Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Road Less Traveled

You almost always pick the best times
To drop the worst lines
You almost made me cry again this time
Another false alarm
Red flashing lights
Well this time I'm not going to watch myself die

I got nothing.

Sitting on the floor against my bed, my phone in my hands, as the texts from unknown numbers filter throughout the night. All the same. These people have no originality. At around midnight I stopped opening them. Let the razr hum and light up with another new number. 50 new texts. But I watched as if hypnotized, still in my filthy jeans and plain white shirt. I still smell of alcohol. I realized about two hours ago that my hair in the back crusted over from maybe falling into vodka after being flung into a table. Black and blues on my pale arms from falling into objects.

And the phone still goes off. I wonder if anyone bothered sleeping.

I remain in my position on the ground as the sun breaks through the black curtains, drenching the room in a muted gray hue that feels all too inviting. The dust falling through the air like sparkles of snow.

People always compare winter to death, but I felt most alive during the winter when I woke up next to Reno. And now that the stench of spring-the early morning fifteen minute rain storms, the budding flowers, the pussy trees that line the streets of Staten Island which reek of tuna-wafted into my nose and signals unwanted change. Everything beyond my wood door is different. My room remains untouched, for a moment. Me, a zombie staring at technology with heavy eyes, familiar.

My computer rumbles. I turned off the screen, but not the tower, so I wouldn't have to look at the page with the incriminating photo and slew of attacks towards my sexuality. I know I have to go eventually and shut everything down. Consider deleting my Myspace page. Not like it was anything special. Always causing more issues than I wanted. Cid fighting about who was number one on my top 8. Tifa whining that my default picture wasn't of the two of us. Aerith throwing a fit anytime a girl commented on a photo. How stupid.

Not that I have to worry about that anymore.

Cid never called back. Tifa never reached out.

I know they know. They have to know by now. All of us addicted to this new era of technology. I can hear my Aim sound going off in my head; even though the speakers are muted. Or broken.

I made the decision to bail on school at around three am when I started drifting off to sleep and kept waking myself up from nightmares. My dad, ever the oblivious parent, would probably not notice. He usually leaves for work before I finish my shower and relies on Sephiroth to drive me.

Speaking of.

I call him at around 6:15 when he wakes up for school to tell him.

He picks up and his voice still gravely from sleep. "What."

"H-hey," I stutter, "I just wanted to let you know-"

He starts laughing, "Bro. I fucking knew you liked it in the ass."

My whole self crumbles more than I thought was possible. "I'm not going to school."

"I fucking wouldn't." He snickers. "You're gonna get jumped, bet."

"Uhm, are you...I mean. Are we still friend-"

"I can't be friends with a guy who sucks dick," he responds with minimal effort, "Come on, Cloud. No disrespect, but not really good for my reputation, ya know."

"Are you fucking serious?" I snap, "After all the shit you've put me through, twelve years, you are going to throw me away like that?"

"Alright alright, shit," he grumbles, "it's way too early for this bullshit, bro."

"Oh, wow, I am so sorry to interrupt you, as my life completely falls apart around me, thanks for your continued fucking support. Greatest friend ever." I seeth into the phone. I'm trembling. Hand clutching the phone against my ear, tense, as a slow, menacing laugh, leaks from the receiver.

"I'm surprised no one called out that fag Reno?" He questions, and the word burns like a match against my skin.

I jerk at the sound of his name leaving Sephiroth's lips. Flashes of the night of the accident seep into my memories; Sephiroth implying we were boyfriends. The rumors that swirled afterwards. I'm not surprised he isn't drowning with me- Rufus protects his own, afterall. But Seph doesn't share the same sentiment. He hates Reno. I know from the ever present scowl on his face when he is forced to interact with the red-head. The snide comments about baseball, convinced Reno is trying to steal his position on the team.

Seph would benefit from outing him.

And while I'm a giant pit of rage, and that rage towards the red-head. This would all be for nothing if anyone finds out, he was my boyfriend.

"Cause he ain't one," I snap, "leave him outta it."

He sighs, "Whatever. He's a pussy. Anyway, I'm going to get-"

"Wait, uhm. I blacked out the other night, could you...maybe fill in some of the blanks?"

