Apollo's Muse

Lykos (Schizophrenic) XII

* Pic is of Lykos’ dad

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Dad stood a few metres away, dressed in his boxers and holding a glass of milk.

“Hey,” Lykos said, his heart pounding. Dad’s light brown eyes watched him with his standard unreadable expression.

“Sorry to disturb you so late,” he rumbled. “I just thought I’d better tell you, I’m working tomorrow, and leaving early. Could you take out the trash?”

“Yeah, sure, of course.” Lykos bobbed his head.

“Can’t sleep?” Dad asked, surprisingly.

I guess it’s not that surprising. I’m fully dressed and still have my boots on.

“Yeah, it must be the full moon or something. Can’t sleep when it’s so bright outside.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Dad sipped his milk, his face cast in shadows that made his eyes look like black pits. “Well, I guess I can tell you now, don’t plan anything special for your birthday. I’ve got it all covered.”

“Really?”

That’s out of the blue. Weird.

“Father and son bonding time. You only turn eighteen once.”

“I guess.”

Dad sipped his milk again.

“Well, I’d best be getting back to bed. Night, Son.”

“Night, Dad.”

Lykos watched as he walked up the hall, opening their bedroom door quietly, and closing it behind him with a click.

Well, good to see that Dad’s as forthcoming as ever.

He shook his head and closed his own bedroom door.

Why the hell did I feel so freaked before?

He sat on the edge of his unmade bed, and ran both hands through his hair.

I’m just going crazy. That’s all. It’s fine.

His bleary gaze swept over the stack of textbooks by the door.

Crap. Mum wasn’t kidding about prep school, was she?

He wandered over and grabbed the one of the top of the pile.

Ancient History. Oh the joys. Marketing, Accounting? Hmmm. Abstract Computing. Now that could be fun. 

He flipped open the book to the middle and scanned his eyes over the rows and rows of binary code. It was as if he was reading a 3D landscape; shimmering towers and matrixes appeared around him, and he stared at them before he blinked. Hard.

How about, “Dad, I’m schizophrenic, forget father-son bonding, please lock me in a mental asylum?”

The structures began to fade, and he reached out to touch one. It was like running his fingers over ice - fragile, smooth, and cold. The thing shattered under his touch, and he groaned, rubbing his temples.

Definitely crazy.

He glared at the book in his hands.

How the hell do I know this stuff? It’s university level abstract computing. I know basic programming, not the elemental ins and outs of the bloody internet.

He dumped the book back on the pile and stripped off his shirt. 

Time to wear some more life out of this carpet. And my shoes.

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