𝟬𝟮| The Rebellious Son

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WALLACE

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WALLACE

The fading light of the sunset bathed the streets in hues of pink and orange, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. The air was thick with tension, and the smell of sweat and blood hung in the humid air. 

Wallace wiped the corner of his lip, tasting the familiar metallic tang of blood as he released the boy's shirt. His fists connected with the flesh of his opponent, the satisfying thud reverberating through his knuckles. His muscles burned with the effort, but the pain was dulled by the overwhelming anger swirling inside him. The boy in front of him—no more than 18—stumbled, clutching his ribs as he gasped for breath.

Wallace barely registered the sounds of his friends shouting around him. His focus was entirely on the fight, on the need to expel the rage building within him. His father's words echoed in his mind, sharp and cutting.

"If you keep screwing up, I'll pull your friend's scholarship."

The threat had hit him harder than any punch ever could. His father had always found ways to control him, but this time, he wasn't the only one affected. Wallace could still remember the icy look in his father's eyes, the way he leaned back in his leather chair as if Wallace's struggles were an inconvenience rather than his son's life. Wallace had always been able to bear the weight of his father's expectations, but this... this was too much.

The anger flared again, just as it had in the moment when his father had delivered the ultimatum. But this time, it was followed by guilt. Guilt over his friend, who had worked so hard for that scholarship, and guilt over his mother. His mother, who had come to him after years of enduring his rebellion, her eyes red and tired, her voice soft with desperation.

"Please, Wallace," she had begged, her hand resting lightly on his arm. "I know how you feel, but you don't have to fight this alone. Just come home. For me. Your brother misses you. I miss you, baby."

Wallace had hated seeing her like that, hurt and drained. He'd put her through too much already with his street fights and reckless behavior. And it wasn't worth it. His father's approval wasn't worth watching his mother fall apart.

Back in the fight, Wallace stepped forward, ignoring the aching in his knuckles. With one last punch, he sent the boy crashing to the ground.

"You good, man?" one of Wallace's friends called from the side, breathing hard from his own fight.

Wallace didn't respond right away. The street was silent now, save for the heavy breathing of his friends and the wind whistling through the dark.

"Wallace?" another voice interrupted his thoughts. His friends were circling, but the fight felt meaningless now, just like all the others.

His head snapped up when he saw a black car slowly driving by, the headlights casting eerie shadows across the scene. He caught a glimpse of the girl sitting in the backseat. Her sharp features, framed by the soft glow of the sunset, seemed distant, eyes focused straight ahead, oblivious to the violence playing out on the street.

𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬Where stories live. Discover now