The boy looked out of his fingerprint stained window and watched as the snow flakes sleepily swayed down from the ever black sky. The streets and sidewalks seemed as though they were covered in a blanket, a blanket of pure white. Tiny footsteps imprinted right next to bigger footsteps trailed towards various shops and stores full of light, noise, and children rushing towards the new train station or the sweetest candy. The boy sighed as he eyes rested on one of the windows of a small, but brightly lit toy shop. There, beyond his and the store's window, he spotted another boy, not much older or bigger than himself, but much more warmly and richly dressed. In one hand the boy held a brand new train. It was bright red, the store light slicing across the paint. In the other hand the boy held a hand. It was rough, but big enough that it wrapped around the boy's small hands. The hand belonged to the boy's father, who looked down on his son with a smile only a proud father could produce. The boy looked up and stretched his lips apart into a smile, his white teeth glistening against the shop light. Together they headed towards the counter, and together they left the shop.
The boy behind the windows watching the scenery sighed and slipped away from the sill. He went out of his room and dragged his legs and overly long pajama pants across the hallway. He stopped in front of another door. It was the same size as his room's, but this door seemed as big as the house itself. The door seemed to be glaring at the boy, eyeing every part of his body and readying to crash down on him any moment. The boy gulped air, and with both his hands twisted the door knob. Just a door knob for others, but for the boy, it felt as though he was opening a cage full of hungry lions. He cracked open the door slightly, wary that something dangerous or malevolent might pounce upon him. He slowly widened the gap, but as he was pushing the door inward, the hinges screeched as chalk against a blackboard.
"Who is it?" an overwhelming voice echoed behind the door, filled the room, and pierced the boy's ears. It was a grave, bellowing sound, a sound that would perfectly belong to a bear just waking up from its hibernation. Words swelled up to his throat, but could not make it past the boy's teeth. He hesitated for a moment, but he finally opened his mouth wide enough to let the words seep out.
"Da-Dad? It's me, Michael."
No replies. Only silence resonated through. Then came a long, slow sigh. A sigh that only someone lets out to let others know the irritation that they have caused.
"What do you want?" The boy almost cried from fear. The words echoed throughout what seemed more like a dungeon than a room like a cannon blast. The boy shuddered and gulping another mouth full of air, asked,
"Da-Dad? It's... It's Christmas Eve. And I thought maybe we could--"
"Michael, can you not see that I am currently occupied?"
The boy took a step in through the door and saw piles of loose leaf papers covering the floor, almost like the snow did outside his house. His dad's desk was piled ceiling high with books with few pages loose and peaking out on the sides. And among the chaos, the boy saw his father's back- broad, strong, overwhelming. The voice continued, "If your eyes are still functional, then you can clearly see that I am very busy right now. I don't have time to celebrate some superficial holiday where people squander their money and act like animals, running from one store to another."
The boy's body screamed to close the door immediately behind him as he walks out. He turned to go, but somewhere, a little flicker of light continued to glow in his heart, telling him just ask him again. He might change his mind. It is Christmas Eve after all." How he should have listened to his body.
"But-- But Dad, it's snowing outside and I really want--"
"Michael Hector Williamson, did you not hear my words!? You're very presence disturbs me right now, and I cannot afford to waste my precious time on your petty whines. Do you think I make the money that keeps us under this roof by squabbling with you? My job is to make sure there's breakfast tomorrow and you aren't helping me do so!"
"But-- But--" Sometimes, it is wiser to follow one's gut instincts than to follow one's heart.
The father rose from his chair, as though a slumbering giant had just been disturbed from his sleep. He turned around and paced across the room his son. A palm flew across the boy's face, too fast for the poor child to even see. The boy fell back, knocking his back against the hard, cold, wooden floor. His cheek swell up like a ripe apple, and waves of pain resonated throughout his body. But somewhere in his chest hurt more than his cheek. His cheek felt like it was on fire, but his chest seemed as though it was in hell. The boy's vision started to blur. He felt a trail of tear run down his cheeks and sting the one that felt his father's palm. The father's face was buried behind his disheveled hair. His chest was heaving and his breath was fast and loud.
"You dare to interrupt me, and on top of that, defy my command? Who do you think you are addressing this moment? Get out, before your other cheek feels my hand!"
