i don't own anything, and i'm not saying i do. so don't sue.
by niesque
He was distracted by the lighting.
The hugs, the kisses-they were nothing but vague actions; stored events that were carved into his memory in black and white. The kisses were petite, sour, rushed, and off the pale cheek, fading into wisps of action that lingered in the air with the heavy smell of liquor.
But the lighting.
It was always there, absorbed into the darker hues of brown in his father's hair. The light rippled into the murky depths of chocolate, wavy and sometimes stiff because of lack of washing.
His father was frequently busy for periods of time. He would go out and come back in, sometimes at three in the morning, to balance checkbooks or to check the mail. Once he came into his room while he was supposed to be sleeping and checked his faded, off-white wallpaper; once, twice, and then left again.
One time his father disappeared for a few days. When he returned he was tired and ragged, his chin covered with fine whiskers that had been left untended. His father didn't notice the dim lighting in the bathroom, or the flickering of the bulbs as he nudged the switch at eleven, every night at eleven, and the lights went out.
He hated those times, but he learned to enjoy them because he had to.
When he saw the dim lighting, the faded yellow that would cover a room with its sheen and distorted hue, he had to reach and learn how to climb the ladder, and how to change the light without burning himself.
When he went into a room, he learned to look at the lights first, to check if it was duller than yesterday.
He was always distracted by the lighting.
When the wholesome, broad arms of his father would link around his waist and his shaved whiskers would brush against his shoulder, left bare because of overly large pajama tops, it would catch his eye with a faint, lost glimmer. Sometimes he would push his father away, just for not noticing that he didn't enjoy the hugs with the smell of alcohol in his father's breath. Sometimes he wouldn't. Sometimes he couldn't.
When his mother had enough, she pushed his father away. At that time he would notice the lighting. It always distracted him, and he needed its sad, soft power to become the quivering core of his childhood world. The lighting was always there, in the back of his mind, swaying and lingering. He was always distracted by the lighting.
He would noticed things about the lights sometimes; how they never changed and always stayed in the same state. Constant flickering, or strong light, or weak beams that barely lit up shadows behind chair legs. Mostly the lighting stayed strong, flickering occasionally but then returning, brighter and bolder. He admired the lighting when his own light was dull and faded.
When his mother and father divorced, he would turn his attention to the lighting.
His eyes were immune to the power of a newly changed bulb. Or perhaps they were affected too much by it. But they would never water, not even with the smallest glimmer of a tear.
Not once did he cry during the parting. He would just notice the feeble lighting, feeling detached from the yelling and breaking. Sometimes, during constant shattering and bickering, he would lean across the empty space, the small area that he had to push himself hard to cross, and he would change the lighting. It got too dim sometimes, and he would work hard to change it.
He stared up at the emptiness, dark and hanging above his head like death. There was not much too look at anymore, only the absence of light. It was a reminder.
It was past eleven.
His father had turned off the lighting in the house.
And Yamato wept for Takeru.
- owari
A small piece, I really didn't know what I was writing but it came out okay. Symbolism's here too, if you catched it.
Err. Reviews, criticism, flames… anything would be nice. :D