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18.0
“Mr Strider?”
The quiet voice stirs you from a sluggish, hazy sleep. At first you don't realize you’re the one being spoken to, no one's called you Mr Strider in years. The last time you can remember was when you were in school. You didn’t like it then. You don’t like it now.
The nurse hovers by your side, knees slightly bent so she’s closer down to your level but not quite crouching. She’s holding a folder and smiling a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Even in your half-asleep state you know you don’t like that look. Nausea begins to bubble in your empty stomach so you take a deep breath through your nose to try and settle it. The smell of the hospital assaults your senses instead and it makes you feel even more sick. Exhaling through your mouth, you think to check on the baby in the sling strapped to your chest. He’s fast asleep, thumb precariously hanging from his mouth as he drools all over your shirt. Not a scratch and none the wiser. You envy him.
A warm hand rests on your shoulder and it takes all your willpower not to jerk away from the touch. At least she had the decency to not jostle the broken one.
“Could you come with me please, Mr Strider?”
With a nod and a slow blink, you stand to follow her down the busy corridor. Sad and weary faces lift to watch you pass; you’re the most interesting thing to have happened for god knows how long. You suppose it’s not very often you see someone who looks like they’ve been through hell and back. Fresh bruising and cuts cover your upper body wherever it is uncovered by clothing, one arm trussed up in a sling and cast while the other tentatively supports a completely unscathed young baby. You idly wonder how long they’ve been waiting, and what for. All sense of time was lost as soon as you stepped inside the building, however long ago now that was.
After many twists and turns, the nurse seems to find her destination. As she turns the handle, she beckons you closer. Inside it’s plain, unassuming. Some kind of hospital equipment is bundled into a corner. There’s a crude painting of flowers on the wall that looks like it was done by a child. The light is harsh, bright white like every other light in the building that makes your eyes hurt and your head ache. Your eyes finally fall upon the bed in the middle of the room. A small plastic chair is carefully placed next to its side. There’s something, no- someone, on the bed. The constant beeps and cacophony around fades away as a high pitched whine starts to ring in your ears, setting your teeth on edge. A spark of pain shoots down your shoulder as your muscles tense.
You look at the nurse, who just watches you with commiseration. Despite nothing in your stomach, you feel like you’re going to throw up. She gestures for you to step inside but you can’t, your legs are refusing to move. The warmth of her hand in the middle of your back startles you enough that you jolt forward a few steps and you instinctively reach up to hold the baby tighter to your chest. You don't want him to wake, you’ve never been good at getting him to settle.
The nurse softly shuts the door behind you both as she steps closely, her hand light upon your uninjured arm. Her skin is hot against yours, almost painful.
“I’m so sorry, Mr Strider.”
You really wish she’d stop calling you that.
”Please take all the time you need. We are here to support you during this time, the hospital has a variety of bereavement services-“
The ringing drowns her out as your gaze lingers on the sheet. You take a half-step closer, wondering if you should look. Were you supposed to look? You glance back at the nurse, who is just prattling on while pulling out leaflets and forms from the folder. You wish you weren’t here.
“The police are also here, I believe they would like to ask you a few questions about the lead up to tonight’s unfortunate events.”
This isn’t real.
The room is stiflingly hot and you can't breathe properly, and do the lights have to be so goddamn bright? This isn’t happening. As you reach out to lift the starchy white sheet, there’s a knock at the door. It opens slightly and the nurse has a quiet conversation with whatever dickhead has decided to interrupt you. Don’t they understand what’s happening here? Your hand twitches the sheet aside just a fraction and you see familiar slender fingers with chipped pink nail varnish and your mind goes blank.
“Mr Strider!”
You don’t know what you’re doing, or where you’re going, but the high pitched ringing in your head is so loud you can’t think. You moved on instinct. You vaguely register pushing past the nurse and two others but you don't care. Every heavy thud of your sneakers resonates around your skull, threatening to split it apart as the ringing reaches a crescendo. You’re running, running back down the corridor as those sad and weary faces lift once more to watch you go. You don't stop until you're deep into the hospital car park, breaths coming quick and shallow as the darkness of the night envelops you. There’s no one around except you, and-
The ear-splitting shriek cuts through the mindfog as you’re brought back to your senses. You’d forgotten about the small human currently clinging onto you for dear life as he screams his tiny lungs out. His cries go straight through you so you try to soothe him, stroking his little tuft of blonde hair with an awkwardness and gentleness you’re not accustomed to giving. He settles down a little at your touch so you keep going. It’s freezing outside, but your skin burns hot and sweaty, sucking in each shuddering breath that does nothing to ease the growing panic inside you.
