He sat in a room, alone, on the cold marble floor. His face was grim, his mouth nearly pulled into a frown, his shoulders drooped. His eyes were unusually downcast and that usual spark in them was gone. His eyes scanned the photographs dully as he flipped the pages. Once in a while, his eyes would seem distant and he would smile a little. His navy blue bangs were in the way of his vision, but he didn't bother to brush them away.
In front of him lay three photograph albums. They were of him, his brother, his father and his grandfather.
The first one from his right contained photographs of his family when he was 3 years old and below. They were great, every one of them showed happy faces, genuine happiness. Many in which, his father was hugging him tightly, carrying him in his strong, safe arms. In those three short years, the thick book was filled with photographs.
Then, there came the next book. It contained photos of him from the age of 4 to 7, four years of his life.
It was thinner and lighter. The photos had the absence of one family member or another sometimes. The smiles were sometimes forced, as though the pictures were taken just for memorial purposes. He was standing now, no longer being carried. He would sometimes lean against his father's legs.
The third book. It wasn't even complete. It held few memories. The smiles were all forced, the innocence gone. It was no longer happy memories. All photos were taken with the absence of at least one member. Usually, there was just him and his grandfather left in the photos. It was not much of a family photo album.
Then, ever since he was 10, photos were not taken anymore. At least none entered the album.
The family had dispersed. Father? He was usually somewhere in Africa or Egypt, studying ruins. Brother? He was barely ever home, who knows where he is.
His father never called, though his phone bills were paid in all by his company. He just didn't and he knew the answer why. He was a disgrace.
Ever since he joined the world of beyblading, his father had minimum contact with him. His father had no desire for him to beyblade. It was a kids' sport, that's what he always said. He was only interested in the ancient spirits trapped in them. His father thought it a complete waste of time to beyblade. His father wanted him to grow up to be an archaeologist like him.
But, he had no interest in History at all. He tried his best to show his father he could excel, just not in archaeology. Every battle he fought, he fought it to prove to his father that beyblading could give him a brighter future and that he was good at something. He hoped that his father would watch his matches and tell him how good a blader he was, how proud he was of his son.
It backfired. His father didn't care. His father just went about his own business. His father disregarded him, thought him a disgrace to play such a game. His father gave him a cold shoulder and further disapproved of him beyblading. He did not grow up the way his father wanted him to, not at all.
He simply wanted to please his father, just once. He wanted his father to smile at him and tell him that he was proud of his son, but not once since he touched a beyblade had he done that. His father didn't even look him in the eye, his father looked down upon him. He wanted his father to root for him at matches, cheer him on and support him all the way. He wanted his father to play the sport with him, or at least be proud of him for winning the championships. He wanted to be as good as his father was but he found it impossible.
He couldn't be perfect, he knew it. And he was sorry for that. Why can't he be the best archaeologist there is and the greatest beyblader all at once? Why couldn't he understand the beauty of archaeology? Why couldn't he love archaeology like his dad? Why couldn't he please his dad, satisfy his dad? It was his dad after all who brought him and his brother up single-handedly with his grandfather. He should try his best to repay his father.
His father was, used to be, his hero. Not now, not anymore. His father deprived him of the respect he deserved. His father didn't respect his wishes, his father thought it stupid of him to even think of beyblading as a sport. His father didn't support him, heck, his father didn't even think he could make the right decisions. His father thought that beyblading ruined his once bright future, that he could not decide what's best for himself.
His father tried to deprive him of the right to choose his own path, but not anymore. He'd chosen beyblading over his father and there was no turning back, not turning back. He had to prove that he could be just as good, just as prominent in the sport of beyblading as his father was in archaeology.
He was sick and tired of trying to please his father now. It was not alright for him to win the championship title and not have his father celebrate with him. It was not alright for his father to hold such a grudge against the sport he loved with his life.
Now, he fought his own battles, with or without anyone by his side.
It was too late now, way too late. His father cannot change him with his scrutinising words anymore. He doesn't care about what his father sees him as anymore. He has heard too much, felt too much pain. Even if his father were to come to his every match and devote his life to beyblading from now on, it wouldn't change anything. He felt too much pain, so much that he'd become numb towards his father.
He reminisced with the photos, the times when they agreed with each other in every aspect. But it has all gone down the drain now. The past was a shadow of the present, it was nothing but a dream.
A lone tear fell down his cheek.
He was like that lone tear, unappreciated and abandoned by his 'master'.
sobs Now I'm in no mood to do any work. I know I have lots of room for improvement but I can't see what it is...review and tell me if you spot it. Arigatou, Merci, Bolshoe spasibo(they all mean thank you in case you're wondering).