I sat, paralyzed by the words that'd just hit me. The sensation rattled my eardrums to hell, and through any and all struggle, my pain was exacerbated. It took me a moment to process the gravity of what he'd said, yet with an inch of sense, I could understand exactly why he said it.
I'd fucked up, more than I had in a while, but hearing my Dad of all people tell me how much I had was something I never thought would ground me the way it did.
This feeling was exactly what I was afraid of feeling, and looking into his eyes only sickened me more. He meant every syllable-- he'd deliberately worded it how it had been, tough to stomach yet justified and understandable.
He interrupted the deafening silence with a question, his face and body aimed at my own.
"Where were you tonight, Amson?" He asked, a powerful weight to his words.
"I-I was at Dame Coccinelle-- like usual..." I swallowed. "...The skatepark..."
He reached toward the drawer beside his bed, pulling out an object I couldn't discern. He moved so quickly and confidently that it was hard to make out what he was doing, but he wasn't in any rush. He'd finally found the comfort to move so freely; he was getting a head's start on his nightly routine.
The sudden, nonchalant demeanor he'd adopted was something more akin to how he usually acted, yet I remained uncomfortable and withdrawn. It was clear that, whether he'd intended to or not, he'd gained an edge in this conversation.
"I know, son..." He stated, tapering the fan's hum with the pull of a chain. "...And what happened while you were there?"
I hesitated, my eyes dodging for a split moment.
"Everything that I usually did..." I answered him. "I got into the pit and did my thing."
Dad cracked his neck with a sudden jerk.
"I need you to tell me the truth, son." He demanded calmly. "What really happened while you were there?"
"I-I'm telling you the truth." I assured him.
"Is that true, Amson?" He asked me again. "Can I trust that you're telling me the truth?"
"O-Of course..." I nearly recoiled from the blatant lie. "You can trust me."
He let a long wipe drag along his face, carrying a weighted sigh.
"That's not a good look for you, Amson." He told me, disappointment in his glare. "Not for any man."
It was clear; he'd seen through the obvious lie. From my posture to my difficulty answering, he was definitely in a better position of control. I sucked my gut in and tried to cover up my fumbles, anyway.
I spoke more clearly, hiding my weakness of mind, and I sat more confidently, tidying my weakness of body to seem more credible. Though my words might not have had the effect I'd wished for, I tried to deflect his accusatory stance with something that's hard to refute without tangible evidence, indomitable confidence and, unfortunately, an unmistakably combative arrogance.
"What are you insinuating, Dad?" I mocked, carrying an offended tone. "What else do you believe happened that's got you so sure?"
"I was hoping you might tell me, son." He continued to stare into my eyes, halting his routine.
It was more as if he were conducting the direction of the conversation: he was the composer, and I was merely an instrument in the band.
"I've got nothing to tell you." I assured him, my tone raised. "I went to Dame Coccinelle, hung out with my pit-buddies, and rode my bike in the pit. I don't know what you want me to say."
"Where's your bike, now?" His words froze me for a moment. "I recall you rode toward the house along your friend's skateboard."
"My buddy, Deuce, is borrowing it." I clarified. "Some jackoff nabbed his board while he was watching Ty and I in the pit. Poor bastard shouldn't've left his board so far away from the center of action."
"Now, that's interesting..." He rubbed his chin, glancing away for a moment. "Why hadn't you mentioned that, before? That seems noteworthy."
"I wasn't expecting you to give much about Deuce, since I never talk about him."
"I care about all those my son is fond of, though that affection can often be... conditional..." He paused for a moment. "Still, son, I don't buy the things you're telling me. I know you're smart: You know you don't have to lie to me, Amson."
As I spoke, I felt more unconfident in my words, speaking things that even I didn't believe with a fabricated confidence in order to maintain that illusion of truthfulness-- of reliability. It must've been pathetic, watching me, for any man other than my father.
"I don't know what you suspect happens behind your back, Dad, but my life isn't so eventful." I tripled down. "No matter how many times you ask me, my story is what I've told you."
"I know that..." He stated. "Yet, I also know my son. Why give another boy your bike when that's your only means of returning home? Even by car, its a thirty-to-fourty-five minute drive."
"Because I knew Tyriq would back me up."
"And then you'd leave the boy to fend for himself in the thundering rain?" He asked, in disbelief. "How were you expecting your friend to make it back home safely-- what responsibility did you have?"
"What responsibility do I have when I'm already home? He agreed to bring me, so what fault of mine is there? There is none."
"You don't believe that." His voice tapered.
"Who are you to tell me what I believe and don't believe?" I replied, yielding an aggressive tone. "I'm sick and tired of listening to you tell me who I am."
I could only imagine that debilitating feeling, seeing such an ugly version of something you'd built and grown to love. It was evident that I'd never had something akin to that.
"Enough..." He groaned. "I've heard enough-- I'm done... telling you who I believe you are."
Eventually, he'd taken the reigns in full check, leaving the theatrics behind, asking the questions, and giving the answers himself. He did so promptly, so as to not stretch the conversation into something it didn't need to be.
"As I'm sure you anticipated, I spoke with your friend before you entered the room..." He reinforced. "For any father-- any parent, there stand certain beliefs regarding how we consider our children and their surroundings. Between these differing relationships, there is some common ground and some... difference of opinion. I, for one, believe your decisions and biases are reflected through the people you associate yourself with."
He scootched forward, closing the distance between the two of us. I took a glance at Mom's sleeping form, then back at him. He continued to speak with a deliberate rhythm of tongue, locking my eyes onto his.
