20 years passed since that night. 20 years, not a single Christmas passed by without the boy sitting on his bed, knees pulled in and eyes staring at the window. Many things changed from thence. He grew up. He started to attend high school. He soon graduated from college. He then entered the labor market. He even found a beautiful wife and had a son. He made a lot of money. The family owned a large house, with a fine, polished car in the garage. Yes, many things did change. But one thing never did. He never talked to his father anymore. Never did after that night. Even when he heard the news of his father's illness did his open up to his father again. Even when his father died, the boy refused to shed a tear or speak a word of condolence to the audience, for the audience only consisted of himself. That day, as he stood facing his father's tomb stone, he spoke under his breath, Watch. I will never be like you. I will never be like you. I. WILL. NEVER. BE. LIKE...YOU...
Yes, only one thing never changed. Or perhaps two.
The beautiful house and the luxurious car didn't show up at the boy's door step. He had to earn them. Day and night, he worked until his eye lids were too painful to keep open. He struggled to finish the last paper, to look at the last analysis set, to conclude on next week's presentation. It first began with one night at the office. Soon two. Soon three. Eventually, almost everyday, he would spend his life at the office. Even when he was at home, he ignored his wife and his growing child. He ignored his wife's calls for dinner. He ignored his child's cry at night. He ignored when his son could finally walk. He ignored when his son drew a picture of them together. Perhaps, indeed, two instead one, had never changed.
"Martha, please, would you let me finish this paper? I have a very important meeting to attend to next week and I can't afford to waste my time!" The boy yelled at his wife while he continued to sit at his desk, fingers relaxing on the keyboard, ready to sink in as soon his wife would leave. She gave a quick scoff and quickly attacked, "You and your cursed work! You never pay attention to me anymore! You never pay attention to your son anymore! You never pay attention to us! Your family is about to be torn apart, and all you can care about is your worthless paper and meeting!"
The boy pushed himself away from the desk and kicked off his chair.
"You dare to speak to me this way? Who do you think you are talking to? If you haven't noticed, the only reason why live in this stupid neighborhood, in this stupid house, and eat the stupid food, is because of me! And the least you could do is show a little bit of appreciation for all that I've sacrificed for this family!"
His wife folded her arms. The boy knew that stance. Not good.
"I don't care whether we live in a good neighborhood. I don't care whether we live in a nice home. I don't care whether we can stuff our faces with gourmet food. I don't care for any of that. All I care about is for you to--"
"You may not care about my hard work and all I've sacrificed, but I do. And if you can now excuse me, I have some business to which I must attend to."
As soon as hearing those words, the wife turned and left the room without a second glance back. She slammed the door behind her and the shockwave sent a chill down the boy's spine. Some things never do change.
As the boy sat back in his chair and was about to pull his computer closer, a small creek sounded from behind. He stopped for a moment, and glanced back to see a small head half-peeking through.
"D-Dad?" A small voice crept through.
The boy sighed and rubbed his forehead with his thumb and middle finger.
"What is it James?"
The boy noticed his son gulping something down. James slowly put his feet through the door and half of his body shown through.
"Th... There's a new toy shop opened just across the street. Ma--Maybe we could--"
"Son, I can't. I have too much work to do right now. I'm sorry. Go ask your mother." He started to turn, but before he could fully turn his back, the same voice, only this time more pleading, spoke out.
"But, But Dad, it's, it's Christmas Eve and maybe--"
"James Arthur Williamson, do not make me repeat myself. I don't have time to waste on going to a worthless store. Go ask your mother!" He yelled at his son, with heavier breathing and glaring eyes. James whimpered and started to retreat, when suddenly a hand appeared from behind him and placed itself upon his shoulder.
"Come, James dear." A soft, soothing voice, yet somehow full of sadness, spoke. "Your father... is doing some very important stuff to do. He doesn't have time for neither of us. Come, let's go to that shop before it closes."
