not sure what's come over me, but I haven't stopped thinking about Ridge (or any of the next generation) since I published Hotwired.

so here's this!

-endless

hotwired: part ii

I've been the so-called "man of the house" since I was four.

Not like I had much of a choice. Dad wasn't around to protect anyone except himself. He wasn't around to watch Mom lose her mind at being a single mother, but also a married woman. He wasn't around to watch her fall back into her depression, her panic attacks that he apparently used to keep at bay. Thought I was four years old, I knew when my mother wasn't herself, and the six years it took Dad to come back home she totally changed.

When they'd seldomly have a phone call, it lasted about ten minutes, but I knew that it meant everything to her. Hearing his voice after months of not speaking, after the prospect of his name appearing on news headlines every single day, meant everything to her. Knowing that he was alive and he would come home, and insisting he would after I asked her a thousand times, meant everything to her. It still does.

Sometimes I think I'm older than him in knowing right from wrong. It's right to come home to your family. It's right to come home to your brothers, to your nephews and one niece. It's right to never take these things for granted.

But it's wrong to leave again and again. It's wrong to hold your wife in your arms like it's the last time you'll see her. It's wrong to tell your four-year-old son, "You're the man of the house now. Watch over your brother and your Mom. I'm counting on you."

It's sickening that he told me that. It makes me flinch when I think about it. The fact that he was counting on me from such a young age, when I should be counting on him, is disgusting. I should be counting on him in ways that a son could only depend on his father. I should be counting on him to be the man of the house, take control when the world is against every single thing in our lives, hold Vixen and I tight and never let us go.

But here I am, fourteen and feeling the anxiety rise each time he leaves. The anxiety of taking care of Vixen and Mom, because I know she's going to lose her mind all over again. To be fourteen and raise your six-year-old brother while your mom seeks out therapy, medication, and then eventual hospitalization is enough to make me bitter. To be raised by your uncles instead of your own father, because he's a coward and can't stop helping people but can't ever be on the same soil as his family for longer than a year or two is enough to make hate him.

I shouldn't hate him. I know that. My father is a great man; a strong man, a selfless man. He's a soldier, who has risked his life a thousand and one times for people he cares about, even when he was younger.

But I know he has demons. I know he has nights where he doesn't sleep. I know Mom has had to shake him awake from nightmares. I know Mom has had to watch him panic at the sound of the front door opening.

I shouldn't know any of this. I should be oblivious to all of his demons, his disasters, his life from war. I shouldn't care so much that he's left us time and time again. I shouldn't hold it against him; he was doing his duty. But at the same time, he has a duty to us - to his family. To his brothers, his nephews, his niece. He has a duty to be here, on American soil, on a ground that we both stand on.

Sometimes, I can't help but think he'd rather live among dead bodies, war-torn countries, and his orders to kill.

It's like the world implodes when he leaves.

To be frank, it's not surprising. Seeing your father leave for what feels like the millionth time and realizing that he may never come back is terrifying.

Vixen's given up on asking Mom questions because she's drowning in her own thoughts. So, to combat that, he has started asking me - what it was like the first time, the second time, and now the third. He's started asking me if Dad wants to be over there, if Dad will ever stay for longer than his typical "up-and-go-when-a-year-passes-by."

Each time, I have to remind him that I don't make the call for him to come home. I don't beg on our five-second phone calls for him to get honorably discharged like Vixen or Mom. I don't do anything; just sit on the line and listen to the war zone and Dad's eventual, "I've gotta go. I love you." And I force myself to say it back.

I remember the first time he left. It was complete chaos, the reek of exhaust flooding my four-year-old lungs. Feeling Mom's tears fall against my hair as she held me to her side. Seeing the remorse and the pride in Dad's eyes clash against one another, finally mixing into a watercolor painting of sadness and duty. And then hearing him say he was counting on me? That made me feel like I would rather take his place than hear him say it ever again.

Him being here now, in the flesh, is something I never thought I would resent.

Gracie and I have always been close. Maybe it's because I'm the second and she's the third in our line of Curtis blood, maybe because I've grown up around her with Dad being gone.

It's always exciting when I see her. There's such a elation I feel, and I know I should feel that same way with Dad.

Our relationship is to the point where she doesn't even need to hear my voice. She knows the sound of my footsteps as I climb the stairs of their huge house, feeling like an ant in a great big forest. "You're not very quiet," she says as I appear at her doorway. Her eyes shine with humor as I make my way into her bedroom, falling onto her bed with my back against her crisscrossed legs.

"Really? I would've never thought that." We smile at each other as she rolls her eyes.