”It’s okay…it’s okay. Shh. ”
You murmur, unsure if you’re really talking to him or yourself. You feel like the world has pulled the rug out from under your feet and you slump against the nearest car, letting gravity slide you down until you’re sat on the cold tarmac. The crisp, clean night air settles your stomach just a little and it's a small mercy. Your arm aches terribly, each pulse of your heartbeat sending agonizing pain up and down it. You’d like to think that its distracting you from the situation, but all the pain is doing is reminding you how well and truly fucked you are. You can hear people calling your name off in the distance but you don’t move. The wailing continues as you feebly rock back and forth, holding him close as he screams into your damp shirt. You don’t blame him. You want to do the same.
“I’m here, Dave. Dad-“
Your throat closes up.
”I'm here.”
19.1
Somehow, you make it work. You have to. You sold what little you had to move into the tiniest apartment you’ve ever seen in your life. The kitchen-slash-living area is just as you come through the front door, with the world's most redundant hallway with a bathroom (with no bath, just a shower) and a single bedroom off it that you could fit a bed in and not much else. But it was all yours.
You prioritize the bills every month and ensure that he's fed. You learn that his favorite food is apples cooked and pureed down into mush, but he absolutely detests parsnips. It’s all so new to you.
You drop a few pounds. More than a few. It wasn’t meant to be like this. You weren’t meant to be alone. It’s fine. You’re making it work.
Originally you had wanted the bedroom for yourself, somewhere you could have some privacy and peace. But it soon became apparent that wasn’t an option. The doctors said he was okay, he wasn’t in pain and he’d eventually grow out of it. But when the screaming became too much, you had sound-proofed the bedroom and closed the door. You didn’t know what else to do.
You made your own space in the living room. It wasn’t ideal, but you could work from your laptop, doing whatever you could find online to try and generate some income. The options were pretty grim.
You read every guide, article and website you can to try and make sure you know what you’re doing. It never seems to be enough. He settles the most when you hold him, his cries lowering to a quiet whine that's almost manageable. It still doesn’t feel right, or natural. You’re not sure if it ever will.
You half-expect a knock at the door to complain about the noise but it never comes.
Sometimes you hope someone will come and take him away from you.
But that knock never comes, either.
You haven’t slept properly in months. You feel like you’re losing your mind. You have a recurring dream where you find yourself standing on the roof of your complex, with Dave fast asleep in your arms. You’re looking down, the tips of your trainers peeking over the edge. All it’d take is one step...
You’re pretty sure it’s a dream because the kid isn’t crying.
Despite everything, you don’t think you could let someone take him now. You’re past the point of no return, you’ve given too much. In those rare moments where he’s exhausted himself from the incessant crying, cheeks red and blotchy and damp with sweat, you watch him. He’s like a miniature version of you, except for the eyes. It hurts inside in a way you can’t quite parse, but you know you’d never forgive yourself if you gave up now.
He’s all you have left.
22.4
“Daddy?”
You bolt upright, slamming your laptop shut as you twist on the futon, your heart rate spiking so drastically that you go a bit lightheaded. You had been so distracted you didn’t even hear his door open. Maybe it was time to invest in that lock.
“Jesus, Dave! Don’t fuc- don’t scare me like that.”
The small figure in the hallway shrinks back at your outburst. He was getting better at sneaking around, turns out the little fucker could be quiet when he wanted to be.
”’m sorry.” he mumbles, rubbing his eye with a chubby little fist that's gripping onto his favourite teddy like his life depended on it. In one of your moments of desperation you had given it to him in the hopes that he'd calm down. To both your relief and horror he’d taken a real shine to it. You used to be quite crafty with a sewing needle and some fabric; it was a burnt orange and hot pink patchwork bunny rabbit with a calligraphic “R” embroidered onto its stomach. It was one of the last things you’d ever made.
