Summer Rain

XXXVIII ~ Branded

{Heal - Tom Odell}

...Take my mind and take my pain, like an empty bottle takes the rain, and heal, heal, heal. Take my past and take my sense, like an empty sail takes the wind, and heal, heal, heal...

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{FLASHBACK - ELLIOT} - 2006

      "Breakfast!" Mom cooed up the staircase to my room where my head lay on a paper-thin pillow, the sunlight hot and relentless as it shone in my curtain-less window.

  "I'll be there in a minute." I groaned as I hauled my sorry ass out of bed, hearing the sound of Poppy playing with her dolls in the next room, her voice soft and high pitched as she mimicked Barbie's dulcet tones.

      I hated mornings and all of the camaraderie that comes with waking to get to school, but I especially hated weekends. It was always the same. I'd wake up to the sound of my Mother calling me down for breakfast, the smell of eggs frying in the pan and the sound of my Father's groan as he saw me slink down the staircase.

      He was a man of few words, my Father, and the words he chose to voice were not often positive and life-affirming. I learned how to shut out the shouting of his voice from an early age. He wasn't old but his constant frown aged him by a good ten years, and the grey showing through his oily black hair wasn't particularly attractive.

      Sitting at the table, I saw my Mother plating my eggs, a tired smile and heavy bags under her eyes. Her slight and constant tremor in her hands meant she took extra care in everything she did. Every move was calculated and deliberate and yet gentle. Oh, so gentle.

  "Enjoy, sweetie." She smiled, squeezing my shoulder before exiting into the living room, the feeling of her touch lingering comfortingly on my skin. I know it's cliché, but in my eyes, she was an angel. Her wings were her eyelashes that were so long they did not blink with her eyes but fluttered. Her halo and shining glory was her patience with the man she remained trapped under the thumb of, with his shadowy presence in his beaten-up leather recliner in front of the TV set.

      I wasn't supposed to dislike my father, and yet liking him seemed like such an empty concept that I had no interest in pursuing. I would never like my Father.

  "Mom, are Tim and Benjamin coming over?" I call through to the living room as I hear her returning to my side.

  "Teresa, you forgot my beer!" Dad's voice snarled through to her from his place in the living room.

  "They're coming in an hour; you'd better get ready!" She whispered to me, a wide smile spreading across her thin lips and I sped out of the kitchen, past my Father in his stagnant state.

      If there was any redeeming quality about weekends, it was that I got to see my best friend and his Dad, who was a close family friend. He seemed to appear sometimes and make everything better. He helped in any way he could. He was like a guardian angel, and he never let me down. I called him Uncle Tim, and he called me 'Cricket' because of my long legs. Was it bad I wished he was my Dad instead of my real Dad? Sometimes I used to think of a life where I was his son, and he was married to my Mom. It was silly, I know, but that's just how I felt.

      Tim always wore nice suits and worked with my Dad before my Dad had an accident and he couldn't work anymore. It made him hateful, and it made me see Tim as even more of a beacon of hope in my life. He gave us money to go to places and took me fishing with him and Benjamin all the time, and even when my Dad forbade it, Tim let me go to dance classes with Benjamin.