A long pause on the other end of the line. I hear my father moving about the house now, making his coffee, gathering his briefcase. Nerves rattle me for a moment that he might knock on the door and see my sorry state. While Seph clicks his tongue several times- a habit when he's thinking. I wait with baited breath for him to open the flood gates. No one likes to be reminded of all their faults. The mistakes we make without recollection. How can you seek forgiveness when you're disconnected from your actions? But I need to know-

"Honestly, I was so fucked up that I have no idea what happened after we got to Gen's boy's place."

I pinched the bridge of my nose to alleviate the headache. "Come on, man."

"All I remember: you called me, completely gone by the way, I could barely understand you. It was hilarious. I was like 'I gotta see this shit'. You're walking through New Dorp Lane punching out side view mirrors like an animal. I couldn't even get the story outta you. I think you tried fucking Tifa but you couldn't get it up which," he pauses while I cringe, "now I guess we all know why." He laughs and then yelps from aggravating his wound. "Fuckin, anyway. Gen was in Stapleton-'

"We were in Stapleton?!" I fume, "Why were we in Stapleton!?"

"Gen's contact is there. We hung out with him. Did some K."

"Ketamine!?"

"Yeah…" his voice trails off, "Fuck you really have no idea, huh?"

"Why did I take horse tranquilizer?!"

"Well, we all did."

"How the fuck did I get home?!"

"I drove us, obviously," he huffs.

"While you were on Special K!?"

"You're alive right!" He yells into the phone, "Shit, don't ask for rides if you gonna bitch about it, fuck."

I throw my hand in the air. "Was I even awake?"

"Don't know. Blacked out. When I woke up everyone passed out. I found you in the corner trying to work your phone, still wacked out of your mind. You were crying. It was fucking pathetic."

I burn with embarrassment. Head resting in my hand supported by the grip on my hair. Slightly yanking as punishment to myself for the sheer stupidity I displayed. K's a dirty drug. Not that any drug abuse is clean. But we mock K users from our shining gated communities. Hypocritical before I even had it in my system. It explains the foggy feeling I felt all day yesterday. The disconnect from my emotions. The eight hour nap I took. Where I woke up and suddenly everything was different.

"Anyway," Seph grumbles, "You gonna have to find your own way to school for a bit. Can't really be seen with you."

I didn't know there was any more left to crack. But my whole self seems to start disappearing. Like I'm turning into dust. "It's really gotta be like that?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

But he's not sorry. And I know when the phone line goes dead that he really, truly, cares the least about what happens to me. I bring the phone from my ear to my lap. I have a new miss call from Barret. And while I know he's nothing like Sephiroth, and in fact hates the silver-haired boy more than I think any of the rest of the group, I can't stand another rejection. One more person telling me they can't be associated with me over a Myspace post. The picture doesn't help. No it doesn't.

My dad knocks on my door. "Hey, you up buddy?" He asks, slowly opening the door. And I roll my eyes at the forced nickname.

"Yeah," I grumble.

He leans against the threshold of the door, arms over his chest, dressed in his blue suit with white button down and an obnoxious dog tie I got him for father's day. And I wonder how anyone allowed him to be in charge of anything. He scans my form. And I hope he can't see the bruises on my face in the new morning hue.

"How are you feeling?" He inquires.

"Fine."

"You looked sick last night-"

"Cold. Maybe, I don't know. I'm fine now."

"Right," he tilts his head to the side, "Seph getting you?"

I swallow the groan, "Yup."

He nods, "Reno coming by after school."

I have to look at my ceiling to stop the wave of sadness from trying to breach through my painfully dry eyes. "He has baseball practice. Won't be around for a while." We told him this last week. Guy must have smoked all his brain cells away in college.

"Oh, yeah," he shifts against the wall, "You know, I think I'm going to come home early today. I can grab you from school…"

I shake my head, "Don't, I'll get a ride from Barret."

"Well, I figure maybe we can go on a father-son adventure, since you're mom is coming home tomorrow."

I look at him, contort my face in both confusion and disgust at his ridiculous suggestion. "You had a month to do that."

He staples his mouth shut. I watch his eyes fall to the floor, to his scuffed leather shoes. That mimics mine in so many ways. I think about how he said things were going to change around here. And how they both did and did not. I think about how he has no idea how to talk to me. I can tell from the concern printed on his features, he's trying. He knows something is wrong, but he lacks the parenting skills to bring it up. I know what's about to happen. He's going to throw a passive aggressive statement in my face. I will roll my eyes. Mumble something rude. He'll scold me for being disrespectful. I'll say whatever because I'm fucking sixteen and haven't mastered language. He'll fake ground me. Slam the door.