And with that, the father shut the door. A loud bang crashed against the walls of the house. The chandeliers in the living room tinkled slightly. The boy raised his hand to cover his swollen cheek. With his free hand he slowly pushed himself up from the ground. The boy continued to remain silent. The hand that was covering his cheek slowly reclined down to his sides. Two fists formed. They shook recklessly. The boy glared at the door. I hate you he breathed these three words under his breath, but immediately took a step back, thinking that his father might have heard him. But no monster crashed through the door. Just silence. He turned to go back to his room. By the time he reached his doorway, he breathed a few more words before entering. I will never be like you.
The boy behind the windows watching the scenery sighed and slipped away from the sill. He went out of his room and dragged his legs and overly long pajama pants across the hallway. He stopped in front of another door. It was the same size as his room's, but this door seemed as big as the house itself. The door seemed to be glaring at the boy, eyeing every part of his body and readying to crash down on him any moment. The boy gulped air, and with both his hands twisted the door knob. Just a door knob for others, but for the boy, it felt as though he was opening a cage full of hungry lions. He cracked open the door slightly, wary that something dangerous or malevolent might pounce upon him. He slowly widened the gap, but as he was pushing the door inward, the hinges screeched as chalk against a blackboard.
"Who is it?" an overwhelming voice echoed behind the door, filled the room, and pierced the boy's ears. It was a grave, bellowing sound, a sound that would perfectly belong to a bear just waking up from its hibernation. Words swelled up to his throat, but could not make it past the boy's teeth. He hesitated for a moment, but he finally opened his mouth wide enough to let the words seep out.
"Da-Dad? It's me, Michael."
No replies. Only silence resonated through. Then came a long, slow sigh. A sigh that only someone lets out to let others know the irritation that they have caused.
"What do you want?" The boy almost cried from fear. The words echoed throughout what seemed more like a dungeon than a room like a cannon blast. The boy shuddered and gulping another mouth full of air, asked,
"Da-Dad? It's... It's Christmas Eve. And I thought maybe we could--"
"Michael, can you not see that I am currently occupied?"
The boy took a step in through the door and saw piles of loose leaf papers covering the floor, almost like the snow did outside his house. His dad's desk was piled ceiling high with books with few pages loose and peaking out on the sides. And among the chaos, the boy saw his father's back- broad, strong, overwhelming. The voice continued, "If your eyes are still functional, then you can clearly see that I am very busy right now. I don't have time to celebrate some superficial holiday where people squander their money and act like animals, running from one store to another."
The boy's body screamed to close the door immediately behind him as he walks out. He turned to go, but somewhere, a little flicker of light continued to glow in his heart, telling him just ask him again. He might change his mind. It is Christmas Eve after all." How he should have listened to his body.
"But-- But Dad, it's snowing outside and I really want--"
"Michael Hector Williamson, did you not hear my words!? You're very presence disturbs me right now, and I cannot afford to waste my precious time on your petty whines. Do you think I make the money that keeps us under this roof by squabbling with you? My job is to make sure there's breakfast tomorrow and you aren't helping me do so!"
"But-- But--" Sometimes, it is wiser to follow one's gut instincts than to follow one's heart.
The father rose from his chair, as though a slumbering giant had just been disturbed from his sleep. He turned around and paced across the room his son. A palm flew across the boy's face, too fast for the poor child to even see. The boy fell back, knocking his back against the hard, cold, wooden floor. His cheek swell up like a ripe apple, and waves of pain resonated throughout his body. But somewhere in his chest hurt more than his cheek. His cheek felt like it was on fire, but his chest seemed as though it was in hell. The boy's vision started to blur. He felt a trail of tear run down his cheeks and sting the one that felt his father's palm. The father's face was buried behind his disheveled hair. His chest was heaving and his breath was fast and loud.
"You dare to interrupt me, and on top of that, defy my command? Who do you think you are addressing this moment? Get out, before your other cheek feels my hand!"
And with that, the father shut the door. A loud bang crashed against the walls of the house. The chandeliers in the living room tinkled slightly. The boy raised his hand to cover his swollen cheek. With his free hand he slowly pushed himself up from the ground. The boy continued to remain silent. The hand that was covering his cheek slowly reclined down to his sides. Two fists formed. They shook recklessly. The boy glared at the door. I hate you he breathed these three words under his breath, but immediately took a step back, thinking that his father might have heard him. But no monster crashed through the door. Just silence. He turned to go back to his room. By the time he reached his doorway, he breathed a few more words before entering. I will never be like you.
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