downtown

He didn't hug me when he met me downtown. Waiting in the rain, leaning against the lamp post, I could already feel the distance between us. The rain fell. It created a blur and his edges became incomplete, his glasses misted and unseeing. I walked toward him, slowly, taking my time. Weaving in and out of the drunken bums by the Metro Centre, avoiding the same putrid smell from the Chinese restaurant that was always empty. A nervousness started to rise within me, but the wetness was cooling to my face made of stone, cracked in a half-smile. I became aware of nothing else but him, as if a camera honed onto him. All I could focus on was that new, hand-knitted brown scarf, draped defiantly around his neck. Their new life protruding into ours. His white fingers were falteringly pushing their way through the loose weave of the threads. The familiar smell of him that I knew better than my own. A distraught voice inside calling out that it knew what was coming, and my stomach descending on a roller coaster. The roar in my ears became louder. Keep it light, keep it light. He opened his mouth first. I felt my mind slide onto the dirty sidewalk.

This isn't happening. This is all in my head. How did this happen.

I look into his scrunched face. Gravely, and still half in love with me, and tremendously sorry, he meets my eyes.

father like son

Jamie lay on his bed, his eyes focused on the video screen. He needed to find the Heart of Darkness and escape the Reaper and he would unlock the secret level. His fingers moved frantically as he willed the character to run just a little faster, a little harder. He didn’t hear the shouts of his father, and was only vaguely aware of the presence of something in the doorway behind him saying his name. He had to will himself into the game, and his mind fought to shut out the one world so that he could win in the other.

Tim looked, infuriated, at his son stretched out on the bed, and wondered what the attraction of the game was. He always seemed to be in the same place, doing the same thing with the same grey background. Once he was playing the dammed thing it would never end, and hours would be lost in an endless stream of “in a minute Dad” and “just let me do this Dad”. Tim was aware of a feeling in his mind that he couldn’t have expressed, but it lurked there, unsatisfied and unforgiving. He said his son’s name again.

“Jamie. Jamie. Will you turn that fucking thing off?”

There was no response, just more frantic flicking of the fingers.

“Jamie. Will you please just listen to me”. He was finished with the pleading, it was time to command. Tim felt the irritation in him grow like a vine, racing up his legs and over his chest. He stepped fully into the room, but before he could do anything, the game let out a wail and the screen turned red. Jamie, suddenly able to turn around, sat up on the bed, his eyes still focusing on the new reality.

“Ok, ok. I heard you. What do you want?”

“We need to talk about your school report. I just expected more from you, Jamie.”

“But I – “

“Listen to me! I wanted an improvement this term, Jamie. I don’t need this stress right now. But this just isn’t good enough.”

“I tried Dad. But its only school. God, why can’t you just chill out?”

“Chill out? Not fucking likely when I get reports like this. Grief from your teachers, football coach, grandma – I just don’t want any of this. But you’re the one causing – “

“I’m not causing anything. They’re the ones – “

“Are you trying to tell me that they want any of this hassle with you? Are you really trying to tell me that they’re picking you, huh? No. I think you mess them around as much as you’re messing me around right now. I’ve had enough Jamie. This has got to stop. I need you to stop playing those fucking games and get on with school. Stop mucking around and annoying everyone. Nobody needs you right now.”

“Ok, whatever. Are you done now?” The son looked for a way to end the torrent of words, to leave the argument without losing face, much like a wrestler wonders how to leave the ring when he knows he will be beaten. He turned, pressed a button, and started to ignore the father. He felt the irritation coming in waves across the room, the gaze boring through his body. He felt the father’s turn to leave. The anger scared him, but he was enjoying the adrenaline pumping through his brain, making his thoughts race through his head at ten times the normal speed. He couldn’t resist the last stab.

“We can’t all be Rachel, you know. Rachel’s dead, get over it.” He smirked at the video screen, knowing he had just played the trump card. He knew that would hit the nerve, and the father would be unable to beat him. It was as fufilling as having beaten a boss level. The sense of satisfaction smothered him and embraced him. He felt immune. Ah, the dead sister. She was now, at least, useful. She acted like a bomb, the word everyone tried to avoid. Just using her name created the same desolate atmosphere as the morning-after in Hiroshima. The radiation affected him too, of course, but it was worth it. It was a calculated risk, and the sense of satisfaction quickly overwhelmed the slight, niggling feeling of sadness when he thought of his older sister and the empty room next door to his.

“Rachel’s dead, get over it.”

Tim didn’t quite know what happened next. It all happened very quickly. Time seemed to stop, or at least fit in so many things that shouldn’t, quite rightly, have fitted into the few seconds. Maybe it was the radiation causing a strange time-warp.

In a moment he had bounced across the room, with the all spring of a deer – a feat with middle-age spread around his belt. The rage gripped him and he wanted to lash out, to tear something apart. He reached for the consol and, with a rage that had left common sense behind, pushed the TV from the shelf and tore at the wires and cables while the glass shattered around him. It was then that he saw the son’s face. Behind the grip of the wail coming from the son’s mouth, the father could see the smirk and the eyes that knew they had won. With a roar of anger that came from the inside of his stomach, he lunged for the son and grabbed him, wanting to inflict pain on his childish body. Fingers touched the warm skin. The smirk transforming into surprise drove him on. The father grabbed the son and was rewarded by the look of fear that had started to flood across the face, as if he knew what was going to happen next. It spurred him on and enabled him to pick up the boy’s body and throw it toward the wall, in a move worthy of the skills of the video game characters.

Tim turned, weeping, and ran from the room as Jamie’s crumpled body began to move on the floor and time started again.