"Listen," he begins and I dramatically place my hands in my lap, snap my eyes to his with a forced smile. He winces like he knows I'm mocking him. "I know things have been tough around here lately. But things are changing. We need to start working together to make everything better, as a family. We're all a team, right?"

I stare at him. I realize his question wasn't rhetorical. "Right," I respond blankly.

"Okay. So I'll leave work early, get you from school and-"

"Not going to school," I snap.

He fumbles, now standing straight and looking down at me with bitter frustration. "What do you mean you're not going to school?"

"Don't feel good. Not going."

"Says who?"

"Says me."

"You just said Sephiroth was getting you-"

"I lied."

He throws his hands in the air. I hate how much he reminds me of myself. "You can't just say you're not going to school." He looks at his watch, "I have a meeting at 9am. I can't work from home today."

"Who says you need to stay home?" I counter, "I'm sixteen; I'm not a baby."

"You can't stay home alone, Cloud," and his tone sounds almost resentful. And I clench my fist when I see his eyes snap towards my wrist.

"Hasn't stopped you before," I grumble, hiding my wrists under my arms.

"Okay," he roars, "Your attitude lately has been shit. I don't know what happened but it ends today. Your mother is coming home. She has made a ton of progress, which you would know if you could jump off your teenage angst train for a minute and actually speak to her. The first few days are critical to her success and we don't need your moody face and bitchy comments. I'm putting you back in therapy, I am done with this shit." He slams the door on his way out.

I laugh.

And I laugh

And laugh

And laugh.

Until I can't breathe from how hard my body shakes from the humor.

I fall to the floor, clutching my stomach, as I try to calm the howls rumbling from my throat.

And I want to say: how fucking stupid can you be? You're going to threaten me with therapy? And if he had an ounce of sense, he would have done that months ago. Hell, as soon as mom was on the plane, he should have called a therapist and gotten me in immediately. Things are going to change? How? How if you just sit there on your couch, your bottle of beer warming on the coffee table, while you watch the Knicks or the Rangers or whatever college basketball team you're betting on this week. He didn't even notice my face and all the cuts. He didn't even ask why I wasn't seen for almost an entire day. He acts like I don't exist and then gets mad when he figures out I do. And he has responsibilities. That I'm his responsibility.

He acts like we are a team-

Then blames me for my mother's failures.

And if he didn't want me around,

Why did he call 911 when he found me on the floor?

Wouldn't it have been better if I died then?

I realize I'm not laughing anymore. And I found enough water in my body so the tears could stain the wood floor. And I'm sobbing so hard, I can't inhale. And I don't have the energy for a re-do of almost three years ago, but if someone could just kick open my door and blow my brains out, I would thank them in my last breath.

I pick myself off the floor. Stumble to my bathroom, leaving my phone behind.

The white light unforgiving as it highlights every single flaw etched across my face. My nose swollen and throbs with light pain. The under of my left eye looks like someone took purple paint and brushed it under the lid. Vertical cut on my lip and horizontal scratch on my left cheek, but my face hasn't blown up- which means Cid didn't use the brunt of his strength. He held back.

And the knowledge makes me feel worse.

Eyes pulsate. Burn from being opened. The tears dried. And I don't think there's enough water in my body to support another breakdown.

I shower, at least to give the illusion that I'm alive, and try to wash away the stale alcohol and blood from my bruised body. Maybe cleanse me, in a way, of the sins I committed. But there's no way I'll be forgiven. Not by a God from above who abandoned me a long time ago when I threw away the gift he gave me. Not from my friends who have watched this dance far too many times. At some point, I have to acknowledge this may be a habit and not an error. And if that's the case I'm worse off.

Aerith claims I have insight. Barret states I'm aware. And I am. Which makes everything I continue to do a stark reminder that I am too far gone now. There's no point in coming back.

I open the medicine cabinet in my room. Stare at the Tylenol PMs I've had for a while. Given to me when I needed some teeth pulled and couldn't sleep. Meant only to be taken once. But I'm not good at following instructions. I open the half empty white bottle and tap out three small oval pills.

1 for the pain.

2 to sleep.

3 to sleep well.

It doesn't count as overdosing if it's only one over?

