The Echoes of Rivalry & Ruin (The Acamancy Series I)

Chapter 33: Philips' Manor

When I behold my mother, her joy emanates like warmth on a winter's day, enveloping me in an affectionate embrace. She speaks animatedly about the forthcoming AEE, prom plans, and countless trivialities that should hold at least a touch of significance for me, yet I find myself drifting away, tuning her out. As the moment of his arrival arrives, we gather into the vehicle with my father, journeying towards the cold, concrete fortress he insists on referring to as "home." The drive is a torturous contradiction, both being too brief for adequate preparation and too prolonged for casual conversation, during which my mother dilates time by pretending we have not seen each other in years, while my father, ever the performer, feigns similar sentiments. I bury my annoyance deep within, masking it with a façade of indifference, though they both discern the storm brewing inside me. They are aware that I would prefer to be anywhere else but here, perhaps with Emalyne or with the friends they naively believe populate my life. Yet, their indifference prevails; they acknowledge my existence but choose to disregard my truth.

As we approach the towering brick edifice adorned with an Acamancy flag fluttering like my spirit, I cannot help but feel suffocated by its imposing presence. Our lawn is immaculate, perfectly manicured, a stark contrast to my father's chaotic grip. The fresh coat of paint glimmers in the sunlight, and the decorative choices strive for a delicate equilibrium of comfort and sophistication, all of this is accomplished by hands other than his. Inside, the residence attempts to encapsulate a paradox, a sanctuary of familial warmth and an elegant estate fit for royalty, a title my father clings to the dream of being equated with. None of this grandeur is a product of his vision; he employs others for that purpose. My father surrounds himself with assistants to manage every last task he wishes to avoid, except for the most critical one of all: parenting me. It is evident that he yearns for an easier path, one where another can shape me into a reflection of his own ambitions, participating in these exhausting events that deplete my spirit. Yet, I must reclaim my autonomy, for nestled within this complex dynamic, my father revels in every moment of my anguish, and that realization gnaws at me.

The weekend unfolds before me like an unending fog, yet its passage is surprisingly swift. My father is physically present, yet his essence, his thoughts and emotions, remains within the confines of Acamancy. The relentless succession of meetings drains his vitality, tethering him to fiscal disputes and academic challenges, while our family is ensnared by obligations that weigh upon him like a crown of thorns. The esteemed Dean, reduced to the status of a mere pawn, struggles against the stifling regulations imposed by the true sovereign of this domain, his boss, one who occupies the true throne my father wishes was his own. Part of me yearns to voice my grievances, yet I restrain my tongue. My mother dons her façade of domestic perfection, pretending to exert control over our household, perhaps to impress me or to shield herself from the painful reality of my father's absence. She occupies herself, maintaining the illusion that his disengagement from our family life does not wound her heart.

As they perform their act as the regal king and queen of Acamancy, dutifully shouldering their responsibilities under a brave façade, I find myself all too easily assuming the role of the ungrateful prince, a role I wear with great comfort. I survey my childhood bedroom, attempting to erase the memories of desolation born from my own despair during my tumultuous struggle to master my powers. Instead, I find myself longing for the vibrant energy of the dormitories or the peaceful solitude of my condominium, far removed from this gilded cage of familial duty. My thoughts drift to Emalyne, to Caleb, to Professor Hyde, the mere notion of their company, anyone but my parents, seems more appealing than the oppressive silence enveloping us. Although I have scarcely seen them in two days, I feel fatigued by their presence.

As I endure what I hope will be my final dinner with them this weekend, and an endless timeframe beyond, this Monday evening meal looks like an unfulfilled promise. I summon the courage to disclose the news that I plan to depart as soon as the last morsel is consumed. I inhale a breath that fills my lungs with hope, and exhale all of those dreams as I prepare for failure in my plotting.

"Mother, Father, thank you for a truly delightful weekend, as always. I yearn for the days of my youth when we could spend more time together, but I must confess. I have a prior engagement that I cannot disregard this evening," I state, striving to maintain my composure in the face of their anticipated objections.

"Paxxon, you are not going anywhere," my father responds, his tone resolute. 

"You have no significant matters to attend to until Wednesday morning. You may remain here until then."

"It is just that, with AEE and Midterms rapidly approaching, I have much to prepare! You always assert that I must prioritize my studies, and Father, here I stand, yet you deny me the very time I require to do so!" My voice quivers on the brink of desperation.

"Stop making excuses! Your mother and I are fully aware of your relationship with Emalyne Thatcher, and while her study habits may serve as a valuable lesson, I know my son. You do not wish to return to Acamancy for your studies unless, of course, 'studying' implies something entirely different."

"Dearest!" My mother gasps, her hand flying to her mouth, horrified by his frank admission.

"I never claimed that Emalyne is not a priority for me, she is. Indeed, she exemplifies a degree of determination that I ought to emulate. She inspires me to strive for academic excellence, just as you have always instructed that I must. Father, I merely wish to make both you and Emalyne proud by cultivating better habits. That is my sole intention."

"This discussion is closed, Paxxon. Your lies will not be tolerated. No one believes this narrative you are attempting to construct. You will remain at home until tomorrow night, at which point your mother and I will escort you back to Acamancy, allowing you ample time to rest before class on Wednesday. That is final."

"As you wish, Father; let us not prolong this matter any further. What other engaging topics shall we explore during this delightful feast? Perhaps Damon Ashbluff and his vendetta against me? Or the threat posed by Damon as he inevitably reveals the events of the past regarding Calum St. James and his family. His dark intentions are becoming increasingly apparent, Or—

"Paxx, enough, please," my mother interjects softly, a trace of panic evident in her voice.

"Paxxon Philips, you are to end this attempted discussion immediately, I told you once I do not wish to repeat myself. This topic is not yours to have, end of story," my father commands, his tone firm and unyielding.

"As you wish, Father. I shall relinquish this matter and take my leave. I hope to see you soon. Goodbye, Mother; I shall miss you dearly," I whisper, kissing her cheek as I hasten from the room, eager to escape before he can attempt to summon me back.

Not that he would dare to do so. Father remains resolutely seated, immobilized by his own reluctance to confront me, much less obstruct my well-deserved departure. The singular prospect he fears more than my exit is the possibility of probing into the depths of our unspoken truths, the raw, jagged edges of any conversations that truly hold significance. I understood that speaking of the Ashbluff-St. James' conflicts again would profoundly disturb him. As much as I desire to engage in a discourse about the complexities of the Ashbluffs and the unavoidable unrest surrounding the Flamers, my resolve is centered on leaving this stifling moment behind.

Taking the keys to my mother's car, one that is seldom driven by her, I settle into the driver's seat, propelled by a sense of urgency and a longing for freedom. I yearn to speed back to my condominium, hoping that Emalyne has maintained her patience for my return. Yet, deep within, a part of me secretly wishes she has not, the fact is, her absence would afford me a precious opportunity to collect my thoughts and summon the courage to devise an appropriate apology. I understand I have time during the journey, but this apology must reflect the magnitude of my remorse, sufficient enough to earn her forgiveness, yet understated enough to conceal the weight of the unarticulated emotions that lie just beneath the surface. In that moment, a wave of clarity envelops me; I believe I have identified the perfect expression that can bridge the chasm between us.