake from the commotion, there sat a knot in my stomach, lingering as I attempted to remove myself from that painful reality.

It was likely my Dad was arranging a way to bring Tyriq home, though through the dead of night and in the midst of a, now full-throttle, thunderstorm.

The clock rang at 10 o'clock, PM, and the more I imagined the ticking of a conventional clock, the more anxious I inevitably became. There was no dodging at this stage: I'd arrived home without my bike, riding along the back of, for all he knew, some random kid's skateboard in an awfully embarrassing and odd manner for any father to bare witness to, I'd imagine.

I could hardly blame him for any shame that might befall me once I left this room. 

Ultimately, I did not fear any physical punishment but what lie behind what I could perceive. My Dad was never quick to anger. In fact, it was usually the opposite. He and my Mom were passive people, and though my Mom might turn passive-aggressive when tried or tested, my Dad remained at a medium.

He had that form of stoicism to him.

Yet I couldn't lie and say I couldn't sense when he was upset. Most of the times I'd seen that side of him were pre-Highschool, within the era of the Goliath. Thinking back on that, now, I hated that feeling, sensing not only his disappointment but his resentment for my punishers, no matter how justified.

Though he knew my actions were inexcusable, he found room within his heart to trust me, and in my immature youth, I often betrayed that unconditional trust. I couldn't help but feel that I was in those same, busted shoes, retracing a life that I tried so hard to escape, the reputation of an apathetic, tyrant, punk. 

'Loitering around my room is doing fuck-all for me...' I sighed, shaking my head free of my spiraling thoughts.

I finally let go of that firm figure, retracing my steps to the opposite end of the room, my reflection passing along the black television's surface. I sat at the edge of the bed I usually slept on, my eyes avoiding the light of the lamp along my desk. On that same desk sat a honeybun, something I'd left for myself nights-upon-nights before. 

I never was one to eat when nervous, but I thought, maybe, it'd ease my upset stomach. 

As I reached, the door to my room creaked open, and I retracted my reach for the honeybun, Ty's head peeking through. By the look on his face, I could hardly restrain my guilt. 

"W-What did he say?" I asked, near preemptively. 

"He... didn't say much." Ty said, keeping the door open behind him. "He called my parents and told them where I'll be for the night."

"You're sleeping over?" I raised my eyes to him, mildly surprised. 

It'd been a while since I had any friend sleep in my house. Maybe, in a different context, I'd be excited. 

"Can't see much else your Dad'd allow me to do..." Ty paused, his eyes avoiding me for a moment. "You've got good people behind you, as I thought."

I didn't respond, lifting myself from my bed-- knowing what I had to do without him needing to say a word. Yet, as I walked past him, nearly along the bounds of the room's space, Ty whispered to me, striking and shaking my consciousness. 

"They don't know, do they?" He mumbled, nearly a statement rather than a question. "When will you tell them?"

I stopped for a moment, but I eventually got my legs moving again, through the dark hallway and into my parent's master bedroom.

///

I felt cramped in that room, trapped within the chambers of my own mind. The lights were on, the fan was on, and on that king-sized bed, I sat, disassociated. Their ceiling fan released an unending whistle, creaking with each revolution, and outside, I could hear the constant chatter of rain, seldom interrupted by crashes with following explosions of light. 

All this, paired with the restless prattle within my own mind, made the situation unlivable, numbing my senses and jumbling those already indiscernible thoughts. 

I sat before my father, legs tied and reserved within my own space on that bed, and my Dad sat less confidently than he usually had. Mom, much to my surprise, was still asleep on the bed, resting gently despite the noise of the room around us.

Knowing she wouldn't have to bare witness to this conversation halted the churning in my stomach, but the uncertainty behind what my Dad might say kept me on edge and largely frightened. 

I felt that he could sense my unease, even as he seemed uneasy himself. 

