Fathers' son
He hated his father. He really hated him. He hated him with everything he had. He hated the way he walked and talked. He hated the things he would say, those cruel, off handed remarks. He hated the way he acted, the self serving decisions he made so candidly without thought for those affected. He hated his attitude, not only towards him but to others around him. They were all there to serve him, to help him achieve what he wanted, to make him happy. He hated his temper, which would flare up unexpectedly and furiously. He hated the way he didn't love those who loved him. He hated the way his mother would sometimes say, "you're just like him at that age". He hated the way people would say, "you've got a lot to live up to" or, "you'll be just like him one day". He hated the way he looked like him, because any connection felt like proof that they were the same. Most of all he hated that he was bound, irrevocably, to his father. There was no escaping it. He had to obey; he had to go along with everything. What else could he do? Without his father he would be penniless, homeless, he would lose what little of his family he loved. More importantly after the years of being told what to do, what to say, what to hope for, what was expected, he didn't know how to leave, he didn't know what he would do when following was not an option and deep down he knew he still wanted to please his father, that he was still trying to get the attention, the praise, the love of the only man in his life. He knew it was true and he hated it.
Even greater then his hatred was his fear. He was scared he would become his father. He was frightened that one day there would be much more then physical similarities, that he would hear himself saying the same words, in the same way to his son. That he would live for only himself and crush the others around him underneath his own desires. That no one would love him. That no one would truly care. That he would push those who did away while trying to gain some elusive financial desire. It was his fear and his obsession. He constantly asked people, "do you really think I'm like him?". His mother always said yes, it crushed him to hear the answer and still he asked as often as possible. He would question his friends, am I like him? Do I look that much like him? Do you think I'm going to be like him? Am I really like him? At all? Even a little bit? They knew what tore at him, what was destroying him slowly from the inside. They knew that ever since he could understand hate he had and ever since he could recognize similarities between the two he had and that from a child he had made the decision to be different. Of course not, they would answer, don't be ridiculous. You're nothing like him; you don't even look that much like him. They would say it religiously, vigorously, if not honestly. Because every day, despite fighting against the current, they could see him slipping into mannerisms, the looks, the attitudes of his father.
When he was a teenager he ran away, only for a few nights. He stayed with a friend. He wanted to see what it was like to be free. To go where he wanted to. To consider not returning. But he did return, he couldn't help but return. His father slapped him in the back of the head, told him he was stupid and ungrateful. Told him if he ever ran away again he'd better not return because there would be hell to pay, he would suffer as he'd never suffered. He remembered that and never left the house for more then one night again. Just in case. Just in case what he would never know.
He once lay in the arms of a lover and wept in frustration and agony because he had lost all control over his life. She had tried to comfort him with empty words and cliché phrases. She even tried to joke around that his father could never be as good a lover as he was. He wept harder. He never returned to her arms. That was when he gave up on finding the right girl for him. No one could ever understand, no one could ever perceive his pain. No one could ever comfort him properly. He didn't want to burden anyone else with his problems. From that moment all a girl was to him was sex. Someone to share a bed, not a mind. One of these lovers got pregnant, she was much younger then him and not the type of girl his father liked. He eventually told his father. His father was very angry, he hit his son, he yelled and then he decided what would happen. The girl was paid to go away. She gladly took the money, signed whatever was in front of her and left. It hurt him to think that he would never see his first child. That she might kill his baby. That his son or daughter would never know who he was but there was too much comfort in not having to make a decision. In following, in blaming someone else, in not having to deal with any of it.
He eventually found a wife. He didn't love her; he couldn't, not when he didn't truly understand love. However she didn't expect too much from him, the image of care was all she needed. He knew she desperately wanted to be loved, by anyone because she had never fitted in as a teenager. She was ready to take anyone who said that she was right, even when she was wrong. She obeyed as well; she was too scared of losing him. His father didn't object to her and so they were wed. He had his first child, a son named after his father. He thought that he might love this child. Even though it bore his fathers name, much to his disgust, it bore no other physical similarities to him or his father. He looked like his mother. In his eyes he saw nothing, no hate, no fear, no cruelty, no indifference, just helplessness. As the child grew he began to look more and more like his father. Eventually he hated his own son because all he could see was himself, a pitiful attempt at himself.
Then his father died. He was finally freed from those paternal bonds created long ago. He was his own man, alone in the world, able to do what ever he wanted. He hated how his father had abandoned him. He hated how he had never had the chance to tell his father how much he hated him. He hated that he had a child named after him. He hated that just when he had almost accepted servitude he had been set free. He hated that he didn't know what to do. He hated that even after his father had gone he wasn't in control. He hated that he had a wife his father had liked. He hated that he lived in his father's house. He hated that now he was the head of the house. He hated he had inherited his fathers position.
An uncle came over to him at the funeral to give his condolences. He told the man he didn't want sympathy. Later his uncle would mutter, "he has his fathers demeanour". Some distant cousin, a little girl was laughing as her brother pulled faces. He snapped at the children, he told them to shut up, know their place and stay out of his way. Her mother whispered to her husband, "he has his fathers temper". He brushed past his wife and child and sat alone, two old friends who saw agreed, "he has the exact same attitude as his father". When his mother told him all the people would be returning to their house for the wake he punched a tree and he stormed off. She gave a weak sort of laugh and said to herself, "there goes his fathers son"
AN: …eh? What the hell is this? This is actually Boris' story. I wanted to make someone feel sorry for him! How did I do?