Silent Melodies II dreamnotfound

10 II Forgotten melodies

George took a deep breath, and walked into his house. Walking in, closing the door behind him with a thud, he started going up the stairs to his room, and closing his door. 

He opened his eyes to the gloomy sight of his room. Unmade bed. Papers lying on his desk and floor. The air was musky, and there was no light illuminating in the room. 

It looked so....sad. 

George walked to his desk and sat down on his chair, dropping his bag beside him. He looked down at the paper before him. They were some notes he had made the day before. The brunette sighed and grabbed a pencil. He started to doodle on the notes, not even bothering to read it. 

He hadn't asked his mother yet. 'You said you would.' He thought. 

George looked up at the ceiling and his head fell back to look at the wall where his bed was pressed onto. It had been so dull for so long, and only then had George realised it. Maybe he should decorate his room. 

He shook his head, and went back to his work, trying to read what he wrote. But the thought wouldn't leave him. Maybe his room would look good with fairy lights. His farther liked fairy lights. He used to have them himself, but tore them down when he died. 

His farther. The memories burned in his mind. 

He hated it. He hated them. He hated the world that took him away and himself that let it happen. If only he had been a better son, If only he had noticed his sickness before it took him, maybe only then would he still be alive. 

George shook his head. 'Don't think like that' he thought. 

But how could he not? The memories of the times with his farther bursted into flames in his mind, reminding him off all the happy moments they spent together. He tried to stop them, he tried to stop remembering. But he couldn't. He just couldn't.

Once, his farther took him to a film studio that his friend owned and told him all about film production. Another, they were on vacation and hiked up a mountain, where his farther held him on his shoulders and showed him everything there was to know. Another was when they just sat, and watched films. Just sat, and talked. Just sat, and spoke about whatever they wanted. 

His farther understood him. Understood why he was lonely, why he didn't have many friends, and understood why he didn't interact when his mother did not. 

He would always understand, he would always calm George whenever he came home as a kid with countless scrapes on his face, and burst into tears. He always understood. 

George couldn't help it. He felt tears brush the edges of his eyes and the boy looked away from his work and wiped his tears. If only he could see him again. 

A thought brushed his mind, a soft voice seemed to whisper in his ears; It wasn't your fault. 

Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn't. That was what everyone else said, the principal, the therapists, the medics, the nurse's; That it wasn't his fault. But sometimes he couldn't help but feel that it was. 

He wiped his tears and sighed. He looked back at the wall, and remembered what his farther had said about the lights. "They make the room shine! Like we're in a story!" He said. 

"A story?" George whispered, looking back up at him. He was a child, after all. 

"Yes, a story! They shine in the darkest of places and make the room more brighter. They help heroes light they're journey through unknown dangers. They make me feel at home. I used to have lights on my wall, and I used to stare up at them when I was supposed to go to sleep." He smiled at his son. "Do you want lights on you're wall, George?"