It began as any other Sunday would. I awoke long before Father, and prepared breakfast. Simple buttermilk pancakes topped with melted, organic butter, perfectly-peeled oranges, and a glass of milk for each of us. I imagined that would be sufficient, as I heard his door open, alerting me of the end of his slumber.

Harrison upheld a sense of dignity around him, walking with a poise few knew, and fewer desired. As unbending as the beams of all the buildings he designed, he walked through the kitchen to his chosen seat, not uttering a word. And, upon sitting down, he examined the meal.

"When did you make this?"

An average inquiry, "I finished not 2 minutes prior to your waking."

"Ah, I see," I could feel the snide remark coming, "you cut it a bit close there, son. Fortunate that you did not make a mistake and have to prepare our meals again. I've little patience for that." If I did not finish it early enough, it was always some snip like that. Just early enough, or too early, and there'd be another sort of insult. He always came prepared. Did he think of these things whilst lying in bed in the morning sun? Was it the rays of daylight converted into flaming lashes for him to send out towards insolent people like myself? I would not be surprised.

I made an effort to look toward my watch. I always did this, because it seemed a habit that was accepted as a norm for those wearing watches. Father seemed to believe so as well, because he thought little of it. Best I do something normal in his eyes than something to inspire another snap of his tongue.

Breakfast was tense, as it always was, at least for me. I always served myself a lesser portion, as I did not enjoy it quite as much without the simple pleasure of maple syrup, but Father disapproved of it. And so, it was not in the house, as he always had his way. It was difficult to stomach the food when I had dread in its place in my stomach. For what, who knew but Father?

"I imagine your Mother called yesterday," I didn't catch my reaction fast enough. All it took was the slightest shift in my eyelids, and he knew. He continued on, "please do tell me that you kept the conversation short. She really should be meeting you in person to discuss things, rather than wasting more of my money to help feed into whatever it is she is up to now."

Father paid for her rehab, in the beginning. Then there was The Divorce; an entirely ridiculous and unnecessary affair, I assure you; but Father found it for the best. All it did was make her suffer...but I digress. Now, I believe the State pays for her treatment. I can't honestly recall. Father does aid her, from time to time - Mother tells me it's because he did love her, at one time, and feels guilt for having left her - but as far as he was concerned, she was beyond help. He simply helped her live contentedly, but gave no more than that. He was barely tolerant of her Saturday calls.

"Two minutes. She shall be here in person next Saturday, rather than wasting a phone call," though it was never a waste, not in my eyes.

"We'll see."

His dark tone stole the light from the room, and I saw contempt flash in his eyes. I did not reply to his cruel remark, however; for I knew what he said was true.

We finished breakfast, and I tidied up. Father had no time for such things, and so, I did the chores. Along the far side of the refrigerator lay neatly-written notes, each one detailing daily, weekly, and monthly tasks. I knew them all by heart. Perhaps that is why I can't open my heart up to anyone else; it is filled to the brim with useless, novelty things. Like when to clean the fireplace, or the only items worth saving if there ever is a fire.

None of mine, of course.

The day went on as it always did. Father sat at the desk in his study, taking occasional breaks on the couch in the living room. On the left side, his side. Fortunately, it was undisturbed, and he made no comment. He'd return to his study, and I'd do my best to avoid any quips he might have for me whilst I tidied up the house.

I had to mention my plans for the day at some point, and knew delaying them would get a remark. I was foolish to delay it as long as I had.

"Marie has invited me over for dinner this evening; may I go?"

He didn't look my way, "You've taken your time in telling me. You could have saved me the effort of planning dinner. Go, now."

His way of saying, 'Get out of my face, I don't want you around and you finally gave me an excuse to kick you out of the house.' But an elegant man such as himself would never lower himself to such words. I had simply done him a favor. I left without saying goodbye, but ensured the door was locked behind me.

I didn't let my shoulders sag until I was out of view of my own house.

It's strange; I don't get much relief from slouching anymore. I've stood up straight for so long, that I have to literally force myself into anything other than perfect posture. Despite the lack of relief, though, I do enjoy it. I revel in the fact I'm doing something Father would dislike. Just once, I'd like to spend an entire weekend without abiding by his rules...just once...

The trek to Marie's house was a long one, unless I cut through the woods. Which I did. I made a mental note to come home late enough that Father did not see my dirtied dress shoes, but I had no desire to prolong my walk. Unfortunately, upon arrival, I caught a whiff of the stale splendor of their home. It was always one of them, smoking; I was simply glad they did not do it in the house. I still could not stand it, however.

May was leaning against the trailer, and her brown roots were showing. She looked nothing like her sister, but still did all she could to be different. I didn't understand siblings. I nodded to her when I came into view.

"May."

