Cause for Concern ✓

thirteen

WEDNESDAY. 06. OCTOBER. (unedited)

BEING home was weird because it didn't feel like home anymore. Max sat at the table and saw remnants of his existence hung on the walls, framed on the manteLpiece in the forms of artistic creations from elementary school, pictures from different graduations and soccer matches and vacations, even stacks of old school work hushed away in the drawer in the hallway.

It reminded him of being back at Tyler's on Monday night. Standing in that room and recognising himself on the wall, feeling like a ghost as he sauntered through the halls and crept up the stairs. He wasn't sure why he always expected people to get rid of him so quickly. When he'd arrived here, he'd expected that all the traces of him would've been thrown out or stowed away somewhere. Stepping in the house and immediately recognising a younger self, trapped forever inside a cream coloured frame, had sent him into a brief, bewildering derealisation.

When he'd sat himself down on the cream coloured sofa in a living room where he'd spent countless movie nights with his friends, his half- brother and stepmom, sometimes even just his dad, he recognised pictures from a trip they'd taken to Italy when he was thirteen. His dad had always loved Italy, always talked about finding a place over there when he retired.

When he picked up Josh— the aforementioned half-brother— and tossed him over his shoulder, carrying him steadily into the dining room when they were ushered for dinner, it almost felt natural, normal, expected seeing his trophies displayed in the clear cabinet. He couldn't remember the last time he'd won a trophy but there had a been point where he'd used to win them frequently.

Back then, he'd always used to care more about how a trophy would validate his achievements, ground them into something real and tangible, something he could show off to his dad that would make the steel of his eyes soften and glint, that would loosen the frown lines in his face, twist the corners of his lips. Something that would make him proud.

It wasn't until he sat down at the table that he really focused on them, that they became odd, like some abstract concepts that didn't fit within the realms of reality, just like the pictures. The longer he looked at them, the more he seemed to separate himself from them, like it had never been him who had won them at all but instead some kid who had long been lost, stranded in a past that was impossible to reach. He hadn't won those trophies, the kid inside the frames had.

Part of him wondered if his dad only kept them up to look impressive to dinner guests, to remind them that his son hadn't always been some great disappointment. Once upon a time, he had been a son who was able to prove himself as accomplished. Talented, even. The trophies were a sore reminder of someone he no longer was. So were the pictures, the certificates, the artwork.

At first, he had wondered why his dad would keep them up but it made sense. The Max that existed in everything he'd seen was a Max who longer was. If anything, his dad was remembering a once successful son who had been lost, a kid that he could grieve. Was that what it was about?

He was overthinking again. In reality, it was nothing to do with maintaining appearances and it was nothing to do with remembering a kid who had been left behind. In reality, his dad probably hadn't even thought about it. Keeping all of this stuff up probably meant nothing to him, maybe he just hadn't gotten around to taking stuff down. He was a busy guy, after all.

When his dad came into the dining room and placed the plate of uttered bread in the middle of the table, he couldn't bite his tongue. "Why is everything still up?" He asked.