The Turning Point

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE- I AM NOT YOUR SON

Davies

"I am not your son, Mr. Mitchell!" I shouted, feeling a knot tighten in my throat as if it were suffocating me. "I can't even pronounce that damn word."

"I know, Davies," he replied, with that calmness that always irritated me. "And I don't intend to force you to see me as a father. But I want you to know that you are loved by me and Eva."

My whole body was tense, and the words came out before I could hold them back:

"Thank you, but when I grow up, I'm leaving. And when I do, I won't look back."

Calvin lowered his head for a moment, as if chewing on the pain of that, and then looked me in the eyes with sadness.

"When you grow up, I hope you become a good man, William. That would be enough to make me happy. Will you be a good man?"

The question hung in the air for a few seconds, like a knife hovering over me.

"I don't know. I don't feel big enough to know if I'll be good or not."

He let out a heavy sigh and crossed his hands, as if gathering courage.

"You act like you've already grown up and become a bitter man. But you're just a boy, Davies. A boy who speaks little, but who, when he speaks, seems to carry the weight of a hundred years. You're only twelve years old. Four years have passed since that, but when I look at you, I see that you relive that day, every day. That's not good. Your body is young, but your heart ages with every bitter word you keep. Try to get rid of this burden, Davies."

Rage took over me, and I exploded:

"Don't call me that!" I pushed his hand off my shoulder. "Why all this sermon, huh? All this just because I broke Charlie's nose?"

"It's not just that, William. It's because you're taking your anger out on those around you."

"I don't know if you've noticed, I have no friends. I can't stand that school. My teachers look at me like I'm a lost dog. And the other kids? They whisper when I pass by. They think I don't hear, but I do."

My voice was hoarse, but I continued:

"And Charlie... He always picked on me. Today he hit me with the ball on purpose, and when I didn't do anything, he called me a 'bastard, son of a bitch'. So I knocked him to the ground and broke his nose with all the punches I could give."

My breathing was heavy, and my eyes burned. But, as always, the tears didn't come.

"My mother wasn't a whore, Calvin. I'll never let anyone say that about her."

He was silent for a few moments, staring at the children playing in the square. Maybe he was trying to find the right words.

Part of me wanted to push him away, hate him, but I couldn't. At the same time that I felt safe with him, I hated that feeling. I wanted to disappear, lock myself in a room and be forgotten. I wanted him to give up on me, but he never gave up.

"I'm sorry he said that," Calvin said, finally. "I'm sorry for everything you're going through. I wanted to take you out of that school, pay for home schooling... But I can't afford it."

"I don't want you to spend money on me," I replied, dryly, as if the words were stones. "I don't want anything from anyone. The only thing I want is to find that bastard Wilson and cut his throat."

"Don't say that, Davies."

"Don't call me that!" I shouted, pushing his hand off my shoulder again.

He didn't change. He just sighed.

"Doing that won't bring your mother back."

His words hit me like a punch, but I didn't let it show. I just murmured:

"If nothing can bring her back, then nothing I do or don't do makes a difference."

Calvin closed his eyes for a moment and opened them again, his face tired.

"My God... Why can't you act like a child, William? Have you ever tried to scream, to let it all out? Talk to me! Tell me what you're feeling! Just tell me what I can do. But don't keep destroying yourself like this. Please, son."

I wanted to answer. I wanted to say something. But all I could do was murmur, my voice full of contempt:

"I don't have a father."

The word came out like poison, and before he could say anything else, I got up and left.

That night, I didn't go down for dinner. I didn't talk to him or Eva. I just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and asked myself, once again, why I didn't cry.

And the only answer my mind gave was cold, like a blade:

"Because you no longer have a heart."

Then I covered myself with the sheet and waited for dawn.