The Last Wish

08. Kill two dogs in one day

"Reality is a prison"

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"Distance is not an explicable reason of how much you love the one you once had...and now have," Stephen stated. "If you haven't forgotten, everyone here misses her too."

Stephen Andrews looked up at Matt, the total opposite of what a father would want from a son. As a father it was easy to label Matt, unruly rebellious belligerent and the list went on like a grocery list filled with blissful pessimism.

Matt leaned on the wall with arms crossed over aggressively. He didn't meet his father's eyes, cold as snow and grey as metal, he knew exactly what it had for him. Scorn.

Matt knew Stephen had a strong distaste for his signature black leather jacket.

It was as though the world had failed to make 'other' decent jackets that Matt was now doomed to wear it. Sun or rain, day or night, black or white his leather jacket never left his body when outdoors. It was platonically married to him.

"Well it doesn't seem like that. Everything's the same as before her and after her," Matt said.

His eyes were fixed on the metal globe resting on the office table. With the exception of some files, a glass of water and a box of Insignia cigarettes, the table lay unadorned just like his father's heart. Cold, empty and isolated.

"You have no right to say that," Stephen said curtly. His voice shook at the end and Matt highly doubted it was because of fear.

He turned his gaze to his father and Stephen's eyes spoke more than what Matt expected. The svelte veins in his eyes were a highlighting crimson, burning with fire and swivelling in anger and rage.

Matt was right, his father was in the verge of transforming to Dracula and sucking the blood out of Matt. But then again same blood doesn't pleasure a Vampire.
Perhaps there are other options-

"Matt. Matt? Matt!" Stephen raised his voice aloft when the realisation of his son's ignorance hit him. "Are you listening?"

Matt realized two things; one he had been daydreaming, again, and two the mad apoplectic look in his father's face had vanished.

He doubted if it was just his imagination but he knew his father well enough to think so easily of him. Regret washed over him, if a fight had sparked between them his chances of leaving would be even simpler.

"Yes," Matt said.

"Well then you're free to leave," the golden words Stephen uttered was way better than anything he had this morning. Even better than the mixed fruit honey loops floating on his milk.

Matt sighed in relief, a little too loud for privacy.

"What is it?" Stephen asked looking up from his laptop. The screen blaring its light fell on his face, accentuating his sharp angular cheekbones and his raised chin and the grey eyes that showed a little less than what should be shown. But now, now it displayed the first signs of apprehension. Nevertheless it was blind to Matt.

"Nothing," he said and left.

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Riding a harley motorcycle down the New York streets, it was an ethereal feeling. The rider's feelings were heightened such that the ordinary stimulus of feels felt strange to the touch. The wind brushing through the messy curls or escaping through the slight parting in the lips couldn't be achieved in mundane automobiles. The cold autumn wind replaced the air conditioning and the strong smell of earth and greens felt surreal.