Her eyes, his lies

Chapter 27

It was as if his home had grown all the more hostile in the short time he had been away. The wide and open gardens seemed sinister and empty, the architecture overbearing and sturdy.

Slowly, Ryder opened the front door. The foyer was empty, though a mysterious crate marked with a military abbreviation lay beside the staircase. He could only wonder what it contained.

Keeping his head on a swivel, he tiptoed around the crate and began his ascent up the stairs. There was a burst of laughter from somewhere in the house, most likely his father's men, gambling. Ryder made a mental note to stay as far away from the area as possible.

It reminded him of when he was younger, moving through the house like this. He would sneak out of his room and commit small acts of rebellion against his father. Never anything significant enough to blow back on him, of course.

This time was different. One final act of rebellion. If all went well, he would be free.

His bedroom looked much the same as he had left it, with the bedsheets pooled on the floor. His phone charging dock lay empty, awaiting his freshly re-acquired phone. He would need to pack it along with the rest of his essentials.

Dufflebag from the closet, check. Every bit of cash he had, check. Photo of mom, check.

With a zip and a sigh, he hoisted the bag to his shoulders, still sore from the exertion of the night before. The various cuts and bruises on his body stung, sapping his energy. Sleep deprivation consumed the rest of it. Truly, it had been a day. A long, torturous day.

He paused, half way through the doorway. Behind him sat the only room he had ever had, a place of so many memories. His refuge as a boy.

And before him was the extensively long hallway, lined with its doors. At the very end was his father's study, crouching and ominous like a dragon's lair. Ryder did not want to go in there if he didn't have to. The last thing he needed was a hiccup in his otherwise smoothly running escape plan.

With one last glance at his room, he sighed, drawing his will together, and closed the door.

"Boss-man wants ta' see ya." The speaker was a man that could only be described as dank. His hair hung around his head in greasy locks, and the sweet smell of methamphetamines clung to him like a cloud.

Ryder's jaw tightened. He recognized one of his father's personal henchmen.

"I'm busy," Ryder replied, hoping that it would be enough to dissuade the goon.

"Never too busy for the boss-man," was the reply.

"I'm the 'boss-mans' son. What I say goes." Ryder was doing his best to imitate Beatrice's narcissistic confidence, her innate desire to bend others to her will.

The greasy man seemed entirely unimpressed. "Yeah? Well, tell your daddy that, then. I'm just here ta' take you to him."

Ryder glanced down the hall once more, weighing his options. The door from where the man came was partially open, and he could make out the sounds of other men inside. It was unlikely that he could escape.

He turned back to the henchman, one hand running over his hair. "Fine."

The man nodded approvingly, bloodshot eyes roaming over Ryder. He seemed to be examining him, but for what, Ryder did not know.

Wordlessly, he started down the hallway, his father's goon following close behind. The smell of meth, at this distance, was overpowering. Ryder could only imagine how much of it the man must have smoked beforehand.

"I'll be outside," the meth-head said, leaning against one side of the door-frame.

Ryder smoothed his hair back. His father sending someone to summon him was not unusual. It was unlikely he knew of Ryder's betrayal. At least, not yet.

Slowly, he reached his free hand outwards, and twisted the brassy knob of the door. The hinges creaked as the cold metal moved beneath his hand, warm light spilling into the hallway.

Ryder shut the door behind him, his father seated in his ever-present spot behind the desk. The sun was filtering through the stained glass window, creating the impression of multi-colored wings unfurling behind his father. The expression on his face was one of barely controlled rage. Ryder knew it well.

"You've been lying to me," his father said.

Ryder flinched away from his fathers gaze, so strong was the animalistic hatred within the older man's eyes.

Above his initial emotional reaction, a single line repeated itself within his mind. A phrase, reminding him of the one glaring mistake in his otherwise perfect escape plan.

He knows.

"Your mother would be ashamed." His father's voice was growing harder by the second, as if his rage were feeding on itself. A building cascade of explosive emotion.

There was something rising within Ryder. The hard ball of resentment that had been building over years of being controlled. It was a deep unhappiness at his entire life, an unhappiness shaped by the expectations and demands of others. Others like his father.

He looked up, meeting his fathers eye. Ryder's hands were shaking, but he found his voice as steady as it had ever been.

"Don't talk about mom like that. You're the one that got her killed," Ryder said.

His father's mouth fell open, a look of shock crossing his face. It seemed that he could hardly believe that anyone would dare speak back to him. "You... you ungrateful little sh-"

"She died because of your guns. Your thugs, your gang war. It was all you." Ryder's vision was narrowing, the older Jackson taking up nearly all of his focus. The ball of hatred in Ryder's chest was shaking now, begging to be released. It had waited so long.

"I raised you! You have no right to be doing what you have been doing! You have jeopardized everything we've been working towards!" There was an explosion of movement as his father leaped from his seat and lunged around the desk, his hip knocking over various baubles and stacks of paper. In the relatively cramped study, the clattering was deafening. His father was approaching with terrible speed, fists clenched, fire burning within his eyes.

Much to his own surprise, Ryder stood his ground. He was done cowering.

And, just like that, the older man stopped short. His charge had been halted. The leader of the Jackson clan was mere inches away, more than close enough to land a blow, but a new tinge had grown on his face. Wariness.

"There is nowhere I cannot reach you, Ryder. This will have consequences," Ryder's father whispered.

Ryder opened his mouth, unsure of what it was he was about to say. An expletive, or perhaps even a sarcastic comment. But he stopped himself.

He did not care, he realized. His father, with all his power and all his bravado, was, in the end, a bully. Nothing but a bully.

He had been right, his father. Mom would be ashamed, just not of Ryder.

Oh, mom, if only you could see us now, he thought.

Wordlessly, Ryder turned, and, for the last time, opened the study door.

"Don't you dare walk away, Ryder, I swear on your mother's grave-"

"Don't," Ryder said. "Mom's death doesn't mean anything to you. She would be disgusted to see what you've become."

"I built this empire for her! For you! Please..." He sounded enraged no longer. Instead, it was almost as if he were pleading. Whining, begging.

Whether it was for desperation, or forgiveness, or just the desire to keep the last of his family intact, Ryder did not know. He did not care. He was free now.

And, wordlessly, Ryder shut the door behind him.