Chapter 69q: Escalation
Once more, I find myself powerless in my own household.
Ignore the help I need every time something falls to the ground.
Ignore the racket of Cain's music I am subjected to on the regular through the walls.
Ignore the fact I can't cook my own meals and am mostly dependent on varieties of takeout to make sure I and my son eat in a somewhat responsible manner.
Ignore even the struggle in not being able to prevent your own son from not listening to you as he closes the door shut in your face.
All of those are just inconveniences compared to the crux of the problem.
Cain has grown up, yet he does not respect me.
Were he a year or two younger, or rather, if I had never taken that forsaken nap, then he'd still be my _son_. He'd listen to me, even if he hated my guts. Admittedly, it may have been Matilda's efforts in keeping the peace inside our little family, but that is still how it would be.
But now, he's lived two years without me, his dad, having even the slightest bit of relevance to his life. His life hasn't been easy, but fair is fair: that piece of shit son of mine can only blame himself for ending up in that position to begin with.
Which brings us to this point.
Zoe. Fucking Zoe.
Love the woman. She's a marvel. Not like Matilda, but still, she's a damn fine gem amongst the rubble that is humanity.
But she said she can't keep doing this.
An audible sigh escapes me. No, she didn't say it. She outright yelled it to the point where I am quite sure the neighbors heard through these flimsy little walls. But even if they didn't hear, the door that slammed close in the end is bound to have told the entire story.
'Get a counselor! Find a shrink! Whatever! I am not one of those! Nor am I the nanny of you two stubble-covered babies!'
The words are stuck on replay in my mind, even thirty minutes later, and I can only reprimand myself inwardly because I find myself wanting to compare her to Matilda, to decide which of the two I deserve the least.
Stop it, Quinn! Pity and a lager go hand in hand.
I can't go down that route. Fuck Cain if I have to, because karma is a bitch I can't save him from, but Setsuka deserves better!
Zoe is right. She's not a nanny.
And yet she spends her time off to try and help us out. Were I to offer her some quid for her time, she'd be outright insulted, even if I were a millionaire rather than the poor sod who has experienced first hand that medical bills just eat through savings.
If things are to change here, it really, really has to come from me and Cain. Not any outside forces, no matter how crucial and important the neighbors are in the process of having Cain turn his music down for the day.
Frankly, it still boggles my mind how he can be so respectful to them to lower the volume the moment they ring the doorbell for the fifth time in a week, yet be so callous whenever it comes to me.
Ugh. Enough dillydallying. Drastic measures.
Slowly, I push my wheelchair through the apartment and fuss around a bit in order to open the door to the hallway. This place unfortunately offers a far less muffled experience of Cain's musical tastes, which is why I tend to keep the door closed despite the obvious problems that offers when getting around the place.
The closet with the electrical meter is thankfully not as hard to open; it is just a little magnet that keeps it closed. In there is my old toolbox; the thing is all rusted over but I can't bear to part with it. Matilda gave it to me for our fifth anniversary, after all.
I lean over, feeling the pain of the muscles that have failed to recuperate as quickly as I had once hoped. Some angling and wild grabbing, and I finally get a hold of the lid of the toolbox. It flips open with a small clanging as I exert all the force I can; the lid is heavy and I don't want to repeat this angling a couple more times.
First time is the charm, thankfully.
In it, I soon see my hammer. It too has been affected by moisture a bit, but with the head being stainless steel, it doesn't look half as pathetic as the toolbox itself. Luckily it rests right on top of the other tools; Cain was helpful enough still in those first few days to pretend to make an effort, and some nails were put into the walls back then.
As I lift it up, I feel the familiar weight. I used this thing plenty back then, and holding it again is like a familiar friend coming to visit. A blast from the past.
Well, none of that matters. Today, my old friend, you are going to help me make some changes around here.
One final glance; it wouldn't do to make mistakes. 'Small bedroom.'
That is the one.
One swing.
One hit.
And glorious silence.
Several moments later, Cain's bedroom door opens, and I can see his annoyance masked with the sheer indifference he tries to show me.
"I'll just flip it again, you know. Or have you forgotten? Your brains aren't that rotten yet, are they?"
He seems to be convinced it is easy to fix, and I toss the hammer down at the ground to make a point.
"I smashed your fuse. No more music. And no more hiding."
I dare say I sound like a proper parent. All calm and collected. Making a stance. Laying down the law.
Unfortunately, a little 'oh' is all he has to offer as he turns away and closes the door again to hide in his now silent facility.
Sodding hell. Is he going right back to hiding again?!