I take them dry. Swallow them whole.

My dad's car pulls out of the driveway.

And I think about how poetic it would be if he comes home to a dead son after that performance. Napalm his plan. His marriage. His life.

Minute by minute.

I stand in front of my dresser when the voice hits me. Something my therapist told me before she moved. Try to take it day by day. If that's too hard, try hour by hour. And if that's too hard then minute by minute.

And I asked her if a minute's too hard, then what.

Then just make it to the next second.

The world's a better place every second you're in it.

And I think about how I haven't done anything in the last three years to make the world a better place. But this second I want to try. So I take my time to pick out my clothes. Black basketball shorts and a Linkin Park shirt. And already I made it five seconds.

And I still feel like trying. And take a few more seconds to get dressed.

Now the pills are hitting in my bloodstream. The vibrations erupt from my stomach, to my legs and arms. And I dedicate a few seconds to making it to the bed. When my body hits the comforter, I'm feeling good enough to take three seconds to plug my phone back in. The time seven fifteen and the calls have stopped.

I fall to the bed, facing the curtains, and count the seconds it takes for my eyes to close.

Maybe sleeping well was an overstatement.

It's been a while since I used this method of escape. The sleep fuzzy at best, like I'm stuck in the static of a television. My body paralyzed but my brain continues to function. Which puts me in the place between awake and asleep- like purgatory- and my mind misfires believing the nightmares are real. This time, I can feel a shadow behind me on the bed, but I can't move to look; which is probably for the best. That shadow a familiar demon. One that stalked my dreams when I first felt this terrible. Grabbing my ankles and dragging me off the bed. Before I hit the floor I would wake up, still under the covers, in the darkness of my room. Then the dream repeats. Dragged. Awake. Dragged. Awake. Until further and further off the bed. And everytime my eyes adjust to the darkness, the image of the ghost that haunts me becomes clear. Until the final act. Where it opens its eyes. Two beads of red stare back until I am finally pulled off the bed. Slam on the floor. Wake up for real- under the covers. Trying to remember the meaning of reality.

This time, I watch the seasons change behind the closed black curtains that drench the room in an unnatural fiery glow. I try to close my eyes, but they're already closed. My body has shut down, only my brain remains active. Footsteps echo behind me. They aren't real. I hear the disembodied voices. They don't sound familiar. Like noise coming from an old record player. Singing songs from corpses. It's not comfortable.

I want to be awake.

Always running towards the familiar, even if the taken path leads to danger. But I know that road well. Footsteps get closer. I keep trying to move my arm so I can pinch myself to wake up. But it weighs a thousand pounds. I feel my bed sink. And logic tells me I'm dreaming but panic tells me it's real. And a reminder. The materialization of that friend in the back of my head that claws through the threads that keeps me together and snaps them. I manage to lift my arm and it falls onto its twin. But I remember what it's like fighting in a dream. It's like fighting on too many drugs. Fist feels like pillows. Joints heavy. Everything takes an extra bit of strength I just don't have. But I dig my nails into the flesh just as the thing on my bed leans against me. And I can feel the pressure from both.

Until the figure leaning on me, that I see in my mind's eye, rests completely on me. And against my ear breaths: take the road less traveled.

My eyes fly open as my phone goes off. And I have no idea when I put the sound back on, but now I have Until the Day I die by Story of the Year screaming against the walls of the room; and I already know who's on the other end. I try to get my mind straight. Look at my arm and I'm thankful that I don't have stripes of blood running down my skin. That I had remained frozen despite my unconscious efforts. I try rolling over, but I'm still weighed down by the heavy of sleep.

Then the doorbell starts going off. Frantic ringing. Banging.

I grab my phone. "Jesus Christ, Aer, fucking chill."

"Open your door!" She shrieks into the phone, "Let me in! Let me in!"

"Alright!" I shout, "Gimme like five minutes to get my head together."

She's still ringing the doorbell, "I'm not stopping until you open the door!"

I hang up on her. She switches to banging against the wood. And I just think about the image of a small, brown haired girl in a school uniform attacking the double doors of a house on Todt Hill will probably grab some unwanted attention. I slide off my bed.

My legs didn't wake up with the top half of my body.

And I end up falling onto the ground. And the rumble that shakes the house momentarily brings me back to three years ago.