”It’s fine. Why are you up?”
“...scary dream.” he mumbles again, around the thumb that’s now in his mouth. You can’t get him to stop the habit.
You glance back at your laptop and then the tripod that’s set up on the low coffee table in front of you. “Can you go back to bed tonight, Dave? Please? ”
He says nothing, just looking at you with those big, watery eyes. He hiccups quietly. You deflate, knowing there’s little point trying to fight it. You’ve done this song and dance for a while now. Hastily you kick a few things under the futon to save any awkward questions and turn the camera off, throwing a blanket over it just to be sure. Shifting back into a sitting position, you beckon him over. He shuffles over, wearing one of your old t-shirts that hangs by his ankles. You tell yourself that when you have more cash, you’ll get him bedclothes that actually fit, instead of your old hand-me-downs. Another part of you knows that you’re lying, because he’ll grow out of anything you buy him now anyway. It’d be a waste. You lift him up, your shoulder twinging with a phantom pain that never properly went away, and settle him in the crook of your arm. He quickly settles in with a quiet, contented sigh, sucking on his thumb and hugging that rabbit close. You know you shouldn’t keep doing this, that you should make him sleep in his own bed and get him used to it, but when he doesn’t get his way his wail goes right through you so painfully it makes you want to break something. So you lie back, letting your head fall against the back of the futon as exhaustion seeps back into your bones.
As you’re starting to drift off, your mind starts to wander. Unable to stop it, the questions you have found yourself asking over and over for the past few years rise to the surface. It becomes harder to breathe as your chest tightens so you try to focus on the textured ceiling above you, shadowed and blurry in the dim light of your living room. It’s not helping. Dave saves you when his tiny, chubby fingers touch your cheek. You flinch slightly. His is the only human contact you’ve had in years.
“I love you Daddy.”
You don't say it back.
27.9
“Would you like to come in, Mr Strider?”
You stand, your back popping and aching as you take the opportunity to stretch a little. You had been in the middle of work when the school called.
“Could you stay out here for us please, Dave? We won’t be long. Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble. I just need to speak to your father.”
Your jaw clenches at that word, but you wipe it from your expression when she straightens and turns to face you with a sympathetic smile. You offer what you hope is one back. You don't think she buys it. From the bench outside the headmistress’s office Dave glances up at you, his expression a mix of guilt and terror. He looks away and you feel something uncomfortable gnaw at you from within. He’s become different lately. Quiet. Withdrawn.
The small bruise on his cheek doesn't look too bad, but it shows up something fierce against his pale skin. He looks a lot like you, from the few photos you’ve seen of yourself when you were younger. Except for the eyes. He has kinder eyes. Sometimes people joke that you could be brothers. You don’t find it funny.
“Please come in, take a seat,” You sit, wincing slightly as she rounds the desk and settles herself in front of you, hands clasped together upon the desk. Her expression hardens. “As you know, Dave was in an altercation with another student today.”
“Altercation?”
“A fight, Mr Strider.”
You try not to sneer. “Who was the other kid?”
“His friend, John Egbert. So you can understand why we’re a bit worried. Before today, these two boys were as thick as thieves.”
”Who started it?”
She sighed. “Neither of them will talk about what led up to it, all we know is that Dave bit John on the arm and John retaliated by hitting him. Now, I understand Dave has been having a little bit of trouble in the classroom as well lately, occasionally being disruptive to the other students.”
”Hm.”
She pauses and gives you a closer look. You try not to shift under her intense gaze as you fiddle with the Velcro strap on your gloves, fingerless and leather, worn as a special request from one of your clients. In the rush of leaving you had forgotten to take them off. Spotting a small stain upon them, you subtly try to rub it off without catching her attention.
”Please excuse me for bringing it up, but you’re a single father, is that correct?”
”Yes.”
Wherever this is going, you know you're not going to like it. You look out the window behind her and focus on the empty playground instead. A low ringing starts and you know it's not the school bell.
”And how old are you, may I ask?”
”27.”
“Is everything all right at home?”
“Yes.”
