You can thank Sophie for this update. -drops the unedited chapter and runs-
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The setting sun streamed onto Matthew's face, warming him and blinking him awake. The boy sat up and looked around, taking in his surroundings. Matthew figured that he must have fallen asleep in the attic. He sighed and decided that he should start cleaning up the house if his father was still out. The previous day's ruckus had caused a rather large mess and the boy still hadn't gotten around to cleaning it up, mostly because he had fled to Francis's and came home distressed.
The house was eerily quiet. The stale lack of sound, save for the creaks of the old house settling, the ice-cold air, combined with upturned furniture, broken glass, spilled beer, and blood stains all together scared the shit out of the thirteen-year-old. However, cleaning had to be done, and it just so happened that Matthew was the one who had to do it. One glance out the front window confirmed that his father was gone, along with the car.
Matthew went to the kitchen and got out the bucket, filling it with water while he went to go find the bleach and a trash bag.
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Three full trash bags, countless nicks and scrapes from broken objects, watery bleach-exposed eyes, and three hours later, Matthew got the house to look somewhat decent. Bloodstains didn't come out easily and they were missing a great deal of furniture, but that was okay. The house was livable and there was barely any signs of a recent fight.
As the boy looked over his handiwork when the door front door swung open. In the dim candlelight (for Matthew had to dispose of the broken lamps and most of the lightbulbs), Matthew could barely make out the silhouette of a man in the door. He jumped and immediately ran from the front room and towards the kitchen.
"Matthew, stop!"
The boy halted immediately and spun around to face his father. He didn't smell of a recent smoke, nor had he the aroma of alcohol disgracing his breath. Despite the signs of soberness, the boy was skeptical. Trust was definitely not something that he held close to his father's name.
"Matthew, please."
Those two desperate words stunned the boy. He froze, an icy chill shooting through him. He raised his gaze from his feet to meet the man's eyes.
Arthur Kirkland was the epitome of a used-to-be. The man wasn't particularly old, but there were certainly signs that he had grown out of his prime. Neither did the man keep proper care of himself. Stubble was growing uncontrollably around his face and his teeth were crooked and yellowed. His eyebrows, in particular, were kept untidy, the hairs left unplucked. His clothing was wrinkled and residual stains dotted the cloth sporadically.
But the main focal point was the man's eyes. They were a deep green. They shown with misery, betrayal, hurt, and most prominently, a manifestation of uncertainty and being lost. But glazing the edges were the bright green, the youthful fluorescent that once overtook the entire orb. That glint that Matthew remembered back in the fantasy-like times worlds ago, a time he called his childhood. The lining that had once, a time ago, disappeared completely overnight and was now slowly crept back into dead eyes.
Matthew felt his eyes begin to water before he felt foreign arms encase him.
He stopped moving. He stopped thinking. He stopped breathing.
"Matthew, Matthew, my boy… it's all my fault, isn't it? My god… I- I'm sorry… Though I doubt that will fix anything. What have I done? What type of father am I? What type of man am I? Oh my god, my baby boy… I'm sorry, Marie, I'm so sorry… your son. My son. Our son. The last piece of you, of us. I broke my promises, I broke them and it's all my fault."
Arthur choked on his own sobbing, gripping the boy before him. Said child held his own breath.
"Father, let go of me!" He shouted, pushing the man away from him. Matthew's eyes widened in confusion and fear. He backed up slowly until he felt himself press against a wall, to which he slid down and curled into himself upon the floor. He gripped his knees and compacted into a tight ball. He lifted his head after a moment to gaze at the man he called his father, who still kneeled weakly on the floor where the boy once stood.
"What… what are you playing at?" Matthew's whisper was barely audible.
Arthur frowned noticeably. His eyes, already pink, began to water again. The sight of it almost broke Matthew's heart.
Matthew barely picked up a whispered "What have I done?" before he began to cry as well.
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At a decent time later, Matthew found himself on the couch with a man that was just about a stranger to him as a person on the street.
"Your mother had such a lovely voice. I'd bet that yours is just as lovely. Perhaps we'll sign you up for lessons one day. That would be nice, having music in this house again," Arthur said more to himself than to the boy that he held in his arms. Matthew nodded, but it was obvious that he paid no heed to his father's conversation. His mind lay elsewhere.
A comfortable silence filled the room as Arthur stroked the boy's delicate arm. However, Matthew's head still spun. He had to know.
"So, you know then. About last night," Matthew blurted out what had been on his mind. What he had figured out. And what he knew was the reason his father was a completely different person. But Matthew's suspicions had to be confirmed for his own sanity. The truth would probably confirm that the coddling would discontinue after Arthur got over the shock of last night's events. Since good things never last very long.
But for now, Arthur hung his head in shame and hugged the boy closer to him. Matthew sighed.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"For what?" Matthew shot at him, anger licking at his words. After everything that Arthur Kirkland did to his son, he chose to apologize for something he didn't even do.
Arthur stared at the boy, stunned.
"It's my fault that that bloody frog touched my son. If… If I had kept my promise to Marie and took care my sons properly and didn't drink myself into a stupor, then you wouldn't have even formed a relationship with such… such trash! If.. If I watched over you like she entrusted me to, then I wouldn't have chased you out of the house and into the arms a man who dare touch what's mine!" Arthur was up and fuming now. The table turned over again. But it was different from the night before. He got a handle on himself and gripped the table with white knuckles, huffing in bursts to try to calm himself.
"I see," and with narrowed eyes and a cynical mind, Matthew ran to his room, slamming the door behind him. How terribly, terribly cruel to think of a person as nothing more than property. Plain property. No different than a child and their toy. Beaten down, worn out, neglected by its owner. But when another tries to play with the toy, it's not okay. It's not right. The toy, very briefly, becomes cherished by its owner. The child's poor behavior, usually projected on the unloved toy, is then redirected toward the opposing child. No sharing allowed. The toy is mine and I'm the only one who may play with it. Don't you dare place a single hand on what's mine.
Matthew punched the wall, more upset than he was the previous night. It was all just a game. A game where he was the one being played.
Hell, he should send Francis a thank you card. He could imagine it now.
"Dearest Mister Francis," Matthew snarled, thinking aloud.
"Thank you so much for raping me and traumatizing me and betraying the very last bit of trust I had in people because now my father is jealous and realized a small part of how much of a shit father he is, but you know, it really sucks that he still doesn't acknowledge the fact that he beats me and makes me feel like shit but at least he's somewhat remorseful for pushing me out to the point where I was raped by someone that I trusted more than him. Ain't it great?"
With a sick afterthought, he added, "with much love, Matthew fucking Kirkland."
Yes that would do lovely. And he'll tack it to the front door of the mini-mart. For everyone to see how wonderful Mr. Francis was and how gracious he was for helping out the poor little neighborhood kids. He'd be the town's fucking hero with such a plaque on his door.
Matthew crumbled into himself, curling into a ball. He sobbed into the sleeves of his hoodie, staining them with tears. His father still didn't care for him, his brother ducked out on him, his real father figure was a traitorous creep, and now he was left unemployed on top of it all. Wasn't life just fucking dandy?
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I actually wrote most of this chapter a year ago, so apologies for the harsh style change.