Alive

Drives & Discussions

TW: Cursing, blood

"You know your mother had second thoughts during her pregnancy? You were very nearly dropped on the doorstep of a workhouse, young man. But no. We decided to raise you and you pay us back by being a fucking unfixable looney."

I stare at the floor of the carriage, unresponsive.

"Virgil, you speak when you are spoken to. Don't have an attitude of entitlement."

Inhaling, I look up and turn my head to him, letting my eyes trail up and down his body. He sits with a closed posture, angry, his eyebrows are raised as if expecting a response from me.

"I mean it when I say that the workhouses are still open. The poor law's been doing a wonderful job, and while you yourself are fortunate enough not to be one of those beggars, it doesn't mean I don't have the power to make you one. So, I'll say it again;"

He reaches out with his right arm and grabs the front of my collar. "Learn some fucking decency, and take the help that the government is giving you. Be thankful for what you have. You're lucky we even want to keep you as our son." His voice radiates the same infuriated energy that he had when I came back from London. 

When he releases me from his grasp, I fall back onto the seat. "Sorry."

"SORRY?! For God's sake, have you learned nothing? Maybe a thank you would be nice? Thank you for not abandoning you and your.. complications?"

I exhale in an annoyed tone. "Thank y-you, father, thank you so much, for put-putting up with my seventeen years of b-bullshit, I don't know h-how I'll ever repay you!" I reply sardonically.

He goes to retort, but looks out of the window first. "I'll be sending a letter to that mental hospital to make sure they treat you for those attitude problems. You have no respect, do you?" 

God, I can already tell this is going to be an excruciatingly long drive home.

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We'll now be leaving in about ten minutes, and I still haven't chosen what I'd like to take with me. I didn't even bring anything to the last hospital I went to, because it was all so sudden. 

I guess I don't really need anything. I should bring stuff, realistically. But, if I bring personal items that have sentimental value, it just means that they're more likely to use it against me to get me to behave. 

Blanket. The beds at Sanders' had the thinnest blankets in the world. If I bring one of my own blankets, then I can't be as cold. 

I look to my bedside table and spot a picture of the six of us from London, quickly shoving it in my bag.

"VIRGIL BLAIR, GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW!" My fathers voice rings out scarily across the house. 

Well, if I was going to do more intensive selection into what I'm bringing, I've run out of time now.

"Yeah, c-coming!"

Pulling his pocket watch out of his coat pocket, he reads the time and sighs loudly. "I can't believe we have to drive you there, it's two hours away."

"Alright, alright, calm down. Virge, do you have your bag?" Mother's voice isn't nice, but it's refreshing to hear in replacement of the constant bitching of my Father. 

"Yeah."

He nods and briskly walks out of the house, assumedly to get in the carriage.

My mother picks her bag up off the edge of the sofa, sighing in an overexaggerated manor. "If there's one thing I've always liked about you, Virge - and don't tell your father I've said this, it's that you don't take shit from anyone. Don't let them drown that passion and fire in your eyes, alright?"

I look up to her and she locks eyes with me, smiling lovingly. 

"Right then, we'd best be off." And she leaves the house.

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I run my fingers up and down the edge of the letter we received from the doctors; we have to bring it with us. My index finger traces the edges of the paper as the carriage moves steadily. 

I audibly wince when the paper creates a thin cut down the front of my finger - small amounts of blood seeping out and getting on the letter slightly. 

My father turns to me at the noise, and snatches the paper from my hand, shaking it out to get the excess drops of blood off. "God, I don't know why I bother."

I pull my finger into my mouth and suck it in order to stop it from bleeding, all while Dad starts another one of his monologues. They all lead to the same conclusion: 'I know you're my son and all but I dislike you and would disown you if it was up to me.'

"I hope you don't expect us to visit. We've already gone out of our way to drive you here. We could've had them come and drag you out of our house in handcuffs, but no, we at least have the decency to do that." He looks out the window and sighs. "And you aren't even thankful about it. Ungrateful and disrespectful, that's what you are."

I don't even reply, instead, leaning against the window and closing my eyes for any chance of sleep until we get there. 

Drowning out the voices of adults. That's what I'm good at. 

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914 words