She held her cigarette up in the air, between her index and middle finger, and tilted it toward the door, "She's inside."

I nodded again, and went to the door, creaking it open. They never locked it when someone was home, and for good reason. No one in their right mind would mess with these girls; it was actually amusing to picture. That, and they had little worth stealing. The musty scent of the living room made my nose cringe, as I turned toward Marie's room. She shared it with May, but generally May minded her own business, which I was glad for.

The door was opened, and Marie was sitting half cross-legged on her bunk, high above. I could see the sketchpad on her lap, and bit back a comment. For a moment.

"...Idly doodling again, Maria? Do your grades not require studying?"

"Whatsit to ya, black-eyes?" she responded intuitively, not batting an eye in my direction. I watched the cogs in her head whir for a moment, as she stopped her drawings.

"Not black-eyed, today, I'm afraid. He would not approve, but I believe you know that already."

The smile was on her face now, as she slipped down from her high perch, letting the sketch pad and pencil drop on her sister's bunk.

"Hey, how's it hangin'?" she said, a wide grin plastered upon her face, as her arms foretold a hug. I allowed it, for her sake, sighing outwardly so to not breath in the stench of cigarettes still heavy upon her.

"Adequate. Father had me leave; I did not tell him soon enough that you desired me over. Such a shame."

We shared a look. Her grin got wider, "I'm sure he'll get over it."

"I'm quite certain that flies have brains, too, Maria."

"Cut it, Eddward. We need to talk, chill...hey, let's just relax!" She grabbed the remote, clicking on her tiny television and plopping down on May's bunk, "I'll drill you about your 'Little Red' later, but first we need to get your daddy issues out of your head. Let's go."

"...Thrilling."

But still, I gave a thin-lined smile, one only she would recognize.

And I tried to find some peace-of-mind in that fact.

"That's great, Eddward," she was sincere, but I could see the worry at the edge of her eyes.

"So long as she shows, that is."

"She will. Just trust her this time." Key word here: This time.

"I am attempting to."

"Don't let your old man get to you, she will! Just trust me."

I sighed, and did not respond.

She frowned, "Alright, alright...lighter topic now. How's Red doing?"

"Fine, I imagine."

She crossed her arms, "And how're yooou doing with hiiim?" She dragged the words out teasingly, and I looked down and away, searching for words.

"...As would be expected."

"So basically you're just playing with your food?"

Precisely. "It isn't as simple as one would think, Marie."

"Oh, yada-yada Eddward, you and your sad thoughts. If the kid didn't like you, he'd be long gone by now."

True enough. "Or perhaps he is too afraid of me to run."

She smirked, raising an eyebrow doubtingly, "From what you've told me, you're the one doing the running."

Oh, hardy-har-har. "Wonderful observation, Marie. Let me add that to my list of things others are aware of that I am not."

"Well, it's a pretty big list."

We glared at one another. Eventually, though, a smirk crept up along one side of her mouth, and she chuckled.

"Enough teasing, Marie. Ask what you wish to inquire."

She cracked her knuckles, sitting cross-legged on the bottom bunk, "Hmmmmm...so how did you do it?"

"We haven't done 'it,' Marie," I snarked.

"Oh, ha ha. How did you two kiss?"

I growled in my throat, taking a moment to recall the scene. I had to distance myself so to not give her more to tease me about, "I...suppose I asked him. And he did not decline. I gave him ample opportunity to, but..."

"...but you actually took what you wanted for once, didn't you?"

I remained silent.

"Was he okay with it?"

"...hardly."

She read my facial expressions for a moment, as I was not attempting to hide them...and nodded, "Good. I didn't think you the type, anyhow."

"I said-"

"Yeah, but your eyes say he didn't mind it. And your eyes are bad liars. 'Least to me," she smirked, "especially when they're not all painted up."

I sighed exhaustedly, and she smiled. I felt a hand on my back, and slumped a little.

"I'm proud of you, Eddward."

"I'm sick to death of myself."

Her smile was sad, "I know...I really do."

Our silence kept for a time, before she returned to her sketch pad. I didn't watch; she did not enjoy an audience or commentary, and I respected that. At least 15 minutes I sat there, thoughts turning the past few days' events over, as I listened to the calming scribble of graphite against paper.

I heard the pencil make a plush sound as it dropped on the blanket beside her, and she shoved the paper in front of me.

There was an artistic gleam in her eye, creative and lovely, how I envied it. I looked down at the paper.

A broken boy was sitting in it, staring blankly at nothing, almost through the world itself. A jean jacket wove around his shoulders, half-off. His plain, white t-shirt seemed to blend with the paleness of his skin. His neck was skinny, his features drawn and defined. He held onto his own hands as though holding onto his own life.

I always loathed when she drew me.

It was always so depressingly accurate.