Loss Of My Life

Chapter 02

Lyle

I throw a dart at the dart board, aiming for the bullseye. I miss by just a centimeter and curse under my breath, reaching for another dart.

My eyes snap up as the basement door opens and footsteps walk down the stairs. I narrow my eyes before going back to the darts, throwing the new one in my hand. This time it hits the middle of the target and I grin to myself.

"Lyle, we need to talk." I spare a single glance at my father who stands to the left of me with his arms crossed and his brows furrowed, then shrug my shoulders and pick up another dart.

This seems to anger him as he walks over and takes the dart out of my hand, setting it down on the table.

Finally, I turn my head to meet his eyes, heaving a loud and exasperated sigh. I already know why he wants to talk to me, and I really don't want to deal with his lectures right now.

"What is it?" I ask, my annoyance evident in my tone of voice. He keeps his hard stare on me, and I hold it fearlessly.

Many moons ago, I would have cowered under his gaze and obeyed every word he spoke. But I wasn't that little boy anymore, and I would never be that boy again.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, groaning and saying something that sounds like 'this child' under his breath. I roll my eyes. Um, rude. I'm 20, actually. Not a child.

Father scratched at his beard, "You're supposed to follow my legacy, boy. How will you even meet my most basic expectations if you don't attend practice?"

Soccer. He was referring to soccer. I was always an extremely talented player, perhaps it stemmed from my dad. He had been a famous soccer player in his youth before his retirement after a leg injury that left him with a permanent limp.

Ever since then, he has been obsessed with me "following his legacy", as he says. Unlucky for him, I wasn't interested in that. "I'm not paying all this money for you to attend college just to slack off and disappoint me."

He raises his voice slightly, but I don't even flinch. My eyes convey how bored I am, and I look at my nails, eyeing my cuticles. This makes him fume even more.

"You ungrateful brat," He chides, then grabs my collar and shoves me hard against the nearest wall. I let out a grunt, looking down at the man as he holds me up. Despite his leg injury, he was still exceptionally strong.

My nostrils flare, and I glare at him. He returns the glare just as fiercely.

I can feel his breath against my face, and my nose scrunches up in disgust. "Just how long has it been since you brushed your teeth? That is absolutely foul." I say, coughing.

The hairs on the back of his neck bristle and his grip around my collar tightens, "I'm not playing games with you, boy. Fix up your act, or I'll fix it for you. You are a Montgomery boy, act like one." He'd sneer before letting me go.

I watch as he turns and walks back up the stairs, fuming the whole way and brushing off his suit pants. I snort. It's embarrassing that he wears those things around the house.

So yes, my father is crazy about me becoming a soccer player in his place. But I've never been interested in that.

Since I was a kid I wanted to be an artist. I would beg my mum to get me paints, clay and charcoal, and the moment I placed my grubby hands on the supplies I got to work making pieces and sculptures. They were my pride and joy.

My father never liked it. He saw art as something only females did, which was.. very wrong, to say the least. But it was rotten work trying to convince him otherwise.