I swallow the traditional bile. But taste the hot liquid. I don't remember the last time I ate anything. I am an empty vessel trying to crawl towards my door. I manage to punch my legs awake with my fists. Curse my stupid decisions. And stumble down the stairs of my house, half hoping I'll fall and break my neck.

Aerith never paused her assault, so when I fling the door open she nearly punches me in the chest. I don't get out any words before her body jumps against mine. Arms around my neck. And I feel her tears hit my shoulder.

"Oh my god, I thought something happened," she cries, "You weren't in school, and no one's talked to you since yesterday, and I was so scared. I even confronted Sephiroth and he told me you two talked this morning, but he didn't even check to make sure you were okay. Everyone's freaking out right now, they're so worried about you." She speaks like wildfire. Her words blending into each other.

"Who's everyone," I counter bitterly.

She pulls away. Her eyes green and bloodshot, but curved in anger. "Everyone," she hisses between clenched teeth, "Cid, Tifa, Barret, ME, Ren-"

"Don't fucking say his name," I push her off me. Instant regret. She looks hurt now, standing in the middle of my mudroom, the mid-afternoon sun drenching her pale form from the open door. Her hands on her hips. Hair tied back with a bow, so I can see how every line of her face moves to showcase her disappointment.

I run my fingers through my hair to steady my mind. Close my eyes to remember if I'm still asleep, dreaming about someone giving a shit, or I'm living a tragic reality.

"Cloud," she starts again, "I know it makes life easier for you to think that no one loves you. I'm sorry to ruin this illusion, but everyone literally cares about you. All of your friends."

I drop my arm, "Then why are you the only one here?"

She sighs and her eyes fall to her patent leather mary janes, kicking at imaginary dust, "They care, but they're still...not happy with what you did."

I nod, "Yeah...don't blame them."

"There's...a lot of confusion," she continues, "You tried fighting your best friend. You pushed yourself on your other friend. Texted you boyfriend a picture of you making-"

"Okay, okay," I huff, "I don't need a recap right now."

Her disenchanted sigh hurts. And I avoid bringing my eyes back to her form.

The house becomes suffocating. I urge her to move this dance outside; grab a hoodie I haven't worn in a month and find a pack of cigarettes with five smokes left. And I look around the room for the guardian angel of toxicity who blessed me on this day. We sit in the front of my house- as I find the backyard to have been destroyed by the napalm bomb that dropped last night- on the stoop. I lean against the black railing for the stairs that lead to the door, small white stick dangling from my mouth. I feel Aerith's gaze pressing into me. Washed with judgement. As if waiting for me to give her a proper explanation for everything that's happened in the last two days.

Two days. Everything happened in the span of two days.

And Maybe the writing was on the wall for a month now, but I still wasn't prepared for the fall out. Or maybe I never imagined I could simultaneously screw everything up so spectacularly and have the rug yanked from underneath me.

But if I work through the events that lead up to the revelation, I guess all I have to blame is myself.

I stare into the neighborhood. The perfect manicured lawns brought back to life after the last snowstorm of the season (we could hope). The sun hangs in the sky, already pushing its intense heat down on the concrete earth. A stark contrast from the wind that wisps through the streets, a careful reminder that winter hasn't left us just yet. The trees that line the sidewalks bud with freckles of green, returning to life after a frigid few months. The entire world smells like fresh cut grass and hot tar. Stay at home mom's take their goblins out for walks, the quiet conversations, the children's whines for attention, add to the echoing whispers of trucks and cars on the expressway that circles this area like a noose.

And I never felt more like a blemish on this vile island as I blow black smoke towards the budding beauty of Todt Hill.

Aerith finally gives up on me, takes another one of her sharp sighs, "Can you talk to me?"

"What do you want me to say?" I counter. But I dare myself to snap my eyes at her for a moment; sitting there with her hands on her lap, gripped with concern for me. So I throw her a bone. "What's the word around school?"

She toys with her fingers as she talks. "Well, everyone's talking about the Fireman O'Toole post. The picture. Half the school is trying to figure out who the myspace belongs to, the other half talking about you."

"And what are they saying?"

"Uh, most of the school keeps saying they called it."

I narrow my eyes, "Excuse me?"

"Yeah... no one's really...surprised."