With those words, the two closed the door behind the boy. The empty void seemed to suck the very air out of the boy. He collapsed unto his chair and grappled his hair. He turned around and saw a white screen filled with lines of black scribbles that made no sense to him anymore than what had happened to him moments before. He gritted his teeth. His fist flew into the screen, shattering it into a million fibers of micro glass. He grabbed his computer with both hands and threw it on the ground. Pieces of plastic and electric circuits spewed out unto the carpet. He hadn't saved his work. Hours, days, weeks of laboring and pain was laid out sprawled on the floor. Drops of blood sank into the woolen carpet where his fist lingered above. He sank back to his chair, as if something more than gravity had pulled him down. He covered his eyes with his arm. I will never be like you. The words seeped through his iron-gritted teeth. I.Will.Never.Be.Like.YOU.
He twirled around his chair and faced the now empty desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a small picture frame. It had two pictures: On the left, him and his wife. The right, their son. He took the frame and gently grazed his fingers over the two pictures. He repeatedly rubbed hi thumb against the picture glass, as if trying to remove a stain that wasn't there. Soon he was rubbing moisture off the glass. For years, he'd worked until his eyes were numb and until his back ached. For years, he tried to earn enough to provide a comfortable life for his wife and child. For years, he had forgotten for whom and what he was working for. He gazed outside the window. Across the street stood a toy store. He saw a scene unfold itself within the store, the very same scene that had captured him 20 years back: A son holding tightly to his father's protective hands.
"Come on James, let's go before the shop closes! Make sure you dress warmly!" Martha yelled from the front door. The snow was falling faster and heavier. James waddled across the living room and arrived at the front door, wearing his overly stuffed winter coat and boots. Before Martha could open the door, a voice rang behind, "Wait."
Both Martha and James froze in their tracks. They slowly looked behind, shocked at realizing to whom the voice belonged to. There he stood, a man in his late 30's, wearing his brown winter jacket and a black scarf around his neck. The man grunted roughly and approached the two. Before putting on his boots, he turned to his wife and said, "Honey, fix us some hot chocolate for when we get back will you?" The wife stood petrified. She was released from her position only after she heard the front door gently close.
The man and his son stood outside the doorway. They didn't say anything to each other, let alone try to make eye contact with each other. An awkward silence enveloped the space between the two. Finally, after a few hesitant movements, the man stretched his arm down to his son. His son looked up at him with eyes that flared with excitement. He instantly snatched at his father hand and together, they slowed left the entrance way to their house. No words were spoken between them. They continued to walk toward the toy shop, leaving two trails of foot prints on the freshly layered snow. Even when they reached the toy shop, the two refused to let go of each other's hands. Even when the son was choosing the toy he wanted, he never let go of his father's hand. Even when paying for his son's new toy, the man never let go of his son's hand. When they left the store and walked back towards their home, they left another trail of foot prints. These pair of foot prints seemed closer to one another than the two prints were from before.
Yes, only one thing never changed. Or perhaps two.
The beautiful house and the luxurious car didn't show up at the boy's door step. He had to earn them. Day and night, he worked until his eye lids were too painful to keep open. He struggled to finish the last paper, to look at the last analysis set, to conclude on next week's presentation. It first began with one night at the office. Soon two. Soon three. Eventually, almost everyday, he would spend his life at the office. Even when he was at home, he ignored his wife and his growing child. He ignored his wife's calls for dinner. He ignored his child's cry at night. He ignored when his son could finally walk. He ignored when his son drew a picture of them together. Perhaps, indeed, two instead one, had never changed.
"Martha, please, would you let me finish this paper? I have a very important meeting to attend to next week and I can't afford to waste my time!" The boy yelled at his wife while he continued to sit at his desk, fingers relaxing on the keyboard, ready to sink in as soon his wife would leave. She gave a quick scoff and quickly attacked, "You and your cursed work! You never pay attention to me anymore! You never pay attention to your son anymore! You never pay attention to us! Your family is about to be torn apart, and all you can care about is your worthless paper and meeting!"
The boy pushed himself away from the desk and kicked off his chair.
"You dare to speak to me this way? Who do you think you are talking to? If you haven't noticed, the only reason why live in this stupid neighborhood, in this stupid house, and eat the stupid food, is because of me! And the least you could do is show a little bit of appreciation for all that I've sacrificed for this family!"
His wife folded her arms. The boy knew that stance. Not good.
"I don't care whether we live in a good neighborhood. I don't care whether we live in a nice home. I don't care whether we can stuff our faces with gourmet food. I don't care for any of that. All I care about is for you to--"
"You may not care about my hard work and all I've sacrificed, but I do. And if you can now excuse me, I have some business to which I must attend to."
