A I R A M

June, 12th

Chapter Two

Six Months Ago

            MY HOUSE IS A MUSEUM THAT holds all my loneliness, it coats the walls like paint every sudden gasp, every fight to catch my breath has devolved into these walls; all my pleas to be acknowledged have been dismissed into a whisper of n o t h i n g by the owner of this museum.

       My father is a cold, distance, hollow shell just like this museum; everything is in order and extremely clean, nothing is out of place, everything is minimalistic; the only room in this house that holds any fragment of colour are the picture-perfect false happiness of family photos that hang on the wall behind the sofa in the living room. It took my mother eons to get permission to hang them; each picture consistence of myself, father, and my mother. Every picture is the same, I stand or sit in the middle of them, a small forced lift of the lips plastered on my face, my father has a hand on my shoulder his face void of emotion, my mother stands on my left with her hand on my shoulder as well but a beautiful smile covering her face. My mother is the purest of all souls, she can always find happiness in anything, even in my hollow shell of a father.

      I remember the day I laid eyes on Airam, it was an hour after my fight with dear old dad. The sun was setting over the horizon, it looked beautiful, the mix of colours were captivating.

        Just like her. Captivating.

***

         "Jake!" His voice always echos in this house, carrying a sound so loud that it shakes your soul; I run a hand through my hair before knocking on his office door. "Sit." I bite back a sigh and do as I'm told, my father stands behind his desk with a piece of paper in his hand, his brows furrowed, his jaw tense, his posture ridged; I can practically feel his anger. 

             He sets the paper down, lets out a breath and walks around his desk I keep my eyes trained on the table at all times; there's a sound before I feel a sting, he stands over me, red forming on his palm, my cheek stings but I swallow my pain and keep my eyes trained on the table, table, table. "Charges are being pressed against you, Jake." He presses his fist against his lips. "You are getting charged for attempting to steal a car. A car!" He yells, yells, yells believing that it would set things straight, hitting me, yelling at me won't change a goddam thing-

     -but its a good way to get his anger out. 

           "What's next, Jake?! Stealing a plane? Committing identity theft? Or is that too boring for you? How about killing someone, would that make life a little more interesting? Hmm?!" I tap, tap, tap my fingers against my knee.

"Would that finally make you understand!" When did I start yelling? When did I get to my feet? When did I knock over all his things? When did he hit me? Why is everything blurring? When, when, when?

       "Understand what, Jake?!" He yells his voice wanting reasons, reasons, reasons for why I choose to be such a disappointment; he needs reasons, but my reasons sound absurd to him.

         my monster, monster, monster.

                "That I'm not just some bus boy you can dismiss with a wave of your hand, that I'm more then a couple of glances, that I'm your son! I want you to be proud of me! I want you to actually want to talk to me, not feel forced, you act like I asked for life, I didn't! Last time I checked it was two people consenting to create life, I was the life you created! Me! I am your flesh and blood, and you act like I'm nothing but a speck of lint on your coat that needs to be picked off." When I finish my chest is moving at a rapid speed, my hands clench and unclench, my blood moves through me, but I don't feel anything; I feel as though I'm floating above my body watching everything from a far, I feel as though I'm intruding on a life of pain and a boy wanting love from his father.