K E E P Y O U R D I G N I T Y. T A K E T H E H I G H R O A D. T A K E I T L I K E A M A N.▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
Four in the morning, the first slam of a cupboard door let him know that he'd overslept, managed somehow to not be awake early enough to start a break-
fast or make coffee. David knew better than to climb out of bed at that point. Appeasement was no longer possible, and the low growl of curses and insults
that poured out of the older man's mouth in a steady stream felt like a drop in barometric pressure. Like an animal, the twelve-year-old could feel that storm
on the horizon, could almost smell of ozone of it, and understood that he could only avoid the brunt of it by remaining sheltered. But even at his age, he was
aware that if he didn't provide his father with a target then it would inevitably be his mother who walked into the kitchen. She would go in her long teeshirt
with the manatees across the front, and she would have sleep in her eyes, but the bitterness of her situation would leak from the edges of her mouth in little
passive-aggressive asides that would only make things worse. David wasn't sure how the woman could be so thoroughly cowed by his father's rage, and
still make a point somehow of baiting the bear. Part of him held a grudging respect for her gall, her stubborn anger and muted bravery. Another part--
larger, and more prudent-- felt annoyance that she used it so poorly, drawing ire instead of planning their mutual escape. If she woke to the endless, veno-
mous stream of ******** and can'tevencleanagoddamncoffeecup, it would go badly. She would ask why Stephen can't just wash one ******** mug, instead of waking up the whole damn house slamming and banging everything, trying to make people feel like s**t. Or worse, she'd go to the sink
and start cleaning the cups, making a snide remark like, Here, Stevie. Mommy's washing you a mug. Do you need a diaper change? She'd get in his way.
The yelling would start. She'd go back to her room sporting a new bruise. His father would slam the front door and rev off in the car, but he'd find something
else to do instead of going to work, and he'd stay out until the next day. In the time he was gone, David's mother would repeat every one of his offenses,
from the time she'd found out he had an entire second family to the time he'd spent over a thousand dollars on-- get this-- online poker, and they'd gotten
evicted. She would remind her son that all men are this way, and the implication would be that even if she left it would be the same with anyone else. She'd
say this like she's said it a thousand times, forgetting the possibility of independence, forgetting that one day her son will be a man and that she is decrying
him as much as his entire gender.
So the boy sat up in the dark, standing from the bare mattress that was his bed, and pulled on the simple jeans-and-tee combination he'd wear to school
sometime in the next four hours. Ran an indifferent hand through the messy locks of his hair-- white, from the day he was born, unsettling the way his eyes
have always been unsettling-- and moved on quiet feet down the short hall to the kitchen. The carpet under his feet felt dirty because it was, and the walls
had the greasy yellow-grey film that inevitably takes hold in the houses of chainsmokers, but these were things David didn't really notice, because every
place he'd ever lived had shared these traits. Mismatched furniture picked up from the side of the road, or bought on the cheap from neighbors who couldn't
pay their rent-- every cushion sporting a stain or tear. Every item in his closet had the faded softness of a hand-me-down, the not-quite-right fit of clothing
intended for someone either smaller or larger than himself. Cracks in the walls from his father's fists. Dust on every surface that went mostly untouched. And
always the gloom, the dark, like the place was a cave. In the back of his mind, David thought that this must be what all houses were like, and how all families
functioned. Places and people that appeared otherwise were just the result of cleaning before company came and putting up a good front.
This was something his father was a master of. The ivorette had seen it on nearly every occasion when Stephen dealt with people outside the family. For
strangers, the man was affable, magnanimous, going out of his way to give assistance and project an air of goofy good humor. As a child-- and he thought
of it that way, as though at the age of twelve he had somehow graduated from that group-- David wished his father could behave that way all the time, pleas-
ant and mellow and easy to coax to laughter. He'd begun to wonder why the man's anger only bubbled to the surface when he was alone with his wife
and child. What was it about them that was so terrible? Was there something intrinsically wrong with David that caused his father to hate him to the point of
lashing out at the sound of his son's laughter? Was it the same thing children at school sensed, which made them titter behind their hands? Stick their feet
out as he walked by? Pour white-out down the back of his chair?