I don't know how I feel about that. And it seems from Aerith's fidgeting, neither does she. She continues to tell me how some girls started a rumor that she turns boys gay. Someone already approached Tseng to tell him to stay away from her. One of Cid's teammates made the mistake of telling a crude joke at my expense and ended up against the locker, held up by Cid's arm. A few people gave Reno a second glance, but Rufus' crew shut down any rumors. And no one has the balls to go up against Rufus Shinra.

Graffiti on my locker already, she claims, but won't tell me the words painted on the gray metal. Just that it's been taken care of already. But I know it'll be back again tomorrow- with something new. I pass her my phone, flooded with texts and calls. The false claims. Mocking slurs. She goes through them with a knitted brow; then crosses references the numbers in her own phone. Making a list, she states, of all the people she needs to dead immediately. Then she tells me she's deleting every single one. Blocking unknown numbers. I watch her from my side of the stoop. Wondering what I did to deserve a friend like her. Forgiving me for all my transgressions, without the actions to support my apologies, and then seeking me out to help.

I bite my lip, the rush of shame breaks through the cloud of drugs still coursing through my system. "Aer," I start, my tone uneasy, and she looks at me. "Could you do me one more favor?"

"Anything, Cloud."

"Could you go to my room and delete my Myspace for me? I don't want to look through the comments and messages I got yesterday." I know I lack the self control to avoid looking through the slew of hateful speech that litters my profile. And I know it'll just keep coming. Like a never ending tsunami. And AIM will be enough of a problem once I dare approach my computer. And Aerith looks back at me, her face wilted in sadness for my situation. And while I appreciate the fact that she trekked all the way here from Tottenville to help me, she'll just end up getting pulled into the storm. Torn apart. Spat out. And I already set a bomb to her reputation when we broke up. She didn't deserve that then. She doesn't deserve what she's about to endure now.

One more ask and then I'll cut the string that keeps us together whether she likes it or not.

She accepts her task and disappears into the house. Leaving me in the baking sun to smoke another cigarette. Three left. And I'm not one to waste perfectly good nicotine, so I justify sticking around on this plane of existence long enough to finish off the pack. Anything to keep me here, right?

Aerith leaves once the deed is done. Her face when she reemerged from the front door told me everything I needed to know. Cracked with pity, the lines of her face were the saddest I've ever seen. She made me promise to come to school tomorrow, even if it hurt. Made false promises to stick by me. But I told her not to. That I needed to go down on my own; no use dragging her down with me. She's stubborn. Doubles down. Tells me she'll call me in the morning; if I'm not in class, she'll call every 50 minutes. Risking detention. And once she lays her own scholastic career on the line, I relent and tell her I'll be at school. Not like I could get away with another unexcused absence.

I did tell her to wait for my dad, who was apparently getting off work early, to give her a ride. But she assured me she had one. Then I looked down the block and could see the front of a certain BMW edging towards the corner. I turn to shoot her a glare.

"Really?"

"He's worried about you, Cloud. He left the second half of baseball practice to pick me up. He wanted to make sure you were okay."

"So you're hanging out with the enemy? Giving him intel?"

And she shakes her head, as if she knows my words are weightless, "One minute he's being cheated on, the next he's about to get outed. That's the kind of whiplash that would break anyone's neck, Cloud." She shoots me a pointed glare like a bullet. "I don't condone how he bailed on you- but I'm going to guess he has his reasons?" She waited, and I looked away telling her everything, "Right." She paused, waiting for me to say something else. Instead I close my eyes and shake my own head this time- consider smoking another cigarette to drag the doomsday countdown to two. "He doesn't like showing his emotions, but he's devastated. He loves you more than you could ever know, okay?"

I shrugged. "Tell him I'm fine."

"Cloud, even if I would consider doing that, there's no way he'd believe that shit."

"He's my ex, Aerith. Betcha didn't want me knowing how heartbroken you were when we were done?"

She tries to swallow the laugh. Putting her hand to her lips to push it back, then snorts unattractively. "Uh, right. Of course."

I tell her to just go fuck off to her new bestfriend. In the black BMW. Listening to all my CDs. That I gave him. Bands and songs that now remind me of him. And I'm robbed of writing, and music, and gaming, all because of him. And Aerith doesn't flinch at my sudden change in temperature. She just reminds me I'll be seeing her tomorrow. And she leaves for his car. And I hate the wince in my stomach that pulls me to follow her. To run to the drivers side of that car. To tell him-

Nothing.

The seconds were getting harder.