”If you needed help, with Dave, or anything, I’m sure we could find a support network or something that would be able to assist-“
”We’re fine.”
”I don’t doubt that you are, Mr Strider,” The name is enough to get you to look back at her again, irritation crawling its way under your skin. She’s giving you that same look they all do. You want to wipe that pitiful smile off of her face. “We just want to ensure the safety and wellbeing of all our students-“
You stand abruptly, the chair screeching loudly across the floor.
”I’ll talk to him.” You say stiffly. “Thank you for your concern.”
Then you’re gone, striding through the school hallway without a second look. You know Dave is following because you can hear the soft thump-thump of his worn shoes on the laminate behind you, his little legs struggling to keep up.
You allow yourself to breathe when you’re back in the car, both hands on the steering wheel as you focus on the trees at the edge of the playground you saw earlier, waiting until you feel in control again and you can finally think. You had bought yourself this piece of shit as a present to yourself for passing your driving test a few years prior. No one else was going to get you anything. There was no one else.
Dave sits quietly in the passenger seat, lacing and unlacing his fingers in his lap. When you finally speak, your voice is unusually quiet as it catches in the back of your throat.
”What happened? ”
He says nothing.
“Who started it?”
A slight lift of the shoulders. You feel the frustration bubbling back up and you grip the wheel tighter.
”Fuck sake , Dave. You can’t do stuff like this. People are starting to ask questions and I can’t…I can’t have that.”
He shrinks down into the car seat and you sigh.
”I just. I don’t understand, I thought he was your friend-“
”He’s not my friend anymore.”
”Why not?”
He fell silent again, his fingers tightly wrapped around each other.
”If you don’t want to talk about it, then fine.”
Gripping the key, you turn the ignition and after a few tries the car splutters into life.
It’s quiet, but you still hear Dave’s mumbling over the rumble of the engine. You switch the car back off and Dave’s expression turns guilty and he looks away again. Running fingers through your hair, you inadvertently mess up the gel you had meticulously applied that morning. You don’t know why you bother most days. Old habit. You hardly recognize the person in the mirror anymore.
”What do you mean, you wanted to hold his hand?”
He sniffs quietly.
“…called me gross.” His voice wobbles slightly.
”Sounds like a shitty friend.”
Dave bursts into tears at this and you slump back in the chair with an exasperated sigh. You start the car once more and head home. What the hell are you meant to say? Children are immature and have bad memories. They don’t remember this kind of stuff. You tell Dave that he and John will likely be friends again in no time but he just sniffles quietly as he stares at his hands.
You drive home in silence.
31.13
You’re putting clothes into the washer when you realize one of his shirts has been mixed in with your own. He’s probably trying to trick you into doing his washing for him again, so you take it out with the intention of dumping it outside his door when you notice something amiss. Raising the shirt to the light, you see the tell-tale reddish-brown of blood specks and smudges upon the fabric and you feel your stomach drop and a wave of sickly emotion flood through you.
Shirt in hand, you leap up the stairs three at a time, wrench the front door open and beeline straight for his bedroom. He spends the majority of his time in there, you thought just doing homework and chatting to his online friends, you never thought he’d be doing something so, so stupid.
You barge right in without knocking and there’s a shout of alarm from the kid himself as he nearly falls out of his chair, spinning around quickly, hands flailing as he tries to hide whatever he was doing on the computer.
”Fuck! Have you ever heard of knocking-?!“ He leaps to his feet while attempting to untangle his headset from around his neck.
As you march over, his face whitens as he looks from you to the shirt and back again. His mouth opens and closes a few times, but he has apparently nothing to say.
“What the FUCK-“ You grab him by the collar and he flinches away from you, his eyes scrunching shut and mouth twisting into a grimace. “Is this?!”
He stammers for a bit, then meekly peeks at you and offers, “Shaving accident?”
You let the soiled shirt drop and grab his wrist instead, pulling the fabric up while he yelps and unsuccessfully tries to pull his arm free from your grip. “Fuck, what are you doing, don’t-!“
But you’ve already seen it. Lines upon lines of cuts on pale flesh, some healed and scabbed over, some already turning into pinkish-white scars. There are even a couple that look suspiciously fresh, little drops of congealed blood beading upon the pale skin. He sucks in a sharp breath.
