A Faithful Memory

Not All of Us Healed

A boy stumped along the dirt path that led to his home. Bright yellow wings trembled, folded tight to his back, revealing the tension that curled his insides. He was biting his lip, eyes darting over the ground, mind playing and replaying the conversation bound to come the moment he stepped inside the house.

Where were you?

Where do you think? Out with my friends.

Doing what?

Hanging out. What else?

And?

And that's it. What else would I be doing?

Getting another child killed, that's what.

It wasn't my fault, don't you know that?

It was your fault.

He's alive, isn't he? He's okay. We're still friends, aren't we?

You got him killed. I should've cut those wings from your back, so you'd know what it feels like.

You'd like that, wouldn't you?

Sit down.

Quackity kicked the door open, sauntering inside with all the indifference he could muster. His father was sitting in the next room, at the table, where Quackity could hear him thumbing through pages. The boy sighed, wishing he'd come in a little quieter and perhaps had a chance of sneaking away without disturbing his father at his reading. Instead he walked through the little kitchen and into the living room where all his attention was immediately focused on the table and the man seated there.

Long ram's horns curved from his father's forehead, curling around his goat-like ears to point outwards. He was well-dressed in a simple green jacket, buttoned in the middle, a blue shirt with gold hem and light brown pants. His cuffs were fastened with gold-rimmed buttons that winked in the lamplight. Quackity stopped moving when his father gave a sigh and lay his book down. Schlatt looked over at the boy silently.

"I was out with my friends." Quackity said defensively. "We were just hanging out." Schlatt raised an eyebrow and sat back in his chair.

"And what exactly does 'hanging out' mean?" His tone made prickles of unease go creeping up Quackity's back. The boy shrugged, forcing his eyes down. He could still feel his father watching him. "Well?" Schlatt asked. "What were you doing? I have every right to know, since last time your 'hanging out' got another kid killed."

Quackity kicked the carpet. "He's fine, Dad." His wings drew tighter on his back.

"Shut up, that's not true and you know it." Schlatt responded. "The boy died, and the only thing that saved him was Dream's little pet project. But you'd have gone out there anyway, wouldn't you? You don't care if anyone else actually gets hurt, so long as you come out looking good. But you didn't, Quackity." The chair creaked as Schlatt stood up. "You came out looking like a troublemaker, which you are, and like a disgrace, which you also are."

Even though Schlatt wasn't actually moving towards him, his every word marched straight into Quackity's heart and festered there. The boy tried not to scowl, looking away instead. I wouldn't have to do stuff like this if you actually cared about me.

"Well?" Schlatt demanded. "What do you have to say? You bring trouble to my house with every escapade you go on and every meddling adventure only ends in disgrace. You make me look like a fool who can't control his son."

Quackity shrugged. "Wilbur's fine. And hardly anyone knows anyway. Besides, soon they'll have their attention elsewhere." He knew his words would catch Schlatt's attention, so he waited. Perhaps his father would react well this time.