Life is a Beautiful Nightmare [3b/?]
anonymous
July 26 2011, 22:58:52 UTC
“Here.” He muttered, striding into the living room with a plate of spaghetti for his dad and one for him.
Wordlessly, his dad took it and took a bite, chewing loudly. Arthur didn’t wait for him and twirled a bit of pasta on his fork, leaning against a far wall as he ate.
“It’s disgusting.” The older man finally said, gulping down.
“It’s better than what you make.” Arthur replied without skipping a beat, ignoring the pangs in his heart.
“Why are you so bloody useless!?” his father yelled again, smashing the plate against the ground and spilling pasta everywhere. Arthur remained unfazed, if not annoyed that yet another plate had been broken.
“It’s all I can do!” he yelled back. “It’s all I can do, and-”
“And honestly, I’m doing my best, so please don’t push me away, I promise I’ll be better, dad, I promise I’ll get better, I promise I won’t make you mad, just please, please stop yelling at me, I don’t know how much I can take anymore and please, I just want you to accept me, I just want you to appreciate me, just please stop yelling and GOD, why don’t you love me, dad? Why?”
“-And I can’t believe you broke another plate!” Arthur faltered slightly, feeling tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He attributed them to exhaustion, though, and certainly not the way his heart was twisting at his father’s words.
“I can’t believe you can’t even cook right! The hell can you do, then?”
“I can do a lot of things, a lot of things you never notice because you’re never there for me!” Arthur replied, suddenly not feeling hungry anymore. He put his half-finished plate on the counter and crossed his arms over his stomach, trying to will the unpleasant ache in it away.
There was a small silence before Arthur’s father sighed and grabbed another beer from the case of 24 next to him, popping the cap expertly and taking a swig.
“Just get me some Chinese.” He muttered, turning his attention to the telly.
“Fine, but you’re the one answering the door. I have homework to do.” Arthur replied snappily, grabbing the phone and searching in the small list of numbers on a post-it next to the phone for a number for Chinese takeout.
“Speaking of which, why were you late today?”
“I was bargaining the terms for detention with my teacher.” The teen muttered, dialling the number labelled “Yao’s Wok” on the yellow post-it.
“Detention again?” the soft, slurred voice asking him that sure didn’t sound the same as the one that was yelling at him just a minute ago. And yet, it was.
Arthur figured that his father’s unpredictable mood swings were what really made him fear his dad.
“What for?”
“You know what for. Sleeping in class, as usual.” Arthur sighed, putting the phone to his ear and listening to the dial tone.
“You should stop it, then.”
“I’ll stop sleeping in class when you stop verbally and emotionally abusing me to the point of utter exhaustion.”
“You know I can’t. I’m just so stressed, I can’t seem to get a good night’s sleep.” The blond sighed, eyes downcast, listening as someone answered on the other line. “Yes, hello. May I get General Tao chicken please?”
“I want fried rice and spring rolls.”
“Fine, I’m sorry, could you change that to fried rice and spring rolls?” Arthur sighed, answering briefly to the rest of the questions before thanking the guy and hanging up.
Life is a Beautiful Nightmare [3c/?]
anonymous
July 26 2011, 23:03:02 UTC
There was another relative silence where the TV announcer cheered on a touchdown before the older man took a swig of beer and burped.
“You know, you can’t become a lawyer if you keep getting detention.” He noted.
“I’m not becoming a lawyer, dad. We’ve had this conversation many times before. I’m becoming an author, and that’s final.”
“Author-smauthor, that’s a load of bullshit, and you know it. If you’re a lawyer, you have a steady, high-class job, you get paid well, and you don’t ruin the family name with your crap.”
“Oh, because you’re not ruining it already with yours.” Arthur gritted his teeth and grabbed his backpack from where he left it, in front of the kitchen entrance.
“Hey, remember who feeds you.” His father’s tone escalated a bit, making Arthur flinch. Mostly because of the words, though, and not the tone.
“You certainly don’t. You don’t do anything constructive with your life.”
