The Golden Party | Aidan Gallagher

08. home sweet home

– home sweet home, huh? – 

William

A thin path out of soil alone leads the way to William's house. With slow and unsure steps he approaches the rather small building before him. The weeds have made the area around the house their home, having grown almost taller than William's legs. It all is a sad and displeasing sight, even to Will's eyes, who's grown accustomed to seeing it every now and then when he is here.

The door already half-open, William slips through, sparing the empty cans spread across the entrance only one glance. He finds his father sooner than he wishes to. The man's spread on the couch, which is clearly festered with vermin and bitten by the previous owners' dogs. William is not surprised.

"You're back." The old man grunts, his tone unpleased. He does not look at his son, the beer in his hands being more interesting and all.

"Yeah," Will says followed by a sigh. "I am." He moves himself further into the house. The rotten smell of old, opened cans of food and hundreds of beers provide no kindness for the boy. He presses his hand to his mouth and nose, hoping the meal he last had doesn't come up and that smell will lessen soon, that he'll get used to it.

The man takes a sip, savouring the taste of alcohol on his tongue. But the effect doesn't last long. In no time, he takes another and another. "There's no dinner for you," he tells Will. "I didn't expect you back already."

"You knew it was only for a few days." His father shrugs in a lazy manner. Will sighs, but he doesn't press. It wouldn't help. It would do anything but help. He swallows his complaints and present hunger down, and lies. "It's fine. I already ate. I'll be in my room."

"Good. Stay there, will ya?" Now, finally, the man does sit up, stretching his wide shoulders as he does so. "The others are coming down to play a good few games, y'know." The others. The men whom he owes money to and the ones who have taken all the rest.

Will simply nods. There's nothing else to do or say to it. "I will," he mumbles. His steps cannot be sat faster. He wants the smell to go away, the sight of his father... He loathed coming back to this place and all it brings with it. Only three more steps. Two. One...

"Kid." His father speaks again, causing Will to take a sudden halt.

"Mhm?" He braces himself, as if he already knows the next few words are going to be spoken out loud.

"Did you win?"

Will knew that his father would ask this exact question. He hated the thought of having to answer it, to see his father's reaction to his school's loss. "No," he answers obediently and quickly, though quietly and with much fright. His posture is crimping already.

"For God's sake, speak up!"

Will doesn't look his father's way, feeling his heartbeat against his chest. "We didn't win," he tells his father louder than before. He is trembling.

For the first time since he's set foot in the house today, his father looks at him, his brows angrily drawn together, his eyes bloodred. With their eyes locked, the can in Will his father's hand cracks from the unmerciful show of power of the man. His fist tightens around it, destroying the object more and more. "You didn't win," he calmly says.

His father slowly stands up thanks to a lot of effort, and Will notices that he, himself, isn't shaking anymore. He knows what's to come as he's gone through this routine many, many times. His father – his blood – moves with great struggle, barely able to step at all. His eyes twitch as he tells his son, "Why did I even ask? Should've expected you to lose."

Will doesn't break the eye contact, even when the words sink in. He's had worse, so he's able to keep his body perfectly upright. Somewhere inside of him, he knows very well that the man isn't talking to him alone. Instead, his father is watching himself – through William's eyes. The boy reminds himself that his father sees him as a younger version of the man he is now. He cannot think properly enough to see that Will is absolutely, truly nothing like him.

The fists begins to form, and Will sees it. Prepares himself. He knew this was to happen – how it will happen again and again. It's never going to stop. His father's done this countless times – to his blood and others.

The collision of his father's big, fat knuckles hurts. Yet, Will only clenches his teeth as he recovers afterwards. He takes a step back, feeling his back pressed against the wall already. With nowhere to go, his father moves closer again, a brutally cold stare in his dark eyes.

"You lost," the man mutters, only to repeat the words two times over before the next hit comes. Will feels the back of his head crush into the wall, and a thud feeling his ears. A sharp pain arrives, coming from the centrum of his reddening face. Though his lungs function perfectly, it's hard to gasp with his damaged nose. Still, he does. He's had worse, after all.

He looks at his father one more time, at the man who's presence he's feared his whole life. Never has he been able to run or even speak as the punches came. It was like his voice was taken away, stolen until his father decided he'd had bruised his knuckles enough. The cruel man did not care if his kid laid there, in the corner of his house, bleeding thoroughly. Only then did little Will dare to let the tears escape and wet his thickening cheeks.

The past few days, he has learned that the kindness he knew only his mother to have was still out there, in the world. While he received the pathetic traits of his father, the goodness his mother had in her was beating in others' hearts. And he found them. He befriended them. If he, William Thom, could find friends, then there certainly is hope for him yet. He could live a better life. He could escape his father.

"You lost," the man repeats again, glaring with so much hatred at his own son.

For the first time ever, William finds his voice. "Yes, I lost." He speaks, his tone low and breathing rather hitched. It's his turn to glare at his father before him, the one he wishes to never see again. "But it's in the family, isn't it, Dad?"

For a second, the man looks taken aback by his son's response. But he recovers too quickly for Will to be content. "You piece of shit-" His fist shoots forward, going for the boy all the way. Will's knees react quicker than his mind does. He bends down right in time, and his father's hand misses him. He moved, he realizes. He moved. This gives him just enough courage to put distance between the wall and himself. He doesn't want to be cornered no more. He wants none of it. He's done.

His father watches him, and, if looks could kill, William would be laying underground already. The man jerks toward his son, his yells echoing through the shack of a house. But his inability to step properly is too visible, too much of a disadvantage. Will's always known it, and this time, he's ready to use it against his father. His father strikes, but Will's too fast, too young, assuring that the man misses.

Everything's changed. They both know it. Will's taken the power now, and he's planning on showing it. He approaches his father, who's groaning out loud at the pain jolting through his crippled body. Will places the palms of his hands on his father's back. He pushes forward.

The man with limbs unable to keep his body in balance falls onto the ground, not out, only confused and humiliated.

Will doesn't care. He's bought himself enough time to leave. He moves toward the still open door, his heart racing like it's never done before.

And then, he gets the hell out of there.