My father was an average office worker. The kind with so much debt, he could work his whole life, then work another life in hell, yet still not pay it all back. He was the kind of person who would step out from an all-nighter into a full storm, adjusting his eyes to the inky void of darkness. The sound of rain dribbling down the window, street lights reflecting the sheets of rain falling from the dark storm above. The kind that you see in a late night pub, empty and alone. As if he was an abandoned island— no friends, no life, no home to return to. He had brought it onto himself, like millions of other people.
The world was unfair that way.
At one point, I realized that my father may have had dreams of his own. I had found paintings scrolled up and shoved in a small crack under the floorboards when I was seven. There were at least a hundred, in full color. It was watercolor paper that he must have spent using all the money he saved up— and all of them were of my mother.
My memory of her was just a voice, as if it was raining softly in the blossoms of spring. I'm starting to not remember her. And sometimes I hate her too. For leaving me without a mother. For taking my older brother with her too. For leaving my father to become a—
I let my thoughts trail off as I finished the sketch of the girl. A darkness had settled into the house, the afternoon heat now replaced with a cool chiliness. I had been drawing for the whole day. The sound of birds flying back home resounded through the trees outside. I didn't even hear him come in.
A pair of leather shoes appeared in my vision. A calloused and heavy hand reached down as I added the final touches to the sketch. The hand snatched the paper away.
"Your time." My father ripped my sketch in half.
"My money." He shredded the paper into pieces.
"And you are wasting everything by drawing." The girl fell apart, scattered across the floor, crumpled up as if trash on a street.
This is when I hated my mother the most. For leaving my father to become what he is today.
He grabbed me by the neck. A demon seemed to boil inside of him. I stared straight into my father's eyes. I almost lashed out. A demon boiled inside of me too.
"Are you afraid that if I draw, I'm going to end up worthless like you too? A miserable drunkard who can't even raise his own son properly? I would rather do what I want and be penniless my whole life than become a mindless robot."
A sudden pain burst across my face. There was a moment of silence as I waited for the next blow. Yet, none came. The sound of a broken clock ticked back and forth, it's cycle undisturbed.
"Quit school. Tomorrow you work full time."
"Yes, father." I reply, walking out the door. "I'm going outside to get some food. I'll be back soon."
I hid the pencil in my pocket— and headed toward the hospital. I needed to go see the girl.