Dear Fuckboi: A TomTord Satire

an ordinary confrontation

Tom's dad did not move, for he physically couldn't. He also said nothing because, again, he couldn't. It was literally impossible.

He smelled like something fruity. It reminded Tom of a tropical getaway to some place with a nice, sunny beach. Sand between his toes, sunglasses on, salty breeze on his face. Tom didn't like the smell because he's a moody teenager who hates the sun and would rather sit inside like a smooth-skinned goth kid.

"Sorry I'm late, was held up by some jackass," Tom explained.

His father said nothing in response. Tom always hated this silent treatment. He could hardly ever make conversation with his dad. It was damn near impossible to even get him to give Tom the time of day.

"I've been dealing with this dumb kid who thinks he's the big cheese around here. I'm showing him who owns this place. He's just a little twink, anyways. Bastard left me to rot in a jail cell." Not even a blink from his father.

Tom sighed. Why did he even bother?

"Good talk, dad. Good talk," he said, moving past his dad and climbing the stairs. He looked down at his pathetic old man and rolled his black eyes. He went back down and helped him up the stairs. Damn, was he a good son.

Tom helped his dad to his room, where his mother slept. She, too, was very quiet. Tom got frustrated with them, sure, but he really didn't mind. He loved them, and they loved him. They were a tight little family, no matter what.

"Tomorrow I'll get that dumbass off my back," Tom said, more to himself than his father. As he was leaving the room, he glanced back.

"Night, dad."