Chapter 34c: Cockroach
Cockroaches never die, do they?
The phone in my hands seems to stare back at me. Mocking me.
Make this call, Cain. It has been long overdue, Cain.
"Fuck."
Opposite me is Marc. He would be one to keep me to a promise, after all. Especially this one. The cornerstone of my treatment.
My hand trembles a bit as I slide the scrap of paper on the desk towards me. And then, I start dialing while trying to ignore the shit-eating grin of the councilor.
"You know, that smile isn't nearly as supportive as you'd like to think."
He laughs, but doesn't respond, clearly not rising to the challenge that will let me cease dialing the number.
I lift it to my ear. I hear the sound. It should be ringing on the other end.
"Yes?"
It's a woman's voice.
"Hi. This is Cain Heel. I'm calling to speak w-"
"Yes. He's here. Waiting. I'm putting you on speaker phone, okay? He's too weak to hold it still."
That woman sounds just a bit too bubbly and happy. He'd probably drink an eyeful of a nurse like that, huh? The sound changes and I hear a small thump, as if the phone is being placed down.
".. Hey Cain."
"Hey dad."
It is silent on the other side of the line.
Well, I guess it makes sense. He's probably shocked. I don't think I called him dad ever since she went blind.
"Huh. How are you, son?"
"Good."
More silence fills the air, and as much as I had expected the guy across from me to make motions to hurry me along, he is just pleasantly sitting there, figuring he can enjoy the show on the sidelines.
Let's just get this over with.
"So uh.. I've been in therapy."
He tries to respond, but some coughing happens on the other side, and I think I hear the sounds of swallows. Probably a drink for his throat or whatever.
"I was told. Any girls?"
Really, dad? Fuck. And fuck again. No. I'm not calling him that, even if that is such an utterly dad-esque thing to say.
But he does not get to say that shit. My jaws clench as my eyes flit to the therapist opposite me who by all means appears to be the epitome of professional responsibility.
"Just some stupid bi-" I start saying, then recalling there's someone overhearing me on this end, and probably more-so on the other end, "... law breaking types. Not my type."
On his end of the line, he laughs. Or wheezes. Not quite sure what it is. I think that cute-sounding nurse of his is at least not offended judging the higher-pitched giggling that joins it, but maybe she just takes pleasure in seeing him suffer.
I would.
"So what's your type, kiddo? Figure it out yet?"
What the hell is with this conversation? Can't you just let me say what I want rather than get washed up in your fucking parental bloodhound mode?
"None of your business. LOOK." I raise my voice a bit, a deep sigh escaping me.
"I'm just calling you for one thing, and I hope you'll let me do it."
He groans. It is that groan that betrays his bottom line as a parent. He's always been bad at dealing with changes. He expected a father-son tête-à-tête, but instead I just want to get down to business.
Why is it that I, the son, have to understand how to handle a conversation like this anyway? Damn that old fart.
"I called you because I want to apologize."
I _need_ to apologize, to be precise. But Marc will strangle me if I sneak in that technicality - the fact he is smiling so proudly means this was at the very least the right choice of words to please him.
"Oh. Well. You don't have to."
Goddamn. I need to. That's the entire point of this call.
Would I even be speaking to you if it wasn't to make sure this force of reckoning opposite me is going to shit over my treatment record? I don't think he can turn back time, but he's a damn therapist. They are way overpowered when it comes to screwing with you; the police have nothing on him.
At least the latter need proof. All Marc needs is a gut feeling.
"Yes. I have to. Dad, I am sorry for punching you."
Marc frowns. His gaze is strong and tinged with disappointment. Well. No wonder. I didn't mention the coma bit.
According to him, I need to 'respect the outcome of my actions'.
I on the other hand believe that 'I never intended for him to take such a prolonged nap', and the outcome has nothing to do with why I punched his lights out.
Truth be told I wished he hadn't woken up. Things were just improving in life. But now he's going to muck things up again. It is what he is good at.
"I forgive you."
I roll my eyes, but Marc is motioning his finger around. He wants me to reciprocate. Like we discussed.
Fuck that. I am not forgiving him.
One simple button press ends the call without an exchange of goodbyes. The weight in my chest that seemed to have shifted to my hand is finally gone as the phone is placed down on the desk.
Sorry Marc, I have no intention on passing this test of yours perfectly. I'm going to be satisfied with a C- this time.