"Amson..." He started. "Before I say anything regarding tonight, I'd like to make it known to you how proud I've been of you lately-- Not lately... for the past few years, I'd say."

I watched as my father spoke confidently, yet in that vulnerable state, his body language still showed otherwise. His legs were uncomfortably placed beneath his body, his feet dangling off the opposite edge of the bed from where I sat, where Mom also slept. 

I felt more comfort being near her, and the proximity to her didn't seem to bother either of them. 

"Before enrolling you into high school, I was unsure of the direction you were headed, and admittedly, I'd become fearful of the man you might become." He explained. "You were rowdy, edged, and if you weren't in trouble, you made it. Or, at least, that's how it seemed."

Dad adjusted his posture and stance, making an effort to sit more contently than at the beginning of the conversation, though I hadn't said a word yet. I felt it wise to listen to him; I don't recall any time I'd heard him speak with such breadth nor emotion, but it was to my benefit that I listened. 

If there was ever a time to do it, it was then. 

It was actually more refreshing, hearing him speak-- and so long-winded too. It validified the words he spoke, and though I'd have no reason not to trust his words, seeing his humanity was something I seldom saw. Still, he found trouble looking me in the eyes, as I did his. 

It seemed the both of us withheld something from one another. I just couldn't imagine what might be catching my reserved father's tongue. 

"In the early stages of raising you, I was afraid-- afraid of the impact my words might have on you." He continued. "I distanced myself from you, through my own doing, yet when I'd heard that you were causing trouble at school, I became angry with myself, thinking things that I'd never let show to you, my only son."

I'd never resented my father, no matter how silent he had been. Nor did I blame him for my actions at that stage in my life, making the revelation strange to me. I'd never seen it from that perspective, but hearing it from him made me think in a way I seldom did, through another person's shoes. 

I couldn't have been so sure of it at the time, but I felt that moment of empathy had nudged me. To where, I do not know. 

"I'd spoken with your sister, at such a young age that I thought I was merely validating my own feelings... yet she opened my eyes to the struggles you likely went through." He paused, as if swallowing his self-pity. "You were like that... you wanted to be feared because you lacked that connection with me, and I'll say it now. I'm sorry, Amson."

I froze, the words themselves sending my mind into a sporadic fit. 

"You were angry because of me, made enemies because of me... and felt the need to hide things because of me." He shook his head, uncertain of his words. "...From the people who'd, had it been within their power, would never see you hurting, inside or out."

"D-Dad--" I finally uttered.

"I remember... that day, the day I'd actually-- finally sat down and spoken with you." He interrupted me. "You were estranged by me, yet once I'd let lie my mind-- the things I'd felt to you, I felt you'd changed... And this is the first time we've spoken like this since then."

He sighed, stretching as if relieved from the strain of those words. I had no recollection of speaking with him, in this manner, before this moment.

"I'm sure you remember, so I won't keep the conversation here. From there, you went off to highschool, and, after some time, it'd become evident, the effort you were putting into not only yourself but the connections you made." He began to smile as he spoke. "I'd heard you'd become popular, but you still held a reputation from the things you'd done in your more youthful, ignorant years... Yet still, I couldn't say anything more than how proud I was of the man you'd become."

His body turned to me, finally facing me head on. He didn't look into my eyes yet, but seeing him resign all reservation to me reminded me of what I'd done to him, the pain of my guilt ensuing. In this room... since that time, I hadn't grown at all. I'd remained that same, childish boy-- no man-- led by fantasies and other people's beliefs of who he should be.

I adopted a mask in order to remain lovable to my friends and family, lying to them for all this time just to spare myself the consequences that I'd laid out for myself. I owed it to him to at least tell him the truth, but I just couldn't bring myself. I couldn't even resign my mask around him-- I couldn't even mutter a simple apology for the troubles and terrors I'd brought him.

I was weak, weak of body and weak of mind. 

"However, I say this with no further prelude..." He looked me in the eye. "I'm disappointed with the decisions you've made today."