"So, what's this place got for excitement?" Simon asked Taylor, who looked as bored as he felt. He had only been here for two hours, and already was willing to yank out each one of his fingernails just for the diversion.
Taylor sighed,"Well, first there's the to-die-for cuisine..."
"That bad, huh?"
Tay nodded,"Unless you like airplane food..."
"Never been on a plane so I wouldn't know," Simon said.
"Then take it from me, who's been on more flights than he can remember," Taylor said, groaning,"It's not the turbulence that makes the barf bag a neccesity; it's the meals."
Simon smiled,"Yeah well, I don't think that's gonna be a problem for me anytime in the near future... So, anyway, what comes after our fabulous dining excursion?"
"Ah, well if you're as lucky a soul as I was, you'll be given the grand tour," Taylor said with a slight British accent.
"I can only dream... but as poor & wretched man as I cannot hope for much," Simon said, returning the accent. It was meant to me a joking statement, but deep down inside, it echoed reality.
Taylor noticed how his new friend and would-be confidant's face took on a downcast, dispirited look. Tay couldn't help but wonder what Simon's story was... Why he was here, where he was from... Why he seemed so lonesome...
"Care to be enticed furthur?" Taylor said quickly, unsure if he should continue the humor. He was relieved when Simon's face returned to its past, content appearance.
"You mean there's even more?!"
Taylor nodded, relieved that Simon had snapped out of his somber zone,"Yes, yes. But before I continue I have but one question..."
"Yes?"
"Have you or any members of your family been diagnosed with heart diseases resulting in extreme stress and/or fatality caused by over-excitement?" Taylor asked with a serious tone, looking straight at Simon.
Simon paused, so as to seem thoughtful, before replying,"No, not that I have any knowledge of."
"Good, good," Taylor said, touching the tips of his fingers together in a villainous manner.
"Now may you return the favor and answer a curiousity of mine?"
Taylor smiled,"Whatever you wish..."
"Have you or any members of your family been diagnosed with mental illness resulting in extreme annoyance and/or fear caused by extremely strange fake accents and lame-ass dialogue?"
Taylor burst out laughing,"Nah, don't think so... although I'm not so sure about Zac..."
"Zac?"
"My little brother. He's 14... a real clown," Taylor explained,"He acts all zany and hyperactive a lot of the time... but I think it's just a show, you know? To make other people happy."
Simon sighed,"I know the feeling."
"What, you're sort of the 'class-clown' guy?" Taylor inquired.
Simon began fumbling nervously with his shoelace.
"No, not really. But the whole 'show to make other people happy' thing."
O-kaaaaay, this conversation just took a sharp turn into serious Taylor thought. He probably doesn't want to talk about it... Whatever IT is...
But seconds later, Simon continued,"I've had a rough life, ya know? Not like 'Mommy! Mommy! Chucky-Boy down the street got a new toy & I want one too!'..."
Taylor frowned, but didn't say a word.
"It's- man, I can't believe I'm telling a total stranger this-" Simon said, catching himself.
"Hey, it's ok. I don't mind listening... y'know, if it helps to get it out," Taylor said, shrugging.
Simon gave a small, apprehensive smile,"Thanks, Dr.Taylor-Whatever-Your-Last-Name-Is."
"Hanson."
"Huh?"
"My last name's Hanson," Taylor said, wondering if Simon would now put two-and-two together. But he seemed unaffected by this new information, and continued speaking.
"Well, you see..." Simon began, then trailed off into a scene that was forever etched in his mind.
"Hey, kid! Get your lazy ass over here!"
"Just a minute, Dad. I'm almost done with-"
"I said now!!!"
The tone of his father's voice caused the boy to quickly end his task.
"Dad?" he said, trembling slightly.
"Come here."
The boy stepped forward. He was now close enough that he could smell the foul, strong scent of alcohol of his dad's breath. He knew what was coming. He knew it was wrong. But he didn't know how to stop it.
"Did you bring that paint in from the garage?"
"No, Dad..."
"Why the hell not? Geeze, I ask you to do one friggin' thing!"
"It-it was too heavy! I couldn't lift it by myself..." the boy protested weakly, avoiding his father's harsh stare.
Taking a deep breath, the man continued,"I work hard every day. Every single day. And this is what I get in return? A pansy-assed kid who can't lift a few gallons of paint?!"
The boy remained silent.
"You think it's easy for me? Huh?" his words were now slurred,"Your damn mother leaves and dumps this kid on me, and I'm expecting to act like everything's hunky-dory?"
The boy enhaled deeply, trying to hold back tears. He had gone through this many times... His father complaining there wasn't enough money... that he was working too hard... that his son was a disappointment.... The boy had learned to block out the comments. Ever since his mother had abandoned the family 3 years earlier, he had been verbally abused by his father. The initial emotional pain he had experienced had hardened him. He no longer took the insults to heart. But he also was no longer able to trust anyone... To feel loved...
"You listening to me?"
The boy nodded.
"Grab my smokes for me, will ya?"
"Sure," he obediently retrieved the package from the bare kitchen counter. His stomach growled, so he opened the fridge, hoping his dad had remembered to buy groceries.
But it was virtually empty. Only souring milk and molded fruit remained. He returned to the living room to find his father finishing off yet another beer.
"What took ya so long?"
The boy bit his lip,"I was looking for something to eat."
"What didja find?"
"Uh, nothing..." the boy said cautiously.
His father seemed to find this humorous,"Ha! Here... have a cold one with your old man."
"No, uh, no thanks," the boy answered quietly.
"What, you're too good to drink with me? Is that it?" his father questioned harshly.
Shaking his head furiously, the boy said,"No! That's not it at all! I, I-"
"Well, how bout that? My own son, Mr.'High and Mighty' are we?" the man stood shakily, towering over the boy. He grabbed a tuft of his son's hair, yanking it fiercely.
"No, Dad, please don't..."
But no matter how much the boy pleaded and how gut-wrenching his cries of pain were, his father continued.
When it was all over, the scene was horrible. A young boy, no more than 10 years old, curled into a ball in the corner. His sobs filled the room, with no one to comfort him. Blood trickled lightly from a cut over his eye, blending in slightly with a dark, multi-shaded bruise engulfing his left cheek. His father was nowhere in sight... most likely out a bar, spending the small sum of money that had been set aside for the week's groceries. The boy stayed there long into the night, crying until he could cry no more. It was as though all of his tears... and, perhaps, his tolerance had run out.
So on that cold, autumn night, with only a few dollars and small bag of belongings, he left his home. Not for a day, not for a week... but for years. And possibly... if he had the strength...forever?
~Chapter 26~
~Chapter 24~
~Home~