"GodDAMNit!"
The sharp sound of glass on the metal stovetop made him pause in the kitchen doorway, unsure whether to proceed. It hadn't broken, but the mason jar
his father was using as a coffee cup was surrounded in a wide splatter of brown liquid where the hot beverage had slopped over the side. Stephen was
at the sink, running water over his newly burned hand, and David had to school his face into something calm before he could enter the room. This kind
of mess was a common occurrence-- the inevitable product of his father greedily filling every cup to the very top, and then being too impatient to move
slowly with it. It was simple thoughtlessness, compounded with the stupidity the man showed in never altering his behavior. And left to his own devices,
Stephen would just swipe a grimy dishtowel around the outside of his cup, pick it up, and leave the rag sitting there in the mess until it congealed. If
asked to clean up after himself, the older alchemist would immediately lose his temper, devolve into a tirade about how "they" could never keep anything nice
anyway, and how it was poor, long-suffering Stephen who worked all ******** day long just to come home to a shitty, disgusting house and no food. He'd
storm out and leave the puddle of coffee for David's mother, and if Elaine saw it she would leave it there out of spite, avoid cleaning it as some kind of
protest, some little act of rebellion that would only fan his father's anger further.
So twelve year old David stood in the entryway of the room, and waited until his father left the sink before he padded across cracked and faded linoleum to
wet the scrap of yellow fabric hanging over the nozzle. The older man was saying something in his habitual grumble-mumble-growl, and the ivorette
tuned out what was almost certainly a litany devoted to how pointless and digusting he was. For Stephen, it was only natural to let his contempt wash
over everything inside the home, and it was just best not to respond. David cleaned the coffee spill, swiping the wet rag across the surface of the stove
before washing it out. The last thing they needed was to let things get so bad that another infestation of roaches moved in. They'd bombed the place a
month ago, and there were still little lines of borax powder along the edges of each room, which his mother swore by for pest control. But it would only be a
matter of time before the bugs were back if nobody stayed on top of keeping things clean. He had hours yet before he could go to school, and David knew
from experience that sleep wasn't going to be forthcoming if he tried to lay back down until his alarm. He could use the time to handle the pile of food-
smeared dishes in the sink, maybe make some cornbread if there were any eggs left--
"Are you listening to me?"
Like a rocket out of nowhere, the fist came down against his right eyesocket, and David-- small, without any of the height or muscle he would own in adult-
hood-- gave a cry as he felt the skin split. Crumpled against the edge of the sink under the unexpected blow. Felt the first drops of blood oozing from his
eyebrow, turning into a thin rivulet as the thousands of capillaries in his face decided now was their time to shine. He wasn't sure whether he closed his
eye on instinct, or if sight had just been knocked out of it, and the fear of that possibility-- living the rest of his life half in the dark-- brought one hand up to
feel whether the eyelid was intact. Wet, either with blood or with tears, or maybe both, and he didn't get the chance to really check because Stephen
dragged him back to his feet, one large hand gripped tight in the white of his hair, pulling until David had to scramble upward. The boy was crying, that
much was true. He could feel the tears now, making quick, hot trails down his cheeks. But they were silent, eerie, devoid of the whines and sobs that made
up nine tenths of the sorrow of most children. The ivorette inhaled long and slow, letting the air out carefully, so carefully, knowing that any shuddering in
his breath, any little hiccup of pain, would earn him more of the same. He'd had twelve years so far to learn what was expected of him in situations like
these, and he could manage that much even if he couldn't keep his stupid eyes from leaking.
"Now you stop cryin', or I'll give you something to cry about! I barely ******** touched you." And the hand in David's hair pulled a little harder, a
reminder that things could be a lot worse if the ivorette didn't straighten up. Slowly, his hands came up, and he rubbed at his eyes until the only moisture
there was the blood dripping down from his brow. It smeared across his palm, the whole of his eyesocket already starting to swell, tender to the touch. And
somehow, the way his father's eyes rolled, as though David were somehow stupid, somehow disappointing, was almost more painful. "And like I said,
you better cut your hair. No son of mine is gonna go around lookin' like a little f*****t."
