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Clay packs his bag on autopilot, moving without a single thought in his head like he's driving or something else that's he's so used to doing, he barely needs to put his mind to it. Bloberta walks in in the middle of him packing to silently ask what he's doing and then verbally ask where he's going and instead of telling her "away from you", he says the truth:
"I don't know yet."
He really doesn't. All he manages to do is pack a few clothes, underwear and basic stuff he could take anywhere for any reason. Clay does his best not to look at her while he's finishing, ignores her empty eyes and tightly pressed lips. He doesn't even take the damn car the way he should. All he does is walk aimlessly through Moralton, clutching his bag.
Honestly, he feels like a child that got separated from his parents in a public place and is now fearfully walking around in hopes to find them. Only he's a grown man and he knows he won't find his mommy here. Won't find her anywhere. Because he killed her. And that's the thought that has him finding a sense of direction.
When he packed his things, he only took the essentials: clothes, toothbrush, his pajamas and his good ol' Gunny. If he thinks too hard about what he was thinking about doing when he grabbed it, he would go insane so he doesn't think. Instead, he makes his way to the bus station and takes the first bus he can find to Sinville.
His face is glued to the glass on the bus window as he passes the houses and gets closer and closer to where he's headed, where he very much does not want to be. Closer to someone he really doesn't want to see. Everything feels so far away from him and all he can think is other people's words echoing back to him.
Couldn't that be because it never felt like a home in the first place?
I want a divorce.
Are you okay, dad?
Why would I be on the side of a self-destructive alcoholic?
You're not even worth it.
And that last one is the one that sticks with him. The one that has stuck with him since he first heard it, echoing through his head as he tried his best to be worth something to someone. Raise your hand and hit me, he asks inside his own mind, voice trembling like a child's, please hit me. Please, God, treat me like I'm worth something.
He's not. He knows he isn't and that's what he's thinking even as he knocks on the door and listens to sounds of the animals that should be sleeping. It's late. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that it was late when Orel came in his study to ask him questions that led him nowhere but deeper into the hole he digged for himself.
It must be early now, not late. But it feels late to Clay. It was late when he told Orel to go to bed after destroying all his precious alcoholic beverages in a fit of rage and it took a while to get to Sinville, that means it must be even later now. And distantly, he can hear the birds chirp and he can see the rays of light in the sky but he can't quite get it.
In his head, it's late but for the man he's here to see it must be early because he answers the door soon after Clay knocks and he doesn't seem to be sleepy or tired at all. He looks ready to face the day but it doesn't feel like it's a day for Clay, to him it's still yesterday. It's still last night. So he stares at the old man in front of him. At his dad.
"Clay... I didn't... expect you here any time soon," he says, seemingly stunned.
Clay takes one look at him. At how calm and collected he is, how peaceful his life seems to be without Clay in it. He wants to ruin that. He could never look at his father and not want to ruin his peace, turn his day into a bad one, make him pay for just existing and being somehow responsible for a horrible thing like Clay being brought into this world.
"What if mom left you?"
His dad's eyes go wide, "What?"
"What if mom left you? What if, instead of me killing her, taking her away from you-"
"Clay, I don't think-"
He doesn't care what his dad thinks.
"She actually just left you? I mean, Lord knows she didn't really give a shit about you. Why were you two even together? It was so obvious she couldn't care less about you."
He takes one step closer, daring his dad to do something about it. Challenging him to care enough to do something, anything.
"Listen here-"
"What if she left you, huh? What would you do then?" he asks, not entirely trying to be mean, part of him really wants to know the answer.
His dad doesn't seem too affected, his face is entirely unreadable to Clay. He looks constipated, his eyebrows drawn together and his forehead wrinkling in a weird way.
"Clay, hey, what is this about? Why are-"
"Would you still find a way to blame me for it?" he asks, knowing it's a hypothetical question. "Because God knows you're good at that."
"Is something going on? Is that it?"
"I mean, at one point you'd have to stop blaming me and start blaming yourself, right? Because it would be your fault. Not mine. That your wife doesn't think it's worth trying to make it work with you anymore. Even though she's the one who wanted this in the first place, the indecisive bitch."
He's rambling. He knows he's rambling but he can't help himself, it's been years since he last spoke with his father and now it's all pouring out like a leaking faucet dripping water, drip, drip, drip and soon it will flood the entire place. They'll drown in it. He hopes they do, he hopes they drown and that there's no sign of land, nothing to hold onto.