It's quiet for a minute. The only sounds in the room are our breathing and the pages from the book Gracie's reading. All of a sudden, her voice cuts through the echoing of the chatter, laughter, and shouting that rises from downstairs. "Do you know -"

"No." I cut her off. I know what she was about to ask: if I know anything about Dad's potential deployment. "Why the fuck does everyone ask me?"

She flinches at the word "fuck." It's a word she's not allowed to use - will probably never use, come to think of it. Aunt Ella would never let the word fall off her tongue. I feel my heart curse at my mind as she grows quiet again, and I can tell she's trying hard not to cry. She's always been sensitive, and I guess that's expected - neither Aunt Ella nor Uncle Pony are stubborn. They're, as Dad would say, "passive aggressive to the core."

I shove myself forward so that I'm sitting up. "I'm sorry, G," and I can feel her willingness to forgive me. She casts me a glance, catches me staring at her, and looks away again. She mutters the words "it's okay" and goes back to reading, and recognizing that she wants to be alone, I rise to my feet. My arrogant side finds its way into my body as I tap her shoulder and duck from her "forceful" blow. I dart for the door, calling out, "You love me and you know it" as I descend the staircase. Halfway down, I leap onto the railing and slide the rest of the way, nearly flying as my socks hit oak wood floor.

Regret scores down my spine as I enter the kitchen, seeing Vixen's enraged stare. He faces Dad with a face so red that I almost think it's going to melt. Mom stands behind Aunt Ella and Uncle Pony, and all three of them look sharply to their left as I come into the room. Though he's only ten, his voice shakes with an anger that has surely come from hearing me scream into my pillow at night. "Why do you go there?"

Mom waves me over with a flick of her wrist as Dad responds, "I don't choose to go!"

"Everyone at school asks questions." I swear to God his voice sounds like mine; like the words are coming out of my mouth. I find myself slowly nodding in agreement and Mom nudges me with her elbow in warning not to say anything.

"I can't control when it happens, Vix," Dad states heavily. "I can't -"

The house grows eerily quiet as Vixen roars, "I hate you!"

It's here that Mom steps in, sliding past Aunt Ella and I to stand beside Dad. She grabs his hand and laces their fingers together, and I see Dad relax. "You don't mean that." They stand in front of my younger brother like he's a battlefield and they're the soldiers. It haunts me as I realize that Aunt Ella, Uncle Pony, and I are their prisoners of war.

"The hatred is mutual."

All eyes turn on me as the realization clicks in my head: I just added fuel to this fire. And I watch Vixen's eyes grow hotter, the hatred for Dad grow deeper, the resentment now tacked onto me as well. As if he wanted this to go his way - all of the frustration in him getting released, and I just had to steal the spotlight.

Dad takes a tentative step towards me. Immediately, I back up, but I'm caught between the cabinets and my Aunt Ella. Mom reaches for Dad to stop him from making it worse. But Dad gives her a steely look from dark brown eyes and she drops her hands from his T-shirt. I feel Aunt Ella wrapping her arms around me in a gesture of protection and comfort, but it's like my body is numb.

"You don't mean that," Mom repeats, her voice barely calm. "You don't."

Dad's right in front of me, holding my shoulders so I can't turn away. Vixen has since moved to Mom's side, aware that the attention is no longer on him, and maybe grateful that I took the pressure off. "Look at me." And when I don't, he forcefully tugs me out of Aunt Ella's grip and says even harsher, "Look at me." I feel my heart speed up at the way I glare at him, the way my body shakes with rage, the way that we've seemed to steal all of the air in the room. I see Gracie standing in the doorway, and from the shock as our gazes lock, I know she's showing concern for both of us. But I know the concern is more for my Dad, since her Dad is worried about his mental state. And, for a split second, I hope he's worried for mine, too. Because this sucks. This waiting game; this confusion if I even want him to come home; this resentment that he keeps leaving.

"I hate you. I fucking -"

There's a hard crack that splits the air, and I realize that my father has just slapped me. I hear Mom gasp harshly, and I know Vixen is hiding behind her, as if afraid he will get the same reaction if he so much as breathes. I shove Dad away, my eyes burning with tears, and I'm surprised at the force I use, because Dad steps a few steps away. Mom grabs his arm and snakes her own around his waist, and I see the fear that shines in her gaze. I'm not sure if the fear is of my Dad or if it's of me, but she can be loyal to him all she wants. Vixen can too.

I bolt from the pretty house. The sunlight blinds me. The woods call to me. The wind is bitter against my tears.

Fuck them all.