The door slammed, and David could hear rustling from the room his parents shared. His mother, finally getting up to see what was going on. Things would
only get worse if she saw what had happened to his face. It would be an excuse for a fight whenever his father eventually came home, and the ivorette
didn't want that. So he slipped into the bathroom and closed the door, filled the small chamber with the sound of the shower to keep her from peeking in, and
stood in front of the sink to survey the damage. Under the discolored spots on the mirror, his face was almost all red on the right side, and the boy winced as
he cleaned the blood off with a folded wad of toilet paper. For a long time, David had to keep pressure on the split, and watched as the crimson bloomed
through over and over again, worried that what he really needed was stitches. A trip to the emergency room would be expensive, inviting more anger from
his father, who would tell David to just be a man about it. That issue aside, their only personal transportation was the car Stephen had just taken to work,
and even if it had been there to use, his mother had been too anxious to drive since the ivorette was around five years old. Keeping pressure on it and
washing the cut clean would just have to suffice, because there was no other option. Take public transit and miss school? Rack up hospital bills over
something so small? No. This was just the way things were, and he'd have to get over it.
But by the time he'd gotten to class, all it took was one raise of his brow to get the thing bleeding again, and then the sideways glances from his teacher
became rushed instruction to go to the infirmary. It was nothing. He was fine. He cataloged which excuses he'd used lately, decided it had been a while
since he'd fallen off the bicycle he didn't have, and went with that while the nurse dabbed at the cut with her little q-tip. The stinging sensation said there
was probably disinfectant on the swab, which was for the best, really, because who knew where his father's hands had been. He remained stoic under the
woman's little murmurs of praise about how brave he was being, because clearly she was under the impression that he was a child. The noise coming
down the hallway got more of his attention than she did, and he followed the sound with his eyes even while she was holding his head still, so that when
the cause of it came through the doorway David found himself staring right into the face of a boy he didn't recognize. A grade older? Maybe.
The kid was tall, but gangly in his thinness, like his growth spurt had hit him all at one time and run out of flesh to stretch over his bones. Deep brown hair
winged and cowlicked out at all angles, and the ivorette wasn't sure if that was the normal state of affairs or if the dishevelment had come from the fight this
other boy had clearly just gotten into. One pale cheek was already bruised and purpling, and the knuckles on both hands looked like they'd been scraped,
but he was grinning wildly, completely unabashed. In the flash of those eyes-- a thousand different blues at once, somehow-- was glee and trouble and
challenge. As David watched, the kid reached up and tested his jaw, as if checking to see that it was still in place, and then resumed his self-satisfied
grin once he found no damage. The electric blues found him staring, and stayed stuck on him even after the alchemist hastily returned his attention to
the nurse in front of him.
"Killian Defty, you're going to run me out of gauze if you keep this behavior up." The woman, hands on hips, admonished in a halfhearted way, as
though this was something she dealt with on a regular basis. Looking at the other boy-- Killian-- it was easy to believe it. He appeared to feel no shame
whatsoever about the chiding, and no worry about what kind of trouble he might get into. Clearly, the nurse understood this as well, because she
marched out of the room a few moments later without checking on the brunette at all.
The puzzlement must have shown on David's face, because the kid on the cot across from him grinned wider, all confidence. And absurdly, frighteningly, the
ivorette thought it was one of the most beautiful expressions he'd ever seen on anyone. It made those eyes sharper, brighter. Made Killian into something
artful, even with the bruise on his cheek. Instantly, the alchemist turned his attention elsewhere, knowing what staring too long would say about him.
Ridiculously, he thought, Dad was right. I need to get that haircut as soon as possible.
Mercifully, the brunette didn't seem to understand at all, because he held up both of his hands, showing the abraded knuckles, the dried blood on his skin.
"You think I look bad, you should see the other guy!"
Sixteen years later, it's still the most beautiful sight David can imagine.
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