Dark strands of hair nearly touched the now furrowed brow. The nose was long and came to a slight curve at the bottom. His lips, thin and angled, complemented the foreboding look he so often wore on his face. His sunken blue eyes stared out of the doorway he was now approaching.
"Reginald, please don't walk away when your father is talking to you," said the soft-spoken women rocking in the chair. She had his same dark hair, the same blue eyes. But her face was kinder, though considerably more weathered.
He hated it when she used that tone. So soft, so delicate, so—pretentious. It was insufferable the way she always had up this façade of pleasantry.
She was weak.
"Reg, please. Your mother and I have been talking. We want to know if you're alright. You don't seem, ah, well, happy."
His father wasn't much better than his mother. Going in early to work at the lumberyard, coming home late at night, still cheery as ever. It was disgusting the way in which he carried out his monotonous existence. His back drooped, his hair was whitening. And yet he would never dream of complaining.
Reginald knew that he would never suffer from such spinelessness.
He also couldn't stand being called Reg, not by anyone, but especially not by his father. If there was one thing the boy couldn't stand it was nicknames. It was bad enough that the pronunciation of his last name made him sound like he had a speech impediment: Plath.
He continued walking towards the door. "Reginald, wait! Show your mother and I some resp—" His father's voice was cut off by the now closed door.
Those two were always like that. Asking him whether or not he was happy, wanting to know if he wanted anything, whether or not he was making friends. They were what others called loving parents. They were what he called pathetic. And because neither one of them had a backbone, they would let Reginald alone in his room, which was fine by the boy. It was in his room that he could dream of his departure. He was imagining it now:
A still night. His parents sound asleep. If anyone would be looking from the street, they would see only a black form quickly emerge from the fourth floor window. Just as soon as it appeared, the shadowy figure would vanish. Sliding down a makeshift line, the shadow would touch down in the alley. It would make his way to the docks not far from his poor London home. Eventually, the shadow finds a ship of Her Majesty's fleet, in desperate need of a cabin boy. The young Plath signs on immediately, soon to move up through the ranks. Undoubtedly, he would become a captain, feared by crew and enemy alike. Captain Reginald Plath would have respect, fame, pow-
His train of thought was interrupted by the opening of his door.
"I brought you some tea with honey. I thought you might like some before you go to sleep."
The woman's eyes were red and puffy. Reginald's stomach turned in disgust.
"Leave it there," replied the brooding boy.
"Dear, is there anything that I—"
"I require nothing more from you. Good night," said Reginald, coldly.
She said nothing more as she left the room, though Reginald could hear a faint whimpering coming from somewhere down the hall.
"Stupid woman." he thought, "Why is everyone around me so ignorant and sensitive?"
He was thinking of his schoolmates. Reginald had little patience for them and their pathetic games. Oh, he'd been invited to play quite a few times. Who wouldn't want the tallest boy in the class to play on their team? Eventually they had given up, tired at the insults he hurled at them whenever they invited him. But, just to make clear, Reginald was never abused and he was never mistreated. In fact, he wouldn't have been so disliked if it wasn't for his cruel disposition. No, Reginald had a blackened heart that delighted in its rebellion. He would make sure that he was never exposed to the lowly humility of those around him. Reginald Plath would make a name for himself.
"I must get out of this house," Reginald whispered as his eyelids finally shut.