𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄, divinity is a wretched fate.
Dreary Forks is a cramped town beneath a near constant overcast sky, enshrouded in evergreen.
Like every small town, Forks is rife with gossip. Most children's grandparents grandparents had b...
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THE LAWN INCHES higher and higher since their last dispute. Both are unyielding in their belief that they are absolutely right, that the other is as selfish as they are ignorant. Like fire and gasoline, Zachary concludes that they are just as bad as each other and both are required to char the walls of what had once been a home. Before last night, it had been something as miniscule as a snide comment, electrifying the other until Zachary closed his bedroom door and left them to spit venom until they were blue in the face. It's why Andrew refused to mow the lawn, since he didn't contribute as Sarah insisted. Since that, the pair had been constant in their cold shoulder, the silence deafening as their mouths dried and webbed with the time lost in between shared syllables.
Until their beloved son's Godfather led the shaky boy to the front door, and expressed his concern for Zachary's mind.
Stiffly laid in the dark of his bedroom, rigid upon his twin-sized mattress, Zachary listened to his Mother's screech. She insisted that Andrew gifted him the grave stress that lured the boy to old habits; between the lines, Sarah labeled her son insane. Around his Mother, his Father had never talked a lot but the quiet that greeted Sarah as she ranted and raved was much more than that. Zachary had felt a ball lodge in the back of his throat and inwardly, he pleaded: Say something. Andrew didn't for a long moment, and Zachary could picture him beneath his floors with a hot rod bolting Andrew's tense spine, his face twisted in contempt before Andrew muttered something cruel. Zachary didn't hear whatever his Father had bitten but he knew it had been enough to render Sarah silent.
Daybreak trickles through Zachary's curtains and the quiet lingers. It's quite like the Lord himself struck the household still, as exhausted by their incessant ferocity as Zachary is. A breath that Zachary has been holding slips by his chapped lips, glacial blues glossed with a sheet of unshed tears whenever the boy sniffles. Half dressed, Zachary realizes he must've lost energy in undressing the night prior, unfastened jeans looped around his scrawny hips and his tee haphazardly pooling across his bedroom floor. Socked toes recoil from the chill of hardwood, Zachary's slender fingers rub into the tight muscles in the nape of his neck as he rises finally. A handful of hours remain until the cheap alarm clock, blockish with its squared numbers flicking minute by minute, would beep for the school day.
Beneath his dismal eyes, sunken with Zachary's fatigue, are deep crescents. Dark as if he's received a rather nasty blow to his nose, though Zachary is simply exhausted. He bites at the inside of his cheek, rounding tautly into the bathroom with a flick of the loose lock and Zachary grimaces at the sight of him. Usually unruly, voluminous in the most disobedient of manners, the tresses of Zachary's mousy brown mane are flat, as forlorn as he. A grunt falls begrudgingly from Zachary's curled upper lip, growing frustrated with the state of his appearance. Knocking the faucet with the bulb of his knuckle, Zachary gathers a handful in his palms to rinse his face in hopes of brightening his complexion. It's as he ruffles his hair with a fine layer of product that Zachary fixates upon the mirrored cabinet above the basin of the sink, registering as what it is.