And I had three cigarettes left. And I thought about smoking all three back, to back to back. Until my lungs collapsed and my throat bled.

Instead I eyed a pile of papers on my bed that had magically appeared- realizing in that moment that Aerith snuck my homework in, probably given to her by him. I huff loudly at the posters on my walls. And think that she went through all the trouble, I might as well dedicate a few fleeting seconds towards homework.

In English we are doing a unit on American poets. Matthews allowed us to pick a poem and dissect it, his words, until it's nothing but bones. And then analyze the bones. I chose The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost, but as I stared at the words on the paper, the swirled like a whirlpool of colors, and I couldn't focus on the curvatures of the lines, let alone start pulling them apart like they were skin.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Reno pops in my head. And the hole in my chest continues to crack. I think about how he's probably grumbling about Frost and his metaphors and his use of nature. He probably feels the speaker shouldn't be bitching about coming upon a fork in the road; that he should just take the road with the most footsteps as it suggests heavy traffic. Meaning there's an end. He won't look at the importance of the color yellow. That yellow can mean bright and illuminating at it's best but yellow could also mean sick and caution. And right now yellow feels like poison. And maybe poetry is only as deep as the person reading it. Reno's probably grumbling about that, too.

Everytime his name finds its way into my head, the hole grows until I feel hollowed out. And maybe it's because I haven't eaten. But the thought of food makes my stomach curl and turn. And I think about how many times I've thrown up in the last two days. And how could I possibly be alive right now after crying all the water from my body.

I try to focus on the yellow wood.

I pretend I'm the lone traveler. Walking through the forest, with the light of the sun piercing through the canopy of translucent trees overhead. Drenching the scenery in a bright yellow hue. And maybe in this case, yellow is comforting. Welcoming. Like a hug from a mother who's been gone too long. And I imagine coming across the fork in the road. Two roads. Staring at both. Taking inventory of each path until my eyes couldn't see anymore. How one disappears and shows no end. But the other path looks worn with footsteps of travelers past. But even so, neither path shouts safe. And which would I choose? If I were that traveler. I guess it depends on what I am looking for?

A knock on my door, and before I answer it creeks open and my father's lake eyes look at me from the darkened hallway.

"Hey, buddy, can I come in?"

His tone startles me. A complete 180 from when he left my room in a fit of rage. I nod my head and he emerges, still in his business suit and dog tie. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed and I think about the shadow in my room when I took my diphenhydramine nap.

"What are you doing?" He asks, peering over at my open notebook and sheet of paper.

"Analyzing a poem," I respond coldly.

He nods, "I was never good at English." Pause. Watch as his face acknowledges the truth of that statement. "Never good at communicating." I drop my eyes back to the second stanza of the poem. And just stare at the black lines while my father swallows hard, trying to find the words that brim at the tip of his tongue. "I talked to your mother, by the way," he continues, "I...told her what happened this morning…"

I bring my eyes back to his, tilting my head to the side with an arched eyebrow.

He takes my silence as a sign, "She is not happy with me."

I stifle a laugh. Even thousands of miles away, she still found a way to defend me. "Oh?"

"She thinks I overreacted and did not say the right things…" he trails off, scanning my face for confirmation. Which I give him in a nod. He sighs. There's a lengthy pause- and I'm wondering if this is his pathetic attempt at an apology? And I'm wondering why he hasn't mentioned my face yet, cracked with bruises.

But his own face seems so worn and broken. Like a man at the end of his rope. "I'm not good at talking...my dad wasn't a talker. He only spoke to my siblings and I when he needed to discipline us. Other than that, he mostly just worked, came home, sat in front of the T.V. I thought that was parenting. Just let the kid do whatever he wants as long as he isn't making too much noise." He rubs his face and I swear I saw something glistening in his eye. "Obviously, it takes more than that.

"I don't...know how to communicate with you," he says finally, after another pause that gripped him, "Never could. You and your mother, though, you two had your own language. You didn't talk until you were almost two and a half, and I would get so mad." he clenches his fist, "she just knew what you were thinking. You didn't have to say anything. Just flash your eyes at her, and she could tell just from the look if you were hungry, or wet, or needed attention. Hell, you didn't even cry past a year. Everyone commented on how good of a baby you were. And you were. You were the perfect kid. It was great for us, young parents."