Clay hopes they choke on his words and die.
"And how is that fair? That she can just look at you one day and decide that it's not worth it. That you're not worth it! As if you didn't hear that enough already. What does that say about you then?"
His father tries to touch him, his hands coming closer and looking like they're going to wrap around his neck, choke the life out of him. He welcomes it.
"That you... you killed your mom."
Arthur shakes his head, "Oh no, son."
"A-And you killed your marriage, you killed your family, you killed everything you ever had because that's what you do," he laughs, something that comes from his chest and comes out more like a sob than anything else. "That's all you're good for. You just kill and ruin things and you're, you're, you're..."
"Clay," his dad gets close again and this time he manages to gently grip his forearms. "That's enough. Calm down."
"How would you feel then?" someone says and it might be him, it's his voice but it feels like it's coming from somewhere else. "If m-mom left you?"
He tries to breathe. Mostly because it feels like he just ran a marathon and he can only imagine what he looks like now, in front of his dad who he hasn't seen in five years. Sweating, spurting nonsense and looking like he came here running from the police or something. God, he must look absolutely insane. Like he ran away from an asylum.
"I would ask her to explain to me what's going on. Over coffee or something," Arthur Puppington says, looking less distressed now. "Do you like coffee, Clay?"
Clay has no idea why he's here. He nods slowly. He has nothing against coffee, he can drink it. Not like he has anything he actually likes to drink. He got rid of that last night. His body still moves like he's being controlled by someone else, like a puppet with no strings as he walks to the kitchen with his father. He feels like a mess, probably looks like one too.
"Sit down, son."
He wants to ask why his dad is being so nice to him all of a sudden but he gives him a break. It's obvious he doesn't actually care about Clay, otherwise he would have interrupted his earlier rant with a swift smack to his face. Enough to make his cheek burn. Of course, he didn't. Because Clay's not worth it. He never was. Never will be.
They don't talk while his dad makes the coffee and Clay is almost getting sober enough to consider going back home. The idea of facing Bloberta after making such a big deal of leaving when he talked to her feels wrong, though. Feels like losing. He can imagine her smirking as he walks through the front door, the way she'd mock him for being predictable.
"Bloberta asked for a divorce," he whispers like he's afraid to let the room know.
"Right. I figured something like that must have happened."
His dad puts a coffee mug in front of him and sits next to him on the table, far too close to make any sense. Clay takes the mug and avoids looking at his own reflection in the dark, hot liquid. He enjoys the pain of holding the mug while it's still so hot, the nerves on his hand screaming at him to let go. He blows on it a bit to make it cool down.
"Try to look on the bright side of things, Clay," Arthur suggests. "I know it doesn't feel like it now but this can actually be a really good thing for you."
A really good thing. For him. To be thrown away by his wife like a toy she doesn't want anymore. God, how could he think going to his father would ever be a good idea? He can't even hurt him like he used to anymore, it's pointless. Clay knows that he shouldn't be ungrateful for the kindness his dad is showing him but he can't handle it.
He can't bear to watch him pretend to care for him much longer.
"I see now why mom thought she had to die to get away from you."
He closes his eyes instinctively, patiently waiting for the blow to his face. Nothing happens and he's left swallowing a lump on his throat as he tries to deal with the fact that he will never get his dad to care for him like he once did. There will be no more punishment. No more pain. No more love. Because he doesn't deserve any. He's not worth it.
"Clay," his dad says and he almost sounds like he did back then, angry enough to care.
But not quite.
"Do you... want me to hit you?"
Clay doesn't say anything. He stays very quiet and sips his coffee, ignoring the way it burns his tongue in warning that it's still too hot to drink. He doesn't look at his dad, doesn't need to see the usual disappointment he knows he'll find on his face. Arthur lets out a long sigh, like he used to when Clay and his mom were being particularly difficult.
Nearly everytime they chastised him for using the lord's name in vain. God, if he was his dad he'd hate him too.
"I should never have made it seem like it was your fault your mom died," his dad says and Clay can't help but look up at him, confused.
"Well," he says, with a bitter laugh. "I should never have killed her."
"You were just a kid."
"I was twelve. I should've known better."
He knows that now because he has a son his age. He thinks. Orel might actually be younger. He doesn't quite remember.
"Your mom always babied you too much but that doesn't mean I should've treated you like that," his dad says, sounding almost horrified at his own actions. "It wasn't fair."
