Amson, 18, "The Walk of Life"

"Do you understand why I'm telling you this, son?" Dad muttered, trying to keep quiet. "Do you, at least, understand where I'm coming from?"

Dad and I sat on Lore's bed, rustling from her giant animal enclosure underscoring my Dad's speech. The snake moved freely underneath our dangling feet, while the tarantula lie motionless within it's terrarium, its eight eyes locked onto the bed where we sat. It was a lonely scene, despite their presence, and I was not exempt from its audience. 

As a matter of fact, I was the spotlight.

Dad sat at the foot of the bed, while I sat at the head, my underside comforted by Lore's disorderly assortment of pillows and plushies, and in contrast to my parent's room, the light was dim, a dying bulb keeping us from being within darkness. 

The wind accompanied us with its sound, however, whistling outside the room's lone window, a small, rectangular window above Lore's terrarium. It was what we usually used to feed Lore's overgrown bug, bringing it corpses we might or might not find within our backyard.

In retrospect, those were more of a treat to her usual meals, that being a feast consisting of the assortment of roaches and other pests that might've been entangled within her web. 

"Will you speak to me?" Dad pleaded, wrapping his hands together. "Just tell me what's going on so I can hel--"

"No... You've helped enough, Dad." I told him, sinking back into my side of the space. "Can you leave me alone?"

"You know I can't do that after what you just showed me in there. Besides, I'd be doing the same thing I've been doing for years if I did."

He took a deep breath, in and out, before speaking, his eyes locked onto mine. 

"I bet you hardly remember the times I spoke with you at such a young age, the times I didn't drag you into a room with me but tried to casually speak with you." He started. "They ended the same way, with you asking to be left alone with yourself, but we both see what my neglect for your feelings has done to you. I thought you were content. You wanted to think and do for yourself, but this is where I step in, son, whether you'd like me to or not. This is something I should have done a long time ago."

He glanced downward but, with a look of confidence, forced his eyes back toward mine, though I couldn't find the will to reciprocate. Even still, he seemed determined to tell me with his eyes, but through his voice, I could catch that hint of uncertainty, of regret. 

"Throughout my youth, I had been taught how to be a man-- be a proper man. I was told to be strong, strong in both mind and body. I was told to look the part of a man, to dress in cotton and denim-- the attire of an American, country dream. And I was told to withhold my emotions, for a woman would pour hers before me."

I sighed, scratching at my head in irritation. I didn't know what to make of the things he was saying to me, but I knew what he was saying was important. I just didn't want to listen, to make sense of the powerful things he was trying to preach to me.

I didn't know why, but I held onto this reserved demeanor, as if it were going to protect me from the truth that I'd made for myself. But I knew, eventually, the mask would shatter, for it had already cracked. 

"I grew up feared by my peers, but around me, I'd accumulated a small group of those I considered friends, people I thought I might die for in my youth." He continued. "But eventually, I realized that wasn't the point-- that wasn't the point of friendship. Friends were to be confided in, content in, and above all, trusted in, and eventually, through my selfish nature, I destroyed every last bit of it."

His eyes avoided me for a moment before turning back to me.

"I met your mother in college, a foreign place where no one knew who I was or what I'd done. She was different than what I was taught women should be. She thought for herself, worked for herself, and was strong willed... To this day, I've never once seen her cry. My eye was caught by her allure, but of course, in my ignorance, she wouldn't give me the time of day."

His hand reached to his head, the bass of his voice coming from a place of deep regret. I couldn't help but feel the tension within each syllable as he laid out his past, forcing all of his sins into the open. Yet, in my stubborn fit, I tried my best to ignore, though his words surely caught me. 

They were the same things I'd been feeling, the same things I'd been doing, and looking upon him now, I understood that he was in an unbelievable emotional pain, an understandable pain. I was sure that he thought he'd merely retraced the steps of his father, out of his fear of doing just so. I reflected for a moment, looking down toward the fabric of Lore's comforter, but I couldn't let go of that feeling, a feeling that everything that I was doing was justified, that my anger was justified, and the fruit of my strife likely so. 