As soon as hearing those words, the wife turned and left the room without a second glance back. She slammed the door behind her and the shockwave sent a chill down the boy's spine. Some things never do change.
As the boy sat back in his chair and was about to pull his computer closer, a small creek sounded from behind. He stopped for a moment, and glanced back to see a small head half-peeking through.
"D-Dad?" A small voice crept through.
The boy sighed and rubbed his forehead with his thumb and middle finger.
"What is it James?"
The boy noticed his son gulping something down. James slowly put his feet through the door and half of his body shown through.
"Th... There's a new toy shop opened just across the street. Ma--Maybe we could--"
"Son, I can't. I have too much work to do right now. I'm sorry. Go ask your mother." He started to turn, but before he could fully turn his back, the same voice, only this time more pleading, spoke out.
"But, But Dad, it's, it's Christmas Eve and maybe--"
"James Arthur Williamson, do not make me repeat myself. I don't have time to waste on going to a worthless store. Go ask your mother!" He yelled at his son, with heavier breathing and glaring eyes. James whimpered and started to retreat, when suddenly a hand appeared from behind him and placed itself upon his shoulder.
"Come, James dear." A soft, soothing voice, yet somehow full of sadness, spoke. "Your father... is doing some very important stuff to do. He doesn't have time for neither of us. Come, let's go to that shop before it closes."
With those words, the two closed the door behind the boy. The empty void seemed to suck the very air out of the boy. He collapsed unto his chair and grappled his hair. He turned around and saw a white screen filled with lines of black scribbles that made no sense to him anymore than what had happened to him moments before. He gritted his teeth. His fist flew into the screen, shattering it into a million fibers of micro glass. He grabbed his computer with both hands and threw it on the ground. Pieces of plastic and electric circuits spewed out unto the carpet. He hadn't saved his work. Hours, days, weeks of laboring and pain was laid out sprawled on the floor. Drops of blood sank into the woolen carpet where his fist lingered above. He sank back to his chair, as if something more than gravity had pulled him down. He covered his eyes with his arm. I will never be like you. The words seeped through his iron-gritted teeth. I.Will.Never.Be.Like.YOU.
He twirled around his chair and faced the now empty desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a small picture frame. It had two pictures: On the left, him and his wife. The right, their son. He took the frame and gently grazed his fingers over the two pictures. He repeatedly rubbed hi thumb against the picture glass, as if trying to remove a stain that wasn't there. Soon he was rubbing moisture off the glass. For years, he'd worked until his eyes were numb and until his back ached. For years, he tried to earn enough to provide a comfortable life for his wife and child. For years, he had forgotten for whom and what he was working for. He gazed outside the window. Across the street stood a toy store. He saw a scene unfold itself within the store, the very same scene that had captured him 20 years back: A son holding tightly to his father's protective hands.
"Come on James, let's go before the shop closes! Make sure you dress warmly!" Martha yelled from the front door. The snow was falling faster and heavier. James waddled across the living room and arrived at the front door, wearing his overly stuffed winter coat and boots. Before Martha could open the door, a voice rang behind, "Wait."
Both Martha and James froze in their tracks. They slowly looked behind, shocked at realizing to whom the voice belonged to. There he stood, a man in his late 30's, wearing his brown winter jacket and a black scarf around his neck. The man grunted roughly and approached the two. Before putting on his boots, he turned to his wife and said, "Honey, fix us some hot chocolate for when we get back will you?" The wife stood petrified. She was released from her position only after she heard the front door gently close.
The man and his son stood outside the doorway. They didn't say anything to each other, let alone try to make eye contact with each other. An awkward silence enveloped the space between the two. Finally, after a few hesitant movements, the man stretched his arm down to his son. His son looked up at him with eyes that flared with excitement. He instantly snatched at his father hand and together, they slowed left the entrance way to their house. No words were spoken between them. They continued to walk toward the toy shop, leaving two trails of foot prints on the freshly layered snow. Even when they reached the toy shop, the two refused to let go of each other's hands. Even when the son was choosing the toy he wanted, he never let go of his father's hand. Even when paying for his son's new toy, the man never let go of his son's hand. When they left the store and walked back towards their home, they left another trail of foot prints. These pair of foot prints seemed closer to one another than the two prints were from before.
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