Clay wants to say that it was more than fair. That he would have done much worse, say much worse to his son if he was in his dad's position. If he killed the woman he loved over a stupid prank. Except Clay doesn't love Orel's mom at all. He tries, not to love Bloberta but to at least tolerate her but it doesn't pay off. Would he actually care if she died?
"Maybe it's for the best," he mumbles to himself.
"What?"
Clay rolls his eyes, "I mean I ruined your family. It was only a matter of time before I ruined mine, too. If you could even call that a family. Two people who can barely tolerate each other, some other man's kid and... Orel."
That seems to catch his father's attention because of course he cares about Orel more than he cares about him.
"Orel?"
"Yes, Orel. You should have heard him talking to me earlier. Going on and on about how nothing made sense and how it didn't feel like nothing changed."
His dad nods once, looking very serious all of a sudden.
"You need to keep an eye on that boy, Clay. For his own good. Orel is too naive, too willing to take other people's word and run with it like it's set in stone."
"Ah, don't worry," he waves a hand in the air, minimizing the issue. "Orel's fine. He messes up sometimes but... nothing that a little trip to my study won't fix."
His dad shoots him a worried look.
"Your... study?"
"Yeah, you know," Clay shakes his head for emphasis. "To lecture and spank him when he makes mistakes. So he can learn from them."
"That's not..."
The atmosphere in the kitchen becomes stagnant, Clay feels his mouth go dry as his dad lowers his head in what appears to be shame. He stares at him for minute, wondering how it all went wrong between the two of them. Wondering if there ever was a way that his mom's death could have brought them closer rather than drive them apart.
"This is my fault," the man who's Clay's father mutters, more to himself than to him. "I made you think violence equals love. I messed you up, didn't I, son?"
Clay thinks about it for a moment. Is it normal to expect being hit as a way to show that you're cared for? Is it normal to show your care to others by hitting them? Is it normal to hate yourself so much you need to be drunk all the time to avoid thinking too much about what a failure you turned out to be? And is it normal to find all these things normal?
To be used to them, like it's all the same. The usual routine. His stinking dead end job and his dead end marriage and the dead end life that will eventually lead him absolutely nowhere. Is that what life is meant to be like for everyone? Is there not even a possibility of being happy? Is there not a way to deviate from the norm? Start over?
But isn't that what he's doing now? Sure, it wasn't his choice, it was Bloberta's but by all means, things are going in a completely different direction. Orel was right when he said none of it feels different because they weren't allowing themselves to leave their comfort zone but is there a chance for things to really change?
Without Bloberta, without the farce that they created, their shattered illusion of a picture perfect family, can he actually find some form of living that doesn't feel like absolute hell? Something with a purpose. Is it possible for him to be more than just barely content with his life? He can tolerate the way he lives, sure, but is there a chance he can genuinely enjoy it?
Away from Bloberta he feels like this whole divorce thing is more real. With her, living in the same house as she was and eating the same food she always cooks it felt like Clay was in this neverending play that he's been starring on his whole life. Except now he doesn't have the paper with his lines that he can practice so he can do a decent job.
It felt like being stuck in the same position but completely devoid of any sound. Mute. Silenced. Like going on stage to sing the same song you've been singing for twenty years but you don't have the lyrics anymore and you're out of key and the instrumental is all wrong. That's what it felt like and that's why he had to leave.
"You did," he finally answers his dad, after taking so long he probably forgot what he even said. "You really did."
His dad really messed him up and then he went and messed Orel up. Clay can't help but wonder if he's already messed up, if there's anything he can do to undo the damage he's done to his son. His son who flinched away from his touch like his skin was burning up. Who stood in horrified silence and watched Clay yell at a bunch of alcohol bottles that he threw on the floor.
If he had tried putting those bottles back together, it'd be impossible. Some of the pieces are too small to be put back together and even if he finds every last piece of glass, it won't ever be the same as it was. He wonders if it's the same with Orel. If he broke him in a hundred tiny little pieces and now he can't put him back together anymore.
Clay wonders if his dad did that to him, too.
"Is it too late?" his dad asks, a question Clay himself probably needs an answer to. "To fix any of it?"
But Clay has an entirely different doubt on his mind.
"Is it even worth it?"
It doesn't take a genius to figure out what he's really asking. His dad smiles, small and slightly sad. He puts his hand on Clay's shoulder and Clay doesn't flinch away from the touch, gazes up at him.
"Of course it is, son."
Clay doesn't quite believe him. But he wants to and that might just be enough.