”Look, I-“
”Are you trying to get me into trouble?” You hiss. He closes his mouth and a small frown appears on his brow. You shake his arm, the frustration inside you bursting to the surface. “Do you know how serious this is? What if your school saw this? Do you want them around here again?”
The kid says nothing, his expression turning stony. You know that look. He’s learned it from you. It pisses you off even more. Disgusted, you fling his arm away from you and he immediately pulls his sleeve back down, shielding the offending side away from view. You barely notice.
“Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck! Why? Why would you do something like this to me?” You start pacing the room as the tell-tale ringing threatens to overcome you yet again. You need to calm down. You feel so angry all. the. time.
”To you?”
The tone in his voice sets you off again, grating against your sanity.
”Do I not do enough? Have I not given enough? Why would you want to do something like th-?!“ Distracted in your pacing, you stub your toe on the corner of the bed and the jolt of pain temporarily blinds you with rage. With a shout, you lash out and your fist makes contact with the bedroom door. It’s only shitty hollowed out MDF and your hand goes right through it with a deafening crack. You regret it as soon as your fist makes contact. It hurts more than the toe. Stupid. Stupid, fucking idiot.
Pulling your hand free with a curse, you turn to see how he’s backed into the corner of the room, hugging himself and watching you silently with those damned eyes.
Everything goes quiet in your head. Wordlessly, you leave his bedroom and return to your pitiful personal space. Flopping down onto the futon, all the adrenaline coursing through you drains in an instant and you feel yourself go limp with exhaustion. Reaching between the cushions you pull out a barely touched bottle. As you take a sizable swig, you watch the small trickle of blood run down your knuckles.
33.15
Time continues to skip like a broken record.
You’re unable to fully grasp it as each day slides into another, mixing into the painful cesspit of where your memories used to be.
You live with the choices you’ve made.
Your reflection.
A ghost.
A stranger.
A failure.
35.17
You can see it in the way that he looks at you, even underneath those shitty plastic sunglasses he now wears everywhere. They were a present from his “friend”, and ever since he got them he’s never taken them off. You’re convinced he wears them indoors to piss you off especially.
You see him less and less nowadays, even though you hardly leave the apartment. Everything you need is at your fingertips so why bother? You’re lucky enough to work completely from home, and it's easier for you if he's not around when you’re working, anyway. Your old skill with crafts finally came in handy; turns out people will pay a lot for custom-made plush toys and dolls. You don’t think too hard about the life-sized requests you occasionally get. Discretion comes with the price.
He usually sneaks off to school before you wake up, but sometimes you can catch him when he comes home after school, if he bothers to come home at all. You don’t try and track him down anymore; he doesn’t want you to. You’re just glad he’s not dead.
You can’t say the same for yourself.
But just your luck, he’s come home today. Tattered school bag thrown over one shoulder, his too-long blonde hair messy and styled in that way you know is meant to look unkempt on purpose. He’s already clocked you as he tries to slip past the kitchenette to his room, but you block his path. He stops heavily with a sigh as his shoulders slump. He’s never happy to see you. The room swims as your balance wavers and you try to remember the last time you ate, and fail. Leaning one hand on the kitchen table, you try to center yourself.
“How was school?”
“Fine.”
You’re used to the tone. But you’re not feeling like being ignored today , so you pluck the shades from his nose and toss them onto the table where they land with a clatter. You’d love nothing more than to break the damn things but he’d likely break something of yours in retaliation. Still, he doesn’t protest, continuing to stare at the floor as he tries to shuffle to the side but you were expecting that. It’s then when he finally glares up at you. He’s only around a foot shorter and still growing every single day, doing his best against nature to separate himself from your stain.
“What? ” He hisses, the tense grip on his backpack strap flexing open and closed as he sets his jaw to match yours. The furrowed brow and sneer twisting across his face is just a reminder of how terribly you fucked all of this up.
You never asked for this.
You did the best you could.
Didn’t you?
“Decided to grace me with your presence today?”
His upper lip curls. “Like you care. I bet you wish I’d leave and never come back.”