Then a smile cracked along his face. "I was so scared when we had you. But man, you were the easiest baby. Got you on a sleeping schedule pretty quickly. Only a couple of times you would wake up in the middle of the night- not even cry, just whine. I'd let your mother sleep and pick you up. We'd go to the back door and I would show you the family of raccoons. Tell you about the mommy raccoon, and daddy raccoon, and all the baby raccoons. Until you fell back asleep." He laughs and that also feels like yellow. "You don't remember, obviously. That's a memory for me, only, I guess. We don't have many of those.

"Sometimes you would scream at me when I went to pick you up. You just wanted your mother during the day. I didn't know what I did to make you hate me at two, but you did. And I would get frustrated that you wouldn't talk. And I'd yell. And I really didn't mean to yell. I just…" he shakes his head regretfully, "You finally said your first words six months before your third birthday. Your mom and I had gotten into an argument. And you walked in between us and stared right at me and said: 'Don't talk to my mommy like that, daddy."

I snort laugh trying to hide my own amusement at the image of a tiny Cloud standing up for his mother. And my dad looks at me with a smile that mirrors mine. "We forgot what we were fighting about. We both cried because you said mommy and daddy in a full sentence. We hugged you and then you started screaming because you hated when people touched you.

"After that, we couldn't get you to shut up," he chuckles.

"Wow," I roll my eyes, "Bet you wish I never talked again, huh?"

His eyes light up, "Wish you talked more...at some point, you stopped talking to both of us." He looks away, staring at the Metallica posted that hangs in my room. "You talked non-stop. I mean, it was exhausting. Crawling on top of your mother and me, just talking and talking and talking. About anything. Asking me why like a broken record. We thought...at that point...you might need a sibling to entertain you. Someone you can run your mouth to-"

Then he stops short. His eyes darken. The smile on his face dies. And I know that forlorn gaze. The broken portrait of a father.

"It was nice when Tifa came around," he seems to ponder out loud, "you two played together all the time. She's a talker, too. It worked. You two would play with your action figures and barbies and make up these elaborate stories together. Sometimes, we adults would sit in the kitchen while you were in the living room and just listen to the stories you'd come up with- mostly from you. You were bossy as shit." He cringes when he curses and I wonder if he didn't realize I've said worse. "Mom used to write them down, the stories. Said she would give them to you when you're older…" Then he wonders to himself where those stories went…

He stops. Eyes on the floor. Somehow I can see the ocean between us, murky and cold. And it stretches forever. And this is merely a drop of effort in a bucket that's never been filled.

"There's a lot you don't know," he sighs, "a lot we've kept from you. And even now, I don't know how to tell you."

"You don't know how to talk to me," I murmur, "I don't know how to talk to you, either."

He nods, this time, crushed with a sadness that I've rarely seen on his face. "I wish we would have figured it out by now- that's on me."

I bite the inside of my lip; because I'm hit with a tidal wave. This is the closest he's ever come to an apology in sixteen years. But I'm dragged into the abyss from the undertow. And while I needed this conversation, I think, I still can't find the words to call for help. I can't even find the strength to reach out.

We sit in silence as the clock continues to tick the seconds away. And I can see the sun begin to descend casting an orange glow that attempts to break through black fabric. And I think about what the symbolism behind the color orange could be. And what sunsets mean in this context.

"Have you eaten anything?" he asks finally.

"No," and that was the first bit of truth I've told him in forever.

"Do you want to go to Denino's? Get as much pizza as we want before your mother comes home. She's already complaining about her weight and wants to go on a diet," he rolls his eyes.

"I don't really feel like being out in public," I purse my lips and cringe at how he nods away the idea sadly, "But can we order pick up and I'll go for the ride with you?"

His lips twitch into a cautious smile, "Yeah. Good idea. We can watch the game tonight. Place some bets between the two of us?" I nod in agreement, "Okay. Large pie, sausage and peppers?"

I offer him confirmation of my order. He tells me he'll get me when he's ready to go. Part of me despises the thought of watching basketball with my father, trying to find common ground. The other part...wonders where my mother put the notebooks lined with stories I told at three. Or what happened to the siblings that never came. If there are any other memories only he remembers. Maybe if he divulges those secrets, I'll risk telling mine. And maybe the ocean between us will deplete. To a lake or shallow river. And we'll figure out how to translate each other's language.

I bring my eyes to the poem once more. Taking special note of the final stanza.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.