“I go to work every single day for you, you ungrateful brat. That should be more than enough. You’d be out on the streets without me. Feel lucky I decided to keep you after your mother died.”
“Oh yeah, I’m extremely lucky!” Arthur cynically spat back, blood boiling in his veins. “My father works half the time and drinks the other half away. But at least he gives me enough money to stock the fridge and sends me to school for some awkward reason! But he shouldn’t do any of those, because really, who needs food and education when you have whores and booze every single night instead? Was that cocaine I found in your drawer the other day, dad? Because I’m pretty sure it wasn’t laundry detergent. After all, since when have you cared?”
“I have an idea.” His father calmly took another swig of beer, yet Arthur could see the fury in his expression, the blood rushing to his face, the murderous intent clear in those bloodshot eyes. Perhaps he’d gone too far.
“And what might that be?” and yet, the only means he had of venting his frustration at life were here, in this living room.
“You will leave the money for the delivery on the table, you will take everything that is yours, and you will get the fuck out of my sight, good? And then, when you’re sure I won’t be able to see your ugly face, you’ll come down and clean both the kitchen and the living room. Sounds good?”
Arthur glared at him defiantly, yet soon found himself overpowered by the pure, unadulterated rage in his eyes, sighing and turning around.
“Fine. The money’s there. Enjoy your Chinese.” He muttered before pulling his battered wallet out of his pocket, leaving it on the kitchen counter, and going to his room.
Once inside, he dropped everything on the ground and fell on his bed, the soft, warm covers inviting him immediately. He sighed and let his tired muscles rest before his eyes caught his backpack.
Right. He had homework to do, budget planning for the next month for the after-school clubs to start, and a living room to clean. Sounded like another 2-3 hours of sleep for him tonight. If one of his father’s whores didn’t stay past 1 in the morning, that is.
God, he was so sick of this. This constant rush to complete everything and trying to balance everything on his plate. He hated the world, and all he wanted to do sometimes was sleep forever. He was tired of school, tired of home, tired of life.
He just wanted to sleep, was that so hard to ask for?
And it's not just physiological sleep Arthur wants. The term "tired" is redundant in this fill because Arthur's not just physically tired anymore. Just sayin'
Wordlessly, his dad took it and took a bite, chewing loudly. Arthur didn’t wait for him and twirled a bit of pasta on his fork, leaning against a far wall as he ate.
“It’s disgusting.” The older man finally said, gulping down.
“It’s better than what you make.” Arthur replied without skipping a beat, ignoring the pangs in his heart.
“Why are you so bloody useless!?” his father yelled again, smashing the plate against the ground and spilling pasta everywhere. Arthur remained unfazed, if not annoyed that yet another plate had been broken.
“It’s all I can do!” he yelled back. “It’s all I can do, and-”
“And honestly, I’m doing my best, so please don’t push me away, I promise I’ll be better, dad, I promise I’ll get better, I promise I won’t make you mad, just please, please stop yelling at me, I don’t know how much I can take anymore and please, I just want you to accept me, I just want you to appreciate me, just please stop yelling and GOD, why don’t you love me, dad? Why?”
“-And I can’t believe you broke another plate!” Arthur faltered slightly, feeling tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He attributed them to exhaustion, though, and certainly not the way his heart was twisting at his father’s words.
“I can’t believe you can’t even cook right! The hell can you do, then?”
“I can do a lot of things, a lot of things you never notice because you’re never there for me!” Arthur replied, suddenly not feeling hungry anymore. He put his half-finished plate on the counter and crossed his arms over his stomach, trying to will the unpleasant ache in it away.
There was a small silence before Arthur’s father sighed and grabbed another beer from the case of 24 next to him, popping the cap expertly and taking a swig.
“Just get me some Chinese.” He muttered, turning his attention to the telly.
“Fine, but you’re the one answering the door. I have homework to do.” Arthur replied snappily, grabbing the phone and searching in the small list of numbers on a post-it next to the phone for a number for Chinese takeout.
“Speaking of which, why were you late today?”
