He leans over his chair, grits his teeth. As he hears her scream once more, he turns up the rock music he's never really liked, just uses to tune the world out. If he's ever going to get into med school, save more lives than his father – turn the job he loved more than his son into a game, a game he's loosing- he's got to finish this work. He hears his mother cry out, bites his lip, tells himself she just wants him to fill her empty glass. He longs to escape- he hates her, but her pain is his own. She is like she is for the same reason he is who he is.
His father, a man the boy loved, was too busy for a wife who couldn't care for herself. He left a note- claimed he was leaving her, not him. Buy the boy was stubborn, a fiery soul- his father's son. He would not leave her. He would prove he could do what his father failed to do and more.
Besides, hate is a strong word.
The boy has no where to run to, anyhow. He is too busy trying to keep her in one piece, keep her from slipping. He promises himself when he's a doctor, a rich one, he'll make friends. He chuckles as he pictures the swooning girls at school, wishes for once, he didn't have to turn them down.
He'll have kids, one day. He'll be a good father. He doesn't know how, but he promises himself he will be. His children won't live off the checks of a man who they haven't seen in five years. His children won't look in the mirror and see the man who disappointed him. They won't see a boy who loved too much and received nothing in return. A boy who is still, subconsciously, trying to satisfy his father, trying to be good enough. .
Anger flashes in the boy's mind, and he writes furiously, turns up the music even louder. Lets himself become numb to the world, and finds he likes it there, where no can hurt him any more.
"Robbie!" His breath catches as his finger lingers over the pause button. It comes again, loud and clear- his childhood pet name. He sighs pauses the music, flinches as the influx of noise hits him. He swivels in his chair, flicks off his work lamp, and sighs, trudging to the stairs.
"Yes?"
No response meets him. He walks down a few steps. The boy is but fifteen, and old for his years – he's had to be - but when he calls, "Mommy?" it comes out as a faint hiccup. He shudders at the magnitude of the profound silence. Calls out again, gaining the same response. Robotic, he walks down the rest of the stairs, shuts his eyes and tells himself it was all a dream, this is just a nightmare, as he feels his way to the kitchen. He barely has to open his eyes to spot the bottle of wine, shattered on the floor, but he doesn't even see it, doesn't pay attention to it.
Who would, if they were seeing what he was?