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Rodger Roman's got a weird way of showing he gives a fuck about his only kid-son.
It's not like he bruises his skin or whatever. He's not that kind of man, fortunately for his son. They are the occasional friends. Have the occasional beers out on the porch together. The occasional sharing of a cigarette from time to time. They can pour coffee for each other in the morning if up to it. He's just been a different person ever since Wesley's mother went and got herself killed and it's been a long fucking time since she did that shit.
Sara Roman was not a rather smart woman, so we've heard. She had been tall and beautiful and talkative. She also liked to act younger than she was. It definitely had something to do with the fact she had her only boy so young. She'd been nineteen and not nearly ready, Rodger twenty three by her side, and rather scandalous for small little old Hawkins. Wesley gets it. He could never imagine if he'd gotten C—
Actually, let's not.
Sara had wanted out so bad.
Oh.
Out she fucking got.
Wesley can't really remember how she died. He knows it was her fault, though. He was ten and liked skateboarding too much to ever really be home. He wasn't good at it but he wanted to be. So it's all he ever did. He's not exactly scared to ask his father what happened either, he just doesn't want the shit that comes after with the asking. The emotions. The glare of forgetting his own mother from his old man. His father falling apart again. The weird feeling about dead women feeling Wesley gets a lot when he's alone and can't sit still.
Because right now, fifteen years later, Sara still dead, on her birthday, Rodger forces himself to the cemetery and makes a fool of himself. Thank god no one is around. It's an early ugly Thursday morning. Rodger's drunk, which is not new. He sways and leans against his wife's tombstone like he's leaning against her very own bony body, there's a bottle in a brown bag gripped in a hand of his. It's sloshes over the edge and spills onto what is left of Sara Roman. Ants will come and crawl over her crevices.
Rough shit.
Wesley isn't near him. He's way back, leaning against his father's truck smoking a cigarette. He drives the truck more often than his father does. Rodger gets a lift to work on the daily. Wesley watches his father weep and an unsettling feeling gathers in the depth of his stomach again. He doesn't want to say his mother doesn't mean much to him, he's sure she was his world when he was younger. But it's been fifteen years, he's been here longer without her than with her. He doesn't remember her and there's no photos of her around the house. They're only in Rodger's room for Rodger.
