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'
“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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