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In retrospect, Charles thinks, he really should've known better.
The thing is, it's a good album. Not an official copy of course, one of his mates had handed him the tape before they broke up for summer, track listings scrawled on a piece of paper slotted inside the case. They'd been listening to it for most of the term and Charles had bemoaned having to wait the full six weeks to hear it again. When Nick had handed it over the other lads had laughed, accused him of giving Charles a mix tape, Nick had rolled his eyes and told them to go fuck themselves. He was good like that.
So he'd been playing it since he'd gotten home two days ago, carefully yesterday but- well, time had gotten away from him, hadn't it? Always slipping through his fingers, and he'd been trying to keep to himself, barely left his room and everything it's just that it got so fucking boring down there sometimes and the only way to stave off the boredom was to turn the music up and try to drown out the looming dread of the six empty weeks staring him down.
So yeah, when he'd turned the dial up again he really should've known better.
The sound of his door banging against the upstairs wall is a familiar sound, there's a dent in the plaster from the door handle that his mum had patched up a few times before giving up. The stairs give him a few precious seconds to scramble up from his bed, not that there’s anywhere else to go but being on his feet is better than the alternative. His dad doesn’t say anything as he storms into the room, hitting the eject button on the tape player and wrenching the cassette from it’s place. Charles notices the hammer decidedly too late to do anything about it, not that he’d have known what to do anyway.
“Dad wait-”
The sound of the plastic crunching under the force of his fathers swing cuts him off, the wood of the desk underneath shaking with it. He brings it down again, and again and Charles has the genius idea of reaching out to stop him.
His dad has his hand fisted in his shirt in an instant, shoving him back against the wall hard enough that his head bounces off the hardwood panelling. It’s a wonder, he thinks in that moment, that there isn’t a dent there too.
In the series of monumental fuck ups Charles has made in the last handful of minutes, he’s forgotten all about the hammer in his dad’s hand, and when he raises it up Charles flinches closing his eyes and bringing his hands up as for one awful second he thinks there’s a very solid chance his father might bring it down on him.
He wonders what it says about their relationship that the thought isn’t that surprising.
He doesn’t though, instead he lets go of Charles and turns to bring it down on the tape with a sort of heavy finality that sends the glittering plastic shards showering to the floor. Charles drops his hands, and his father turns back to him, pressing the cold metal head of the hammer against his chest in warning.
“Keep the fucking music down.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, turning and storming up the stairs, cursing something Charles has heard a thousand times before and slamming the door shut behind him.
The sound of the key turning in the lock is all too familiar.
For a long moment he doesn’t move, frozen in place against the wall and trying to catch his breath. The worst is over, he tells himself, tries to believe it even if he knows it’s only over for the time being. Two days into the holidays and he’s already managed to piss his dad off enough that it warranted a fucking hammer. He’s lucky the only hurt he’s left with is the bruise no doubt forming on the back of his head.
When he finally feels like he can breathe without it ringing in his ears, he peels himself away from the wall and sweeps the remnants of the cassette into the bin with shaky hands. A sliver of plastic grazes his skin and he pulls it out, dropping it atop the unspooled mess of tape that had promised to tide him over until he was back with his friends and away from here. He tries to swallow down the dread that creeps up his throat at the sight of it, shoving the waste basket under his desk and out of sight as if he can hide everything else away with it.
From the floor of his room with his head in his hands the six weeks of summer look longer this year than they ever have before.