Boy Who Has Everything

3

Your shoulders were being softly shoved, rocking you awake as your father beckoned you back to reality. Your eyelids fluttered awake and revealed your surroundings to you again. It had only been about fourty five minutes worth of a nap, yet it still was warm and filling. Your hearing began to fade back in, and even if you had trouble understanding the voice and what it was saying, you knew it belonged to your loving father. Sitting up with squinting eyes, you cleared your throat from being dried out.

"What?" You asked him to repeat himself of what he said. Before you fully awoke, it all sounded like simlish.

"Your breakfast is ready." Father said with his consistent kind smile. "It's downstairs."

"M'kay." You replied sleepily, swinging your legs over the edge of your bed.

Barely being able to keep your eyes open, them being heavy and fighting to keep shut, you wiped the sleep out of your eyes to try and get yourself to wake up. When you opened your eyes after removing your hands from them, you saw your old cheap acrylic paint bottles on your desk that you saw just before your nap. They were old and mostly empty. Definitely not usable. No matter how much wasting medias pained you, it being a major pet peeve, there was no way you could salvage these. It reminded you on how you came to the conclusion of needing to buy more earlier. It suddenly was a motivation for you - an energy boost, if you will.

Turning to your father you looked up at him. "Dad, can I go to Mrs. Fletcher's? I need'a get new paints." You asked, gesturing to your paint bottles.

Your father's slumped, sighing as the muscles in his back loosened, partially disappointingly. "Are you sure?" He asked as he glanced at your suitcase and backpack on the ground. "You brought your paints from your mum's, didn't you?" He asked.

Leaning back on the wall of your bedroom, painted the same eggshell or light yellow color that the kitchen was painted in. A sigh escaped your lips as you realized you would have to do some convincing.

"C'mon, please?" You pleaded. It sounded a bit whiney and annoying which you hated, but the tone slipped out in your still tired mind. "I left my paints at mom's."

It was your father's turn to let a sigh escape his lips. He caved in, he tended to do this and sometimes to a fault, but it happened. "Fine. Just..." Your father looked at your outfit if you could even dub it as such. "put on some better clothing, won't you?"

You looked down and remembered what he was talking about. "Oh. Yeah, true."

"And come eat your food before it gets cold. It's ready." Your father added on as he went on to leave your room, closing the door behind him.

The shutting was soft and less jarring than your mother's usual slamming of the door. She would do it so hard that it began to damage the walls of your bedroom back in New York. Now to yourself, alone for you to think and over analyze the interaction, you felt a bit bad. You never realized until now how spineless your father could be at times. Especially towards you since you were his youngest and only daughter. He was kind, but sometimes too much. You felt bad and felt like a pushover when you asked him to go to Mrs. Fletcher's art store just now. Yes, you truly did need to go, pottery and painting being what kept you sane at the moment (more so in the U.S.), but you still felt bad.

In an attempt to distract yourself of your self-criticizing thoughts, you got up and went to sift through your suitcase to find a better and more presentable outfit to be seen by the general public with. Who knows, what you see a pretty person out there? Looking at the articles of clothing you selected, piecing together an outfit, you decided it was good enough to go to the craft store for. Slipping your sweaty pajamas off and your presentable clothing on, you looked yourself in the mirror, fixing your hair and other elements of your appearance to look at least half-decent.

"(Y/n)!" Your father's voice called from down stairs for your presence, you softly swore under your breath, hurrying up your process.

Walking downstairs, you smelled the aroma of your favorite food, made by your father himself, filling the air comfortingly. Nostalgia was so addictive and definitely your favorite part of living in the U.K. for the moments you did. It was then you decided on living here permanently the moment you turned of age.

As you sat down at the dining table, the brown and wooden chair creaked in an annoying yet charming manner. Leaning back on the hard material was doing nothing for your posture, but it was nice to be back at home, even if it would only be for two months. Grabbing your utensil, you began to dig in, slouching satisfyingly at the recognizable and homey flavor. Your dad wasn't the best of cooks, no doubt, but it was one of his best meals he could make.

"So, am I going to go with you to Mrs. Fletcher's?" Your father asked as he looked at the morning paper. It was strange to you how he didn't use a phone for the news, but you thought of it as a charming factor of his personality. A quirk of his. "Or are you going to walk on your own? You're old enough now, y'know! The big ol' one-six."

You hummed a soft chuckle at his exclamation. "I think I'd like to walk on my own, thank you. If I don't like it, you can come along next time."

"Alright." Your father replied, folding the newspaper down and placed it on the dinner table before him. "I've got a little something for you for your little journey."

"Journey? I'm just gonna get some paint." You said, shrugging dismissively with a snicker.

Your father smiled thinly, standing up and walking to another room to retrieve the item he talked of. He returned with something small in his hand, giving it to you you could see a small container.

"Pepper spray?" You asked, confused as you willingly stuffed it in your pocket. Your father sighed.

"Your getting to the age where boys start to look." Father replied thinly. You got the grim idea he began to speak of as he started. He was worried of you getting harassed or worse. "Not all boys know when to stop."

You felt around, fidgeting with the pepper spray in your pocket with your hand as he spoke. "I get it."

"Stay safe for me, pumpkin?" Father asked of you.

"I will." You told him, smiling optimistically up at him. "I promise."