"For a time, I'd known the Halm boy, Baun..." He referenced, his eyes evading as he grabbed from his memory. "That was the only friend of yours I'd known. That boy remains hard to read, much like yourself... I believed you'd become selective with who you surrounded yourself with, but more accurately, he might have been the only friend you felt confident allowing within the sanctity of your home. However, this boy, unlike Baun, was something different."
He retraced his steps, clarifying the intention behind his previous statement. Had I not been frozen stiff, I might've chuckled a bit.
"A-An' I don't mean the obvious, son, I mean the reflection of you I saw in him..." He elaborated. "Despite how you carry yourself, on the outside, that boy was very different than this image you make for yourself. From only minutes of conversation, I gathered the boy was very driven, within a wealth of knowledge and experience that I seldom find in many adults I converse with. He was not only respectful but respectable and knew how to speak in order to monopolize on a sense of understanding between who he was speaking to. He knew himself, and he quickly grew to know me as we spoke, I felt."
His hands met, grasping one another.
"And when I thought of you-- of how this boy's personality compliments your own, I could only think that it might be representative of what you fail to show your family, and frankly, I believe you hardly show yourself..."
He paused for a brief while, yet when his voice had returned, it carried hell within it.
"That boy, without much apprehension, told me everything that'd transpired tonight."
My eyes lost focus, and I couldn't look at my father, any longer. It was as if I were seeing myself from the third person, a wisp along my own back as I watched my silent breakdown.
I'd tried this hard and lied this much, for what? Maybe, for a moment, I'd thought I might get away from the shame, but when I'd been caught once, I was much too arrogant to sit quietly and allow him the pleasure of picking my brain. I'd become too comfortable lying to myself that it was merely a game, practicing on my own father.
Yet, I was outmatched from the beginning. I had been read, humbled by him without much effort. He allowed me to speak-- to embarrass myself for some sort of satisfaction, I was sure... What did he stand to gain from listening to me fuck myself.
I couldn't understand, and the more I knew that I didn't know, the more dirty I felt. I wouldn't dare look at him again.
"I know that you and your friends were involved in something very... troublesome to hear as a father, but for you, my son, I can only imagine how you might feel..." He continued. "...I know that your bike had been stolen by that man, a gangster with a gun, and had your friend not stopped you, you could've done something of consequence to the both of us... You of your life and me of my son."
I felt the heat of his breath as he leaned over me, making sure I heard each syllable. Whether I looked at him or not, he'd make sure I had no space of mind not to listen.
"And I don't know who you think you are, but you're no hero, son. You, just like the rest of us, are measured only by the breadth of our wisdom-- by nothing more and nothing less. We choose our fights, and in any unfortunate case, another chooses to fight us. So, I ask you now, Amson. What did you have to prove? What meant so much to you that you'd sacrifice your life over a fucking bicycle?"
Just like that, that vulnerable, ignorant bitch had returned, the same boy who knew not a thing about himself. To say pathetic would be a disservice to his cowardice, to my utter fragility. I had no answer, no excuse to pick from the litter that might even salvage any fragment of my once, confident alter-ego.
All that was left was a shell, housing a ghost of who I thought Amson needed to be to belong. Whether it was in my own household or at the ceramic prison of Butcher Cross, I needed to don that pitiful disguise not to feel sane but to appease the people around me. It only took a tragedy to show me how far gone I really was.
At what point had it become childish, or had it always been, clinging to the same ideal that did me no service? It only isolated me from those people I wanted to acknowledge me, shrouded them from the manifestation of a past I used to justify my actions.
And, still, I wanted to be known, make friends of my own, find someone of my own volition that added meaning to those wishes I'd never wished for. But I threw that away again for a tarnishing smack of infamy.
'What the hell am I doing?' I asked myself, squeezing my skull with the full force of both arms. 'Why the hell am I still fucking alive?! Everything I've ever done in my godforsaken life has been worthless! Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over! I couldn't spare even a second of fantasy for my own flesh and blood!'
I grunted, Dad's confidence quickly turning to a worried uncertainty. I saw glimpses of his shadow as I hunched over the bed's comforter, trying to crush my own skull.
Eventually, my arms grew limp from strain, falling to my sides, and my struggling ceased, leaving me at square one... thrice anon.
"I-I don't know, dad..." I whimpered, Dad backing away. "...I don't know."
His voice was much weaker and careful, afraid to reach for me. He carried a look of bewilderment and anger, and I carried that ugly, unstable mug, moments from pouring over.
"W-Where are you, Amson?" He mustered, sotto voce. "Mentally, where is my son?"
"I don't know." I groaned.
"You have to know." He told me, awakening something within me. "I don't know this Amson."
The words released from my mouth, bringing forth the most genuine emotion I'd felt in some time.
"What the fuck do you know about me?!" I yelled, turning his expression back to a neutral.
I watched as his mouth recoiled, as if evading me, yet just as he began opening his mouth again, a moan halted his speech, saving me but at what cost? Mom had finally awoken, and I stood from my seated position to stand at her side before she'd even opened her eyes. She sat upright, speaking in that soft tone I knew her for.
"What's happened?" She asked, unsuspectingly.
I wrapped my arms around her, and Dad stared at us with that blank expression.
"A-Amson?" She said as I squeezed her, burrowing my head behind what she could see. "What's the matter, sweety? Why're you hugging me so-- tightly?"
In order to hide my tears from her, my grasp became tighter and tighter. I didn't want her to see this side of me, and out of that fear, my emotion took control.
Hearing the smooth roll of her voice had strengthened me enough to stand, yet my voice had failed me, making me unable to respond to her confusion. Yet, in any condition or state of mind, at any cost, she would never see her son this weak and defeated.