So this is basically after Nuwanda gets into another fight at school, having gotten kicked out of multiple schools because of his violence and all that, so his dad has finally had enough. This is more, in the future/after Welton. Also might be a little out of context in the fact that this was an rp para sample ha. Just wanted to contribute to the DPS fanbase.
"You only get one more shot after this, Charlie."
That was a lie if he ever heard one. He knew because he had heard one, this exact one, countless times in the past. It didn't scare him like it did when he was younger, though it never really scared him enough to prevent every fault since then. Even in protest he kept quiet, and the brooding look on the face of his senior only slightly made his spine tingle. But he liked it; it was the same feeling that warmed his seat.
"I mean it."
A continuous stream of empty threats poured through his father, his mother stiff as a stick behind the thicker man. This was the third time Charlie was getting expelled from a school due to 'disorderly conduct' and 'violence', genres he reshaped as 'free thought' and 'expression of free thought'. Not his fault, he tried to persuade, it was the other who chose to provoke him, it was the other who chose to be a complete idiot and any idiot deserves to be punished for his idiocy. He would know, however that punishment never came from his old man. A scold and a pat on the ass is what made him such a fuck-up, the only chastisement was having to attend another school with a whole new set of teachers, a new group of friends (if he could find any that could deal with his shit and quote good poetry), and with all those new things came a whole new set of Neanderthals who didn't know him well enough to know the word 'impulsive' derives from 'Dalton' in one way or another. Then they would piss him off, and he'd fuck up, he'd flunk out, he'd freak out, and he'd start all over again. There wasn't one more shot after this, there was no such thing as "one more shot" when you have money oozing out of your closet and too many guts for glory. "One more shot" was something you said to the less fortunate, to the hardworking, because they really did only have one shot and they actually cared about it. But that wasn't Charlie, he didn't care, he never really cared about anything.
But it wasn't his money, it was his parent's money, and that's why he yawped in the crowd but cowered in the face of his family.
"I believe you pops, you're a man of your word." Lying ran in the family, a mechanism of hope that hid under the surface of pride. The slick curve of his lips after speaking was almost natural, and his father reacted instantly. The older man, dressed daily in a plain dark grey suit with a blue engraved pen hanging from the opening of his coat pocket, moved quick against the wind until his swinging arm collided with the standing utensils atop the office desk. Mahogany wood breathed for the first time since being covered with business papers and cases. Pencils fell to the floor and bounced with a synchronized dinging of wood on glossy wood, papers flew into the thick nauseating air, and behind the quick chaos his mother's body leaped backwards in tremor. It instantly entered his body, and the once calm, cool, and collected Charlie Dalton now gripped the arm rests of the chair with white knuckles.
"Goddammit Charles, I mean it!" The old man was screaming, "You think you can just prance around like this forever? When I'm practically paying principles to take you in because they all know about you, Charlie Dalton? They all know that you come in, you destroy, and you leave. You don't give a shit, you don't give a shit!" he was practicing the unprofessional process of cursing, and he turned around with mumbles of furious words he couldn't announce. Panting, his hand rose to grip his nose, his face red and his graying hair bouncing as he turned once more to face his son. "You think you can be hard forever? You think me and your mother, your poor, poor mother, are going to be around forever? Look at her! She's crying, crying because of you. You're making us this way! Look at her!" but Nuwanda's head didn't move, he couldn't bare it, he couldn't speak. His nostrils flared up and down, up and down, but his dark scared eyes never left the reflection in his father's. Instead he held the seat harder and it pained him to move. This had never happened; this was against everything that said he was a free soul, everything he had ever practiced. His father was popping on him for the first time like an overblown balloon, his old man screaming, cursing, and blaming him. But Charlie was to blame.
In an aftershock of rage, his father slammed a book against the half empty desk causing his graying hair to bounce with the motion. Charlie could still see the image; his worked up reflection in the glossy wrinkling eyes of his father. He could see his ruffled hair and unshaven chin and the residue of dry blood he walked in with, but the pain of a fight had been overthrown by a new pain he had never felt before: disappointment. Disappointment in the way his mother's sassy personality had slowly died down because she thought it was her fault, disappointment in the way his teachers stopped recommending tutors to him because it was a lot more work than it was profit, disappointment in the way his father stopped calling him "my son" in conversations with the elite, and how he was now feet away from him inhaling dry air and breathing out good ol' disappointment. He had never felt it before, he had seen it in the eyes of people who cared about him, expected things from him (though they all should have known better), but he never cared, he never cared about anything.
Things were changing though, because whatever the hell this really was he never wanted to feel it again, he never wanted to be in that chair feeling as hopeless as this again. The money, it wouldn't be there forever, not at the rate he was spending it with his behavior. His family, they were already gone, just stick figures roaming around the house because they too lived there, not because it was home. Himself, he was running out of time, truly out of chances. He had to be something, he had to do more. He was going back to Welton after being expelled for the same reason he was being expelled now, his fist colliding with the face of another person, but he knew their rules well. His temper was his only weakness but people got away with much more in life, and what his father didn't know wouldn't be of importance. He could change, he could, and he had to.
Gotta do more, gotta be more.