Post by Deleted on Oct 17, 2013 3:07:01 GMT
“Welcome home, Finn,” said Mortar Pestle, the man who called himself Finn’s father. Finn was balanced on the threshold at the entrance, holding himself steady with a hand on the wall. A sneaker was hanging off of his frozen foot.
“What?”
Mortar coughed. “I said, welcome home.”
Finn, still frozen, said nothing. But his blank expression told Mortar everything he needed to know about how he felt when he spoke to him.
“How was school?” he probed, staring up at Finn from behind the kitchen table. It was chipped, and flakes of wood had begun to peel off. They had lost a lot ever since his father—the man who sat in front of him—was exposed.
Finn remained silent. His grip on his guitar case was white-knuckled. What did he want?
The silence remained. Mortar waited, patient, his eyes expectant. As if he knew that Finn was going to answer him, despite knowing how he felt about him.
Finally, he said, “That was a joke. Right?” Both of them knew that Finn hardly ever went to school. Finn’s eyes narrowed into fierce slits, as if he were trying to convey a message to his father with his eyes. Because of you.
Mortar either didn’t notice the glare, or ignored it. “I am being perfectly serious,” he said. His voice was easy, slow, patient. It was a drawl, and Finn hated it.
“Well, I didn’t go.”
“How come?”
“Didn’t feel like it.”
“Surely you can do better than that?” Because it was a lame excuse, and they both knew it.
“There are better things to do than go to school.”
“Like what?”
Finn shrugged. “Make out with girls?”
Mortar scoffed. “You don’t have the balls.” He gestured to the seat in front of him. “Have a seat.”
Finn didn’t sit. Mortar expected it.
“I’ll prove it to you.”
“Prove what?”
“That I can get girls.”
Mortar didn’t say anything, but he gestured for Finn to continue with his electric blue eyes. Finn hated those electric blue eyes. Finn continued, “I’ll bring one home. Maybe you’ll hear us knocking it off in the middle of the night.”
Mortar laughed. It was a deep, condescending laugh. Finn’s hands balled up into fists beside him. And then the silence descended upon the pair once more, until Finn couldn’t take it anymore.
“They call you a bastard.”
Mortar didn’t blink. “Who’s they? Your ‘friends’?”
“Everyone.”
“Hmm. I suppose they’re right.”
“Do you really think so?”
Mortar paused, his electric blue eyes dulling as he drifted into thought. Probably remembering the times when he used to be a hot-shot. “Maybe.”
Finn strode across the floor—the wood creaked and protested under his weight—and pulled out a chair and sat across from his father, who smiled grimly.
“Tell me,” Finn said, leaning across the table.
“Tell you what?”
“Everything.”
“What?”
Mortar coughed. “I said, welcome home.”
Finn, still frozen, said nothing. But his blank expression told Mortar everything he needed to know about how he felt when he spoke to him.
“How was school?” he probed, staring up at Finn from behind the kitchen table. It was chipped, and flakes of wood had begun to peel off. They had lost a lot ever since his father—the man who sat in front of him—was exposed.
Finn remained silent. His grip on his guitar case was white-knuckled. What did he want?
The silence remained. Mortar waited, patient, his eyes expectant. As if he knew that Finn was going to answer him, despite knowing how he felt about him.
Finally, he said, “That was a joke. Right?” Both of them knew that Finn hardly ever went to school. Finn’s eyes narrowed into fierce slits, as if he were trying to convey a message to his father with his eyes. Because of you.
Mortar either didn’t notice the glare, or ignored it. “I am being perfectly serious,” he said. His voice was easy, slow, patient. It was a drawl, and Finn hated it.
“Well, I didn’t go.”
“How come?”
“Didn’t feel like it.”
“Surely you can do better than that?” Because it was a lame excuse, and they both knew it.
“There are better things to do than go to school.”
“Like what?”
Finn shrugged. “Make out with girls?”
Mortar scoffed. “You don’t have the balls.” He gestured to the seat in front of him. “Have a seat.”
Finn didn’t sit. Mortar expected it.
“I’ll prove it to you.”
“Prove what?”
“That I can get girls.”
Mortar didn’t say anything, but he gestured for Finn to continue with his electric blue eyes. Finn hated those electric blue eyes. Finn continued, “I’ll bring one home. Maybe you’ll hear us knocking it off in the middle of the night.”
Mortar laughed. It was a deep, condescending laugh. Finn’s hands balled up into fists beside him. And then the silence descended upon the pair once more, until Finn couldn’t take it anymore.
“They call you a bastard.”
Mortar didn’t blink. “Who’s they? Your ‘friends’?”
“Everyone.”
“Hmm. I suppose they’re right.”
“Do you really think so?”
Mortar paused, his electric blue eyes dulling as he drifted into thought. Probably remembering the times when he used to be a hot-shot. “Maybe.”
Finn strode across the floor—the wood creaked and protested under his weight—and pulled out a chair and sat across from his father, who smiled grimly.
“Tell me,” Finn said, leaning across the table.
“Tell you what?”
“Everything.”