You can’t even deny it anymore. But still you cling on to something within him, unable to let go. As you lean closer and press a finger firmly into his chest, he desperately tries to not react, but you can see the flicker of fear behind his anger. It’s sickening, but it makes you feel good. Like you’re actually in control of something.
“Maybe you should. Then I wouldn’t be wasting my hard-earned money on an ungrateful brat who does nothing but take-“
“Take?!” He barks a laugh loudly, eyes flashing wildly. He fights back more often now. You’re almost proud. And as if on cue, the low ringing starts. “What is there to take?!” He gestures around him, to your apartment. “There’s nothing here! The only thing in the fridge is your goddamn booze! You know I have to scrounge for food from my friends? I only go to John’s so much because his dad fucking feeds me!”
“That’s the only reason, huh?”
He stammers, momentarily shaken but recovers quickly. “You, you’ve never cared about me- you've only ever cared about yourself-”
“I only care about myself? I fuckin’ raised you! All of this,” You mimic his gesture and he scoffs, folding his arms and rolling his eyes. “Was for you!”
“Yeah, real bang-up job you did there. Real fan-fucking-tastic. ”
You can feel your fingers curling into a fist, but you close your eyes and let out a shaky breath. He’s just angry. He’s a teenager.
Only a year younger than you were.
“I tried, Da-“
“Did you?”
He’s not making this easy. You should never have even tried this today. Why do you try at all? What was this all for?
“For fucks sake! You think this was easy?! Raising a kid on my own, barely an adult, no job, no money-“
”Yeah and you solved that problem, didn’t you?”
“I did what I fucking had to. It’s not my fault that-“ You trail off, but the disgust on his face is abundantly clear.
It’s not your fault.
It’s not.
You’re both quiet for a while. Your head is pounding and you desperately wish you could just sleep this off like a bad dream. This is the most you’ve spoken to each other in many, many months. The last time was largely the same as this. You’re not sure how it could go any other way.
You just wish he could understand how much you've done for him.
But he’s impenetrable, walls and defenses completely up, unable to see past his own point of view.
He sighs heavily, with a slight shake. Defeated. Just a reflection, looking back at you and wondering what the hell happened to the last sixteen years. Shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, he squeezes at his arm through his hoodie. Your eyes follow the action and you feel your stomach twist.
“You’re supposed to…you were meant to look after me.”
“I did…”
You trail off. In your mind's eye you’re in that car park, holding that tiny baby to your chest. Everything is suffocating, the world collapsing in around you as you realize you don’t know what to do. You never did. You made the wrong decision. Again and again, over and over.
One bad decision after another.
You never should have left the house that night.
You shouldn’t have insisted.
You knew she had been drinking.
You knew, and yet.
You drag your eyes up to meet his and it tears you up inside.
You never meant for any of this.
You never wanted any of this.
“Sometimes, I wish you’d died.”
It’s barely louder than a whisper. Words cracked and broken in his throat as he lays bare the one thing you’ve been wishing for every night since that first.
“I used to wish that you were the one that died.” He repeats slowly, carefully. “I used to wonder if it would have been different. That she’d be a better parent than you ever were. And then as I got older I realized, if she was stupid enough to get pregnant and get herself kill-”
The ringing stops, replaced with a clear, sharp pain. It radiates down your arm as he falls away from you in slow motion, the force of your slap pushing his head into the cupboards where it smacks off the corner with a sickening crack. He loses his balance as he stumbles, grasping at the countertop with one hand while the other covers half his face as he glares at you through his fingers. Time seems to drag to a grinding halt. You don’t feel anything but the sting in your palm. He looks like he could murder you.
You suppose it would be just.
You’re unable to step aside when he shoulders you out of the way with a strength that surprises you, bodily pushing you into the fridge. You hear the clinking of bottles falling over inside. Your gaze falls upon your hand, the smooth skin bright red as the only thing you feel is the harsh sting of pain radiating from the palm.
He disappears into his room, emerging a short while later with a rucksack slung over his shoulder as he strides past you, snatching his sunglasses up from the table and heading to the front door.
He hesitates for a moment with his back to you, one hand on the handle.
And then, pushing those glasses back onto his face, he leaves without a second glance.
You hope for good.
-
bonus art!
