Saturday, February 10th 1:45 PM
Arnold took the last few bites of the sandwich he made for lunch. He wiped his mouth and headed towards the dishwasher. He put his dishes away and walked towards the hallway. He stuck his head out first, looking for signs of his father. Seeing no movements, he walked towards the stairs. He lumbered up the stairs slowly. He wanted to avoid the common areas, but couldn't shake his exhaustion.
Arnold spent the days following the fight in introspection. Arnold felt like one of the walking dead, just going from one noise to the other. Arnold spent the previous night with Helga. She had come over trying to pry out of him what was causing his quiescence.
"Arnold, come on. I know something is going on up there. What happened?" Helga asked. She was laying next to him in bed and tapping his forehead. The afternoon was spent quietly making their way through the list of old movies Arnold had put together for them to watch.
"There's nothing wrong. I'm fine," Arnold lied. Arnold put on his bravest face. "I had a talk with my dad, we need to just talk some more about it," Arnold finished.
"You talked to him? How did he take it? Did you tell him you wanted to go to art school?" Helga asked sitting up.
"Yeah, we talked," Arnold said remembering back to the screaming match. "We just need time to let everything settle," Arnold said.
"Well that's good, right? You started the conversation," Helga said.
"Yeah," Arnold said. He smiled through his reticence.
Helga smiled back at him and snuggled closer to him to continue their Friday night movie marathon.
Arnold smiled. "At least I get to see her still. I don't know how I'd get through this without her. Wait… If that's true then why am I lying to her?" Arnold asked himself. At the top of the stairs, he saw his mother making her way down the hall with a basket of clothes.
"Hey sweetie, how are you? I haven't seen you all day," Stella asked. "You're hair! It's such a mess!" she said as she stood on her toes to tussle his hair.
"Mom! Come on," he said as he waved her off. "I'm alright, I've just been in my room. You know?" Arnold said, without and explanation he wanted to give.
"Well don't spend all your life up there. The other members of the house would like to make sure you're still walking around," Stella asked. "You got any clothes you need to be washed?" Stella asked.
"Uh no, I don't. Thanks, mom," Arnold said to her. "Why isn't she angry at me? There's no way dad didn't tell her about the other night," Arnold thought to himself.
"Well alright then. What's the plan for the day?" Stella asked.
"Well, there's that party that Rhonda's throwing later tonight," Arnold said.
"Ah, the Lloyd's are entertaining, huh? Well if I don't see you have fun, and be safe please," Stella asked. She placed her hand on his shoulder and Arnold nodded. She walked down the hallway with her laundry, and Arnold began walking towards his room.
Arnold made it into his room. He started looking through his closet for outfits for the night. He took off his shirt and started looking through his t-shirts. He threw some possible choices onto his bed. He also grabbed his jacket. February usually brought cool nights, he wanted to be ready. "Why wasn't she angry?" Arnold thought again suddenly. "Oh god, how can I tell her I want to go to art school? She'll be so disappointed," Arnold thought to himself.
A knock at the door pulled him out of his thoughts. "Arnold, you in there?" Miles called from the other side.
"….Yeah, I'm here," Arnold called.
His father opened the door, as Arnold pulled on his white undershirt. "Oh, sorry to barge in son," Miles said.
"It's fine," Arnold said flatly.
Miles made his way into the room. He looked around and saw the various art supplies mixed with the computer and peripherals Arnold had strewn on his desk. He closed the door and leaned against it. Arnold had his back towards him. Determined not to make eye contact, and select a shirt.
"Son, we never finished our conversation. It's tough to come to a resolution when you stomp out of the room like a child," Miles said.
Arnold screwed up his face as his anger flared up. All the time thinking gone, as Arnold was back at the first night he destroyed his room. "I don't really want to talk about this right now, Dad," Arnold said curtly.
"Well, that's just too bad. We're gonna talk about this. We're gonna talk about your poor judgment in how you handle your life," Miles said.
"I already said everything I need to say," Arnold said in a pithy tone.
"Well, I have some things I need to say. Son, why are you set on fighting me on everything?" Miles said, raising his voice.
"I'm not fighting you, dad! I'm just trying to live how I want to live," Arnold said. He turned towards his father and looked him in the eye from across the room.
"Son, tell me why. Tell me why you would throw away your future? Why would you waste all your potential pursuing this?" Miles asked.
"I'm not throwing anything away. I want to focus on what I want, for once," Arnold said.
"Arnold I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do. But, you could be so much more. You're choosing to fail, and I can't support it," Miles said.
"I'm choosing to live out the future that I want," Arnold said.
"Arnold I see this all the time. It happens to everyone. You meet some girl, she fills your head with all these wild ideas, and you want to run away together. I get it," Miles said.
"No, you don't!" Arnold said, cutting him off. Arnold's anger on full display. "It has nothing to do to with her. I want this, I want to go to art school!" Arnold yelled.
Miles anger broke out. "Do not yell at me! I am your father!" Miles yelled back.
"You're my father? I wouldn't know, you seem more like some authoritarian college professor to me!" Arnold yelled.
"You know what? Fine! You want to toss out such potential and lay waste to your last name, you do that. Don't expect me to be there to support it," Miles said. He turned on his heel and walked out of Arnold's room, slamming the door.
"Good! I wouldn't want you there anyway!" Arnold shouted to the closed door!
Arnold stood there, stewing in his anger. He continued looking through his closet. He looked at the same shirts over and over again. He couldn't focus. His vision started to blur. "Dammit," Arnold said to himself.
Arnold stood in front of his closet. He looked into his mirror next to it on the wall. He noticed the coat of dust obscuring the reflection of himself. "I should really clean that," Arnold thought to himself. Arnold turned away and started to pace his room again. Arnold looked forlorn at the bottle of anxiety medication on the shelf. "Thank god he didn't see that. I don't need to explain this on top of our regular fighting material," Arnold thought to himself.
He opened the bottle and looked at the amount of remaining pills. "No, this isn't a panic attack. I don't need it," Arnold said out loud. He closed the bottle and placed it back on his shelf. He turned and walked back over to his closet. He looked up again seeing himself in the mirror. He saw a tear running down his face. He wiped his eye and looked again at his reflection. His anger rose again, as he cursed his reflection and closed his eyes.