prompt: Anger is all I have left (I changed it a little bit)
My sister wanted me to call this "I see angry people."
When he was little, there was one person he looked up to. It wasn't Superman or Spiderman or Jackie Chan like the rest of the boys; he looked to his father, who was strong and silent and hardworking. He was a mailroom technician, but he made it sound like fantasy land. He pulled fairytales out of thin air and wove stories of how each envelope contained coded messages, royal marriage proposals, the secrets of how to slay a dragon. He made ordinary life seem magical. There was nothing Michelangelo wanted more than to grow up and become his father – family man, employee of the month, knight in shining armor.
It wasn't until second grade when his teacher asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up that he started to see the cracks. His classmates laughed even harder than when he introduced himself on that first day. He ran and hid behind the easels, blocking out the sound with his hands. Everyone else wanted to be a ballerina or a prince, but he wanted to be a mailroom technician. He didn't see anything wrong with that, but, when asked, he started to say what everyone else said. A firefighter, a doctor, a hockey star – anything but the truth.
He'd disappointed his father many times over his younger years, but he never gave up. When he said "I never did that when I was a little boy," Michelangelo would back off immediately, hands in the air. Sometimes, he would earn a smile; other times, the baking soda and vinegar would explode. It wasn't his fault, not exactly; his cousin had brought chemistry books to study over the holidays. She explained the best she could and, to both their surprise, he understood. She called him a genius and ruffled his hair.
All those years, while his friends were hiding Playboys under the mattress, he was stashing copies of Popular Science. He stayed at the library for hours after school, claiming to have been part of a study group, while he scoured the shelves for anything he could find relating to bombs and their construction. He couldn't help it: he was interested in something his father disapproved of.
It wasn't until he was fifteen years old that he started to break out of his shell of oblivion. He realized that his father was not, in fact, perfect. He said rude things to nice people and made biting remarks to his mother. He was deeply unhappy at the office and cranky when he came home. He didn't like his son doing things out of the ordinary and he certainly didn't like the science programs that appeared on the television. Michelangelo learned to come home early from school and use the set, watching the clock until the Lincoln pulled into the driveway and flipping over to The Price is Right.
His father was a simple man when it came to academics. He knew how to read, write, add, and subtract, and that was all he needed. He was pleased, of course, as parents are, when his son was accepted into a top college; he was furious, however, to find out that Michelangelo was studying science and engineering and other subjects he considered dangerous.
The night he joined the police academy, they had a fight. The vein in his father's temple was jutting out; his face was red. Michelangelo had never seen him this angry, not even when they came home from a family dinner to find their house ransacked, his entire retirement fund stolen. The first nasty thing he flung out, however, had Michelangelo packing his bags and spending the night away from home.
His mother urged him to come back, but he decided to stay with his mentor, Mac, for a few weeks, first. She was distraught. He had a new nickname, a new job, new friends – he was leading a whole new life and she wasn't a part of it. Neither was his father, though, and that made it more bearable for him to continue.
He did go home, eventually, though he kept in close contact with Mac. The guy taught him so much about being a police officer in such a short period of time; in return, Spike showed him the mechanics of bombs and other machines, his true specialty. They complimented each other; it was like he had just found his older brother after years and years apart.
Mac was the one who urged him onto the SRU. He claimed that he was cut out too great to be part of such a measly police force; he needed a team that could use his knowledge of electronics. He put in a good word for his apprentice, and Spike found himself standing next to twenty or so other men, a gun in his hand, shooting at a paper target.
His father was so angry in every way possible. He constantly ragged on the new job, how it was just a bunch of overrated cops, and Spike learned to ignore it. They fought, exchanging harsh words, but the part that hurt the most was seeing his mother curl back into the corner, hoping and praying no punches would be thrown.
He joined Team One. He suffered through pepper spray in his suit and cream cheese in his boots. He made it, though, and became part of the family. He felt more at home in the briefing room than he did in his own kitchen, surrounded by his flesh and blood.
Mac was so proud. He threw a party in celebration; cake, balloons, confetti, drinking games – the whole shebang. Spike's parents were invited. Neither of them came, at the request of his father. (His mother mumbled an apology the next morning, saying she really had wanted to go, but her husband was feeling ill and she couldn't leave him home alone. Spike bit the inside of his cheek and didn't respond.)
He liked everyone on the team well enough, but Lewis was a breath of fresh air. He could finally be himself, one hundred percent. Around Mac, he always wanted to impress – around his father, he walked on eggshells. But with Lew, it was like he had been missing a piece of himself for all these years. He was finally whole.
Lewis never went to his house, just because there was something about involving his father in his life that turned Spike off. He met his best friend's parents, though, and they welcomed them into their home like a second son. His dad even grinned and remarked that the two could be twins – fraternal, of course. Mrs. Young kissed him on the cheek, licked her finger, and wiped off the lipstick with her thumb.
In all twenty plus years of his life, Spike had never felt more at home.
He lost them all. Even though they were spread out, it seemed like rapid succession: just as he was finally coming to terms with Lew's death and the grief and the pain and the guilt, the feelings came flooding back as he found Mac in that warehouse, bleeding on the floor. There were so many loose ends that would never be tied. He was left with memories of his early days as a police officer, stopping at the donut shop and flirting with the girl behind the counter, who always made sure to fill his coffee cup to the brim; of Jamaica, laying on the beach and swimming in the ocean and drinking beer with his best friend.
His father resented him even more. He had lost the two most important people in his life and his father didn't even give him a sympathetic smile. It was all about him; it was about what he could lose. Sometimes, in the heat of the moment, in the middle of the fight, the words would start to slip past his lips: I would rather die than be your son. He always bit his tongue just in time, sparing his mother the tears.
Every single thing he felt toward his father was tied to anger. Even when he was laying on his death bed, even when his name was brought up in conversation, in evaluation – his heart clenched and he grinded his teeth. That man was so unforgiving and spiteful and mean. He did not understand, not at all, what it was like to lose someone he loved dearly.
Spike had gone through that twice. His family had been there to help him, but his parents had not. It was adding salt to the wound when he would overhear, over his hiccupping sobs, as his father explained to his mother what was happening in the baseball game on TV. Nobody came to his door to check on him; nobody sat down and rubbed his back; nobody even acknowledged the boxes of tissues he went through, night after night.
The day his father died, though, the memories came back. Playing mail technician when he was young, pushing around his sister's stroller in place of a cart; listening, wide-eyed, as his father recounted the stories of that day, usually including saving a damsel in distress (who never happened to be his mother); sitting on the sofa, watching reruns of old TV shows and falling asleep to his father's abrupt laugh. He remembered all the smiles and the hugs and the kind words.
Every bit of anger, resentment, ill will, fury – it all passed on with his father.