Why couldn't I realize that what he was trying to say would save my life?

"It took me too long to realize I was away from my father's influence, but when I had, I blossomed in a new fashion. I was more than just free; I was reborn. I rebuilt myself into someone that your mother might just marry, and eventually we had our first child, a girl who would eventually become a woman."

I shook my head, sighing, yet Dad continued laying out his heart to me.

"Your mother was already sure of how she wanted your sister, Lorelai, to grow, so I stayed my hand for her early years, within your mother's shadow... But when you were born, I was both ecstatic and fearful of you. I was fearful of tainting you, doing unto you what my father had instilled in me, maybe not intentionally but out of instinct. I was so afraid that I took that relationship away from you, so I will say this again, I am sorry."

"What is the point of telling me your life's story, Dad?" I said, groaning. "I-I don't care..."

Dad took a deep breath, in and out, and as he spoke, he relieved the weight of his exhale. It was apparent his patience had just about gone, especially after saying all of that to me. He looked me dead in the eye as he breathed his words.

"Then what do you care about, Amson?" He asked, frighteningly annoyed. 

I turned my head away from him, more unsure of my words than I'd ever been in my life. 

"My bike..." I muttered. "I care about my bike."

He stared at me, the expression on his face unmoving for a moment. Eventually he grabbed at his face, pulling his head away from me and looking around the room. It wasn't evident to me at the time, but it should have been obvious that Dad had been restraining himself, holding back his anger for that moment. He squirmed in a painful silence, but eventually, his silent fight was over.

"Forget about the damn bike, Amson!" Dad yelled. "You'll find NO ONE gives a damn about this fucking bike, man! Are you kidding me right now?! I-- I'll say it, son. I don't think this has a damn FUCKING thing to do with this bike at all. You're worried about your pride, that you couldn't stop this mangey thug from taking your shit from you."

I recoiled from his sudden outburst, my heart sinking from the strength behind his powerful agitation. He continued to press me with wrath in his eyes, but through it, I could sense a desperation within him, as if he'd run out of options.

"W-Well, how would you know?!" I tried, swallowing as my stomach sank.

"I know because I've lived it, son. Were you listening to a single word that came from my goddamn mouth?! What, do you think I've just sat on a rock for fifty-on years?! Be real with yourself, you're not fucking stupid! I know you, Amson. I know every lick of what you're going through! You just won't believe a word I say because -- guess what-- you're so fucking full of yourself!"

He was on the verge of laughing within his anger, demeaning yet still heartfelt and justified. I'd made myself into a fool to be laughed at through my own words and actions.

"I wish every time something wrong happened to me I could just fucking breakdown, blame anyone but myself for the shit I did wrong, but that isn't how the world works, son! I'd be the first to tell you all of the shit that's gone wrong in my fucking life, but you won't waste a fucking second to listen before jerking yourself for forgiveness. What do you-- Do you think your mother and I are stupid, Amson?!"

"No!" I yelled.

Eventually, he'd begun speaking with a melancholy following his fury, dancing along his tangled tongue as he looked me into the eyes and I into his.

"Then, what, Amson?" Dad threw his hands to his sides, tears streaming from his eyes. "What is it? What do I have to tell you for you to get over yourself. My problem has nothing to do with anything other than that you'd rather lie than tell me OR your mother what you're going through so that we can help."

He groaned, followed by a taper to his anger. It looked like he'd been drained of energy from that one burst of passion, as if every fiber of his being had been strained in order to get through to whatever was holding me back from his words. 

"You don't have to tell me a damn thing, Amson, but your mother... She's done too much for you for you to treat her like this. Don't you think she deserves to know what's going on inside your head?"

I didn't answer; I couldn't. I had no idea how to properly respond, and when my mind gathered the courage, my body didn't have the strength. I was stricken with a fear I'd never felt before; my dad had never shown me like emotion throughout my entire life.

