Fallen King
"Children begin by loving their parents; after a time they judge them; rarely, if ever, do they forgive them."
-Oscar Wilde
Each step creaked as he made his way up, the dim light above flickering and making his long shadow jump on the wall. He kept his eyes averted, concentrating on his battered sneakers and not the exposed red bricks that lined the narrow staircase. He used to think they shaped the character of the building, now they appear shabby, just a poor man's answer to a lack of plaster.
He reaches the landing in time to hear the shouts. The screams of a girls voice as it reaches fever pitch, and the rumble of a father attempting to regain control. No such luck. The door slams open violently as a skinny blonde with her face hidden in tangles streaks out like a cat running from fire. Her thin frame ploughs into him, all skin and bones. He steadies her instinctively, and she looks up, tears streaming down her cheeks, cutting a river of black across her cheek bones.
Before he would have immediately embraced her in strong arms, with gentle words. But he doesn't really recognise this creature, with wide eyes hidden under dark shadows and mattered hair hiding painted red lips. She's so thin he feels like the slightest pressure from his fingers will make her break, or evaporate into nothing but air. She doesn't give him a chance to test his theory, instead she wrenches herself from his fingers, strength in those light limbs, and pounds her way down the rest of the staircase, each furious step vibrating up to him.
He pauses there for a second, unsure of whether to precede up or descend down to follow her. The sound of strings making an ungodly wailing finally moves him. With a slow heavy plod, sneakers filled with concrete, he makes his way towards the door, too tired to try and make it anywhere else.
World War Three has certainly hit. There are clothes strewn on the floor, fallen from a bag with a broken strap. He glances over to see his Dad, his brown ruffled hair visible over the couch as he hunches over his old guitar, plucking at the strings in an attempt to drown out unpleasant thoughts.
He remembers those same calloused fingers gripping his small digits tightly and lifting him up to tower above the world on strong shoulders. Back then his Dad seemed so tall, a man with all the answers in the world. He resents it, this man sitting there, who has shattered that childhood illusion to leave him bare and raw to the realities of adulthood. The sound of the guitar, which once he enjoyed like a soothing lullabye, grates on his nerves. He contemplates stepping over and grabbing the smooth wood from this fallen man's fingers, smashing it until it wails no more, until his Dad has to face the realities and finally realise his children were looking to him to fix this. But he does not have the courage to break the last vestige of this man.
Instead he turns and heads for the familiar battered door, the paint chipped away at the bottom, scuff marks from his shoes imprinted into its very soul. He opens it, glances back at the shadow on the couch, then steps in and slams it shut behind him loudly, a kind of testament to the fact he was there. The guitar pauses, silence enveloping as he falls onto his small bed. He glances up at the dark ceiling, wondering what he would do if the cramped walls with peeling wallpaper actually did close in on him. He imagines he would still lie there, too tired to move, as they crushed his body and what was left of his soul.
It takes a minute, but then the strings are plucked again, filling the air with a discord of noise. He grabs the old pillow from the bed, pressing it over his ears, attempting to block out the unbearable crying.
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