“I was bargaining the terms for detention with my teacher.” The teen muttered, dialling the number labelled “Yao’s Wok” on the yellow post-it.
“Detention again?” the soft, slurred voice asking him that sure didn’t sound the same as the one that was yelling at him just a minute ago. And yet, it was.
Arthur figured that his father’s unpredictable mood swings were what really made him fear his dad.
“What for?”
“You know what for. Sleeping in class, as usual.” Arthur sighed, putting the phone to his ear and listening to the dial tone.
“You should stop it, then.”
“I’ll stop sleeping in class when you stop verbally and emotionally abusing me to the point of utter exhaustion.”
“You know I can’t. I’m just so stressed, I can’t seem to get a good night’s sleep.” The blond sighed, eyes downcast, listening as someone answered on the other line. “Yes, hello. May I get General Tao chicken please?”
“I want fried rice and spring rolls.”
“Fine, I’m sorry, could you change that to fried rice and spring rolls?” Arthur sighed, answering briefly to the rest of the questions before thanking the guy and hanging up.
Italics are thoughts, if you couldn't tell~
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“You know, you can’t become a lawyer if you keep getting detention.” He noted.
“I’m not becoming a lawyer, dad. We’ve had this conversation many times before. I’m becoming an author, and that’s final.”
“Author-smauthor, that’s a load of bullshit, and you know it. If you’re a lawyer, you have a steady, high-class job, you get paid well, and you don’t ruin the family name with your crap.”
“Oh, because you’re not ruining it already with yours.” Arthur gritted his teeth and grabbed his backpack from where he left it, in front of the kitchen entrance.
“Hey, remember who feeds you.” His father’s tone escalated a bit, making Arthur flinch. Mostly because of the words, though, and not the tone.
“You certainly don’t. You don’t do anything constructive with your life.”
“I go to work every single day for you, you ungrateful brat. That should be more than enough. You’d be out on the streets without me. Feel lucky I decided to keep you after your mother died.”
“Oh yeah, I’m extremely lucky!” Arthur cynically spat back, blood boiling in his veins. “My father works half the time and drinks the other half away. But at least he gives me enough money to stock the fridge and sends me to school for some awkward reason! But he shouldn’t do any of those, because really, who needs food and education when you have whores and booze every single night instead? Was that cocaine I found in your drawer the other day, dad? Because I’m pretty sure it wasn’t laundry detergent. After all, since when have you cared?”
“I have an idea.” His father calmly took another swig of beer, yet Arthur could see the fury in his expression, the blood rushing to his face, the murderous intent clear in those bloodshot eyes. Perhaps he’d gone too far.
“And what might that be?” and yet, the only means he had of venting his frustration at life were here, in this living room.
“You will leave the money for the delivery on the table, you will take everything that is yours, and you will get the fuck out of my sight, good? And then, when you’re sure I won’t be able to see your ugly face, you’ll come down and clean both the kitchen and the living room. Sounds good?”
Arthur glared at him defiantly, yet soon found himself overpowered by the pure, unadulterated rage in his eyes, sighing and turning around.
“Fine. The money’s there. Enjoy your Chinese.” He muttered before pulling his battered wallet out of his pocket, leaving it on the kitchen counter, and going to his room.
Once inside, he dropped everything on the ground and fell on his bed, the soft, warm covers inviting him immediately. He sighed and let his tired muscles rest before his eyes caught his backpack.
Right. He had homework to do, budget planning for the next month for the after-school clubs to start, and a living room to clean. Sounded like another 2-3 hours of sleep for him tonight. If one of his father’s whores didn’t stay past 1 in the morning, that is.
God, he was so sick of this. This constant rush to complete everything and trying to balance everything on his plate. He hated the world, and all he wanted to do sometimes was sleep forever. He was tired of school, tired of home, tired of life.
He just wanted to sleep, was that so hard to ask for?
And it's not just physiological sleep Arthur wants. The term "tired" is redundant in this fill because Arthur's not just physically tired anymore. Just sayin'
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