I could've never imagined a feeling such as that.

I wasn't fearful of my father: I knew he'd never put his hands on me in whatever case I'd gotten myself into… At least in a manner that'd constitute this sort of paralysis. It was as if he'd struck me unconscious, yet there I stood, conscious and trapped within my own, frozen form.

Dad took a second glance at me, fear littered along my expression, and with a sigh, he brought his hand to his face, hiding his eyes from me.

"Is this what it's come to?" He shook his head. "Do I really have to yell at you for you to listen to me?"

I hesitated, but I was met with another burst of sound, this time demanding my response.

"Amson!" He declared.

"N-no, no you don't." I answered.

"Then what have I been talking myself to breaking for?" He lowered his hand from his eyes, showing his tired, long face. "Will you answer me truthfully, just this once, son? I bet you haven't even thought about it yet, but you're an adult, Amson. It's about time you spoke for yourself, not anyone else. What does Amson Grinner, eighteen years old, have to say?"

He looked at me, awaiting my response, and I'd have imagined he'd remain with that same expression until he received what he'd earned, the truth. Yet still, there I sat, struggling with myself in order to allow the words to pass. I groaned, struggling within myself to tell him, but it was so hard, like pushing a boulder up a hill. 

Why was it so hard? What would it take for me to let go of whatever was holding me back?

I took a deep breath, gathering my strength, even as my will lagged behind. I looked at my father, his eyes unabating, and thought of my other family, my mother, my sister. I thought of the words Lore spoke in the backyard, on my birthday, worried about me.

I sighed, relieving myself of the tension holding my shoulders captive. 

All this time, all these things that have happened, yet I remained the same boy, trapped within my own head for years. All of that for what? Because people might look at me funny for trying to make friends. Thinking back on it, it was silly, childish, and selfish. And yet, my friends still stuck with me. My family still believed in me, even when I told them nothing.

And so-what about Nicky... I doubt I'd ever see that bitch again. Why did I let those things control me... Why did I try to end my own life, without any regard for my family or friends that'd supported me and dragged me through life when I should've been walking it myself? All that time I'd been so pitiful for nothing, because it felt convenient upon a whim. I tried to blame shadows before I'd blame myself... 

I needed to tell him, I needed to get these things off of my chest...

"I'm sorry, Dad." I finally said, tears falling softly from my eyes. "Someone stole my bike at the pit, and Tyriq saved me from myself. I was just so angry; I didn't care what happened to me. It was just… because the bike was mine. It was mine and I was arrogant. I thought I couldn't possibly be hurt, even as I looked at that gun, and I was selfish; I didn't care if anyone else'd gotten hurt."

I wiped my eyes, exhaling as I released the weight of my guilt off my chest.

"Ty is probably the only reason I'm still sitting here tonight." I sniffed. "I'm such a terrible friend... I could've gotten us all killed."

Dad pulled me into a hug, whispering into my ear with a proud tone.

"I respect any man who can own up to not only what they have done but what they could've, Amson." He assured me. "And any man that believes you should be anyone other than yourself is fooling themselves. I love you, Amson. That's why it pains me so much to hear your tightly kept insides out. I'm proud of you, Amson. I don't want anyone or anything to ever make you think otherwise, you hear me?"

I breathed deeply, trying to hold back my tears. 

"Y-Yes, sir." I sobbed. 

"I can remember each time my ignorance has hurt the ones I care about, but I don't want that for you, my only son. There's little room in a heart full of regrets." He told me, patting me firmly on the back. "Your anxiety can blind you, I know, but I believe you can overcome it given the time comes where you'll need to be strong. I need you to be ready to learn, to be wrong and not let it stifle your growth but nurture your evolution into a shining man, one not only your friends can be proud of, but you can be proud of."

Dad pushed me in front of him, looking into my eyes with a smile I'd remember until the day I died. 

"Learning is the walk of life, Amson." He grinned. "Where will your adult legs bring you?"