Word of Honor

Chapter Seven: Costs

When we reach our beloved home, the walls are quite alternative, as there are lots of papers stuck whether it is by duct tape or by glue. The surmised violet blue and light gray bricks of the house are swathed in those soaked papers swerving along the mighty wind, making it seem as if it is a postponed and perhaps haunted mansion I had seen on shows and movies. There are muddy puddles every few centimeters and the rain just seems more fierce.

'What...' ask Mom, seeming perplexed by the situation.

'Uh...' mutters Dad with portions of awkwardness, looking from side to side. 'Just lemme park the car, we'll see what's going on afterwards...'

The garage gate is already open before us; Dad must have thrown them out of his mind before driving off in the morning. While Mom barely takes notice.

Inside is in one position I had never expected. The spare car tires are deflated and cut apart. Flip books and graduation pictures are spread on the floor prevalently like volcano explosion debris. The tools for fixing are all disarranged in anarchy form; some of them are broken beside the table leg. Shelves were smashed face down by an anonymous. Worse yet, papers covered in words are everywhere.

The car cannot be parked in such chaos, thus Dad stops the car in front of the gates.

'What in the world...' Dad exclaims quietly while stepping off the car to examine the mess as Mom and I continue seated.

We watch as Dad walks up and picks up a scrap of paper to declare its content, squinting his eyes in the process to prevent the rain splattering his eyes.

I read that faster from a distance though, as it was written by a black marker:

MONSTER

Dad reads from a loud voice to an almost inaudible one, with the raindrops drowning his voice as a result.

Mom leaves the vehicle and rushes to the garage merely to pick up another but complete paper.

After a few seconds of absorbing seemingly massive information, Mom says with raised eyebrows, 'This is despicable...'

I unlock the car door as well and run down the soggy path to find a paper at my shoe. Picking it up by one sole hand, it read:

You are responsible for my child's therapy, pay up!

My other hand covers my mouth as though automatically. Taught to be forgiven for mistakes, in my whole lifetime currently, I never knew a mistake would last like this.

As for my understanding of the contemporary condition, Dad, the one I am absolutely positive of not owing any person money, is facing debt particularly mentally.

I cannot conceive of what the other papers have written, thus I frantically tidy up the remaining papers. Within seconds, I catch some words of blame and who knows what.

By the time I get hold of the majority of the papers (some were so small and stuck I have no ability to subtract from the walls and floor), I stand up, pat the dust off my gown, and search for Dad. Without taking me long, I watch as Dad's facial expressions turn horror struck, straightening his legs. The more that he discovers, the more his emotions are made numb.

Is there any chance of us overcoming this? Were our 'good old days' gone with a whoosh? Everything is just as normal as it could get a few hours ago, when has this occurred to be in such a disaster? Will everything be the same ever again? Those thousands of people are going to be on our tails, and we have no solution in flowing money, but for how long? And, will they forgive us after what we have done?

'Don't.' I could effortlessly take notice of the pain in Dad's hollow voice. Although the reference to address awaits in unknown.

Mom, who is staring at the floor in somewhat shame, raises her gaze.