Timothy had just sealed his family's fate. But at what cost? His entire family was ecstatic. Mother jumping up and down on the poor sofa.
His sister bragging about her family's newfound wealth to all her classmates. His father paraded about the kitchen. Yet Timothy seemed as if it was inadequate. His mother asked what was with the poor attitude, Timothy shrugged. His father stopped his erratic movement. He carefully but irrationally walked to confront his son in the living room. He saw the pale body of his son slouched down to the floor, Timothy's clothes grinding against the previously colourful wall. To his father, it was almost as if Timothy's pathetic attitude infected the color of the wall.
"Timothy, stop thinking about him and celebrate," he said.
On the floor, he shrugged his empty shoulders with a sprinkle of an angry smile dashed across his face. He couldn't bring himself to look at his father's face.
"Him? You can't even bring yourself to say your own brother's name, sad." Timothy replied.
His father remembered he walked towards Timothy. Reaching his hands out towards Timothy as a sign of peace. Timothy pushed away from the cruel hand.
"I'm still hurting too, move on-" His father sighed.
Timothy pushed himself off the bland carpet floor and stood up to his father.
"How do you think Clark feels, or Aunty Celia?" Timothy asked.
The two maintained eye contact, every pain, every sorrow, every piece of regret they traded with a second of eye contact. As soon as he mentioned Clark, his Father turns his head.