Tangled in Temptation

Shadows at Home

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Travis kicked a stone down the sidewalk as he made his way home from school. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the quiet suburban street. Houses stood in rows, neat and orderly, but they felt cold to him, like empty shells.

His house was the same, a perfectly maintained exterior that hid everything wrong inside. As he walked up the driveway, he hesitated before turning the doorknob, bracing himself for the silence that always greeted him.

The front door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit hallway. The smell of old wood and leftover takeout lingered in the air. His dad wasn't home yet, probably working late again, or maybe he was at the bar, nursing a drink alone. It didn't matter much to Travis. The house was just as empty whether his dad was there or not.

Travis dropped his backpack on the floor and trudged into the kitchen. The fridge hummed as he opened it, revealing a few wilted vegetables, a half empty carton of milk, and a beer or two. He grabbed an apple and bit into it, the crunch echoing in the quiet room.

The table was cluttered with papers, bills, and a few of his dad's things tools, an old watch, a stack of unopened mail. Travis's eyes lingered on a photo pinned to the refrigerator, slightly yellowed with age. It was a picture of the whole family, taken years ago. His mom, smiling warmly, with her arm around a much younger Travis. Jason stood tall beside their dad, who had one of his rare smiles, a hand on each of their shoulders.

He felt a knot tighten in his chest. The image of his mother, her kind eyes and soft voice, was fading from his memory. The house hadn't been the same since she died. Neither had his father. Or Jason, for that matter. He'd left for college as soon as he could, and Travis was left to pick up the pieces, or at least, try to ignore them.

Travis threw the apple core into the trash and headed upstairs to his room. His footsteps were heavy on the creaking wooden stairs. He paused outside Jason's old room, the door shut tight. His dad had left it untouched, as if Jason might return at any moment. But he wouldn't. Travis knew that. He'd heard Jason talking to their dad before he left, his voice low and tense. They'd argued, but Travis hadn't caught the details. Just that Jason had driven away without looking back.

Inside his own room, Travis kicked off his shoes and threw himself onto the bed. The familiar sag of the mattress didn't bring any comfort. He stared up at the ceiling, the white paint peeling slightly at the edges. His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to school, to Taylor.

His thoughts drifted back to the cafeteria, to Taylor's frail figure and how he had taunted her about her size. The way her face flushed red and how she struggled to meet his gaze was a stark contrast to the way he felt inside. Part of him found it oddly endearing how tiny she was compared to him, her small stature almost making her seem like a delicate thing. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that this was wrong, that he should feel differently, but he didn't know how.

He didn't understand why she got under his skin the way she did. She was smart, always with her nose in a book, talking to Selena and Abigail about things he didn't care to listen to. He hated how she made him feel, small, insecure, like the things that bothered him didn't matter. But it wasn't her fault. She didn't even know he existed outside of his taunts and jeers.

Maybe that's why he did it. Pushing her buttons was the only way he knew how to get her attention. He could hear his dad's voice in his head, gruff and unyielding: "You've got to be tough, Travis. The world doesn't care about your feelings."

His dad's words echoed like a mantra, repeating over and over until it drowned out everything else. But they didn't make him feel tough. They made him feel hollow. Like he was pretending to be someone he wasn't, just to keep up appearances.

Travis's gaze shifted to the corner of his room where a sketchbook lay, hidden beneath a pile of old clothes. He used to draw all the time, sketching out random things, the way the light hit the trees outside his window, the details of a bird's wing, even faces he'd see on the street. His mom used to encourage him, buying him pencils and notebooks, telling him he had a gift. But after she had gone, he shoved it all away. Drawing felt too soft, too vulnerable, and there was no place for that in his life anymore.

Yet, despite his attempts to abandon it, his sketchbook still held traces of his old habit. The view from his window offered a glimpse into Taylor's room next door. He couldn't help but draw the scenes he saw, a glimpse of her reading at her desk, the soft glow of her lamp, the occasional silhouette of her moving about. It was an unspoken connection, a way for him to capture fragments of her life, even if he was a mere observer.

The sketches of Taylor, though never shown to anyone, were some of his most intricate. He captured her in moments of stillness, her features gentle and focused. It was a bittersweet comfort for him, a secret way to understand her better while remaining hidden in his own world of pain and isolation.

But he couldn't let anyone see that. Especially not Taylor. If she knew, if anyone knew, it would be over. He couldn't afford to let his guard down. Not now. Not ever.

The door downstairs creaked open, and Travis heard his dad's heavy footsteps. He quickly shoved the sketchbook further under the pile, hiding it away. He couldn't let his dad see it, either. His dad wouldn't understand. He never did.

"Travis," his dad called from the bottom of the stairs. His voice was gruff, tired. "Did you finish your homework?"

Travis didn't answer right away. He stared at the closed door, feeling the familiar weight settle over him. "Yeah," he lied, forcing the word out.

"Good. Don't stay up too late."

The footsteps receded, and the house fell silent again. Travis lay back, closing his eyes, trying to block out the thoughts swirling in his head.

Tomorrow, he'd go to school, put on the same tough facade, and do what he always did. He'd bully Taylor, push people away, and pretend that it didn't hurt.

But deep down, he knew it was all an act. And he hated himself for it.