Dead or Destitute (Lams)

Chapter Fourteen

Henry Laurens had people reacting to his every command. He always donned a suit, always a crimson colored tie. His stature was tall and demanding. He had never been overlooked in his life. His parents both came from the same background of wealth and excellency. They left behind an enormous amount of wealth and a secure future. Henry had never went without. Every day of his life he was pampered and trained in the ways of an upper class lifestyle. He was taught how to run a business, never how to run a family.

Perhaps that's why he was so cold hearted. He was the heir of a successful business, and he didn't have room in his heart or mind for any distractions. He definitely could not afford a disgrace such as the child he had given life to.

John walked towards his father grimly, no bounce to his step, no life in his eyes. He was obviously uncomfortable, which pleased his father. The boy had many reasons to be on edge, and Henry Laurens didn't want John to think anything had changed.

"I didn't realize they were giving you a bunch of fucking goodie bags," Henry taunted, referring to the few belongings John was leaving with, all gifts from Alexander.

John watched his feet, realizing this was the first time in a long time he wasn't wearing hospital slippers. He wiggled his toes, wondering if he was pleased with the familiar feeling of his converse or terrified of where next his feet would take him.

He slipped into the backseat of the car even though the Passenger side was empty. He was used to his father being chauffeured everywhere. The fact that there wasn't a driver was a threat, a lack of a witness to whatever horror would come next.

"You still a fag?" He discussed this like it was common knowledge and socially acceptable to accuse. There was obviously nothing offensive about this sentence to Henry. He lived in his own little world where only certain people were deemed desirable and his son was not one such person.

John lacked any sort of response there was nothing he could say to alleviate the tension surrounding him. It attacked him, absorbing any happiness he had once found capable to carry. This man had stole John's self esteem, taking it in his stride. He had ruined any hope, broken any desire to be happy. He was the human embodiment of years of abuse, self harm, and suicide attempts, and yet John couldn't leave him.

Henry glared into the rear-view mirror at the disgrace before him. "Did you forget your manners? When I ask you a question, you sure as hell better answer."

"I find fag offensive."

The wheels came to a screeching halt. After that, there was not a single noise in the car. You could hear a pin drop, and that alone filled John's stomach with an awful anxiety. "Did I ask your opinion?" Henry hissed through his teeth.

John stared bleakly at the house before him, the one where he spent his childhood gardening with his mother and his teen years suicidal from his father. This was the destination, but he could not enter without first answering his father.

"No sir," he mumbled apologetically. He had no courage and no reason to offend his father further so. It was just a death sentence, he knew that. However, he wondered what Alexander would say if he had known John's father. Would he stand up, demand an apology? Alexander wasn't scared of being hit or insulted. No one broke his confidence, but what would his attitude be towards Henry? John couldn't imagine anyone not cowering away from his father like he always did, but somehow, he knew Alexander wouldn't stand for the injustice.

"Get out," he ordered and John obeyed like a loyal dog.

Everything outside was perfect, flower beds beautifully arranged with bushes lavishly on display, grass so green one might think it was painted that way. The brass doorknob was so clean it could blind you if you looked at it directly. It was a white picket fence neighborhood where everyone hid their problems deep inside the heart of their monotone rooms and empty lives. Perfection was an illusion that everyone was obligated to perform.

He marched up the stairs, dread following him like a storm cloud.

As he entered his room, he immediately saw four pairs of eyes, all focused on him. "John!" Polly called out, the first to embrace him. She was the youngest and by default the most innocent. Her tiny curls had grown longer, framing her face and enlarging her features.

Martha was next, holding him firmly. She resembled their mother the most, kind eyes and a tender spirit. "John," she whispered bittersweetly, playing with his messy hair. "I've missed you terribly."

The boys both embraced him at the same time and John felt a sense of guilt at his own disdain towards Henry Jr. It wasn't the boy's fault that he was given the most miserable namesake, and he was hardly to blame that he carried the closest reflection of their father. Still, John couldn't find it in his heart to grow very sentimental towards the younger boy.

"He was so awful to Martha while you were away," James informed, sitting on Martha's lap snuggly.

John glanced at his sister, examining her for some sort of answer. "It hardly matters now," responded, dismissing the accusation as though it was nothing.

"Tell me?" John asked, his voice more sad than commanding. Whatever had been done to his sister in his absence was by default his responsibility.

"Go to your rooms," Martha told the three young children, kissing them tenderly on the head. "It'll be dinner soon, and you must have all your toys put up before then." She was the closest thing to a mother the children would ever know and that fact shattered John's heart.

As the door shut, she spoke, voice hardly audible. "I had trouble at school, got in a fight."

"Why?"

She observed John, eyeing him suspiciously as though he should already know. "They call me awful names, tell me I must be sick to not want sex. I didn't care until one of them said something awful." Martha was out and proud as asexual at school, something that most weren't quick to accept.

"What did they tell you?" John interrogated, his blood boiling at the prospect of anyone bullying his precious sister.

She sighed. "They told me that I must have been raped, that it's the only reason I'd be such a fuck up. Said it was probably dad, or you and that's not true. I don't care if they accuse dad of lies but not you John."

He kissed her head mirroring her actions towards the children. He would never understand how he was lucky enough to have such a courageous young lady as his sister.

"So dad heard that I punched the kid, and he beat me." She didn't cry, but she also refused to meet John's gaze. "And he wouldn't let me eat for a week."

"I'm sorry." He pulled her closer, guarding her from the thoughts in her head. "I won't let it happen to you again."

He knew then why he couldn't leave. He couldn't run away to the Washington's. He couldn't dwell in some hospital fantasy filled with kisses and Alexander. He had to stay here, had to defend those who looked up to him.

Alexander could be nothing more but a distant memory, a daydream of something that might have been. It was a nice idea, but it could never be anything more than that."