Hunger ✔️

Part 2

As he neared Nicholas's door an unease settled into his gut. Nick was talking to someone, but the conversation was one-sided, as if the boy were on the phone, but that couldn't be right either. The cordless phone was charging on its stand in the kitchen. John could see it as he glanced back over his shoulder. Looking at it as he listened in on Nicholas he found himself more and more puzzled by the fragmented conversation.

"...says I should slow down." Nicholas paused as if waiting on an inaudible reply, then continued.

"It was implied." Silence again. Then:

"Well, no... but she may have a point. Look at me.

"You're right. Odd phrasing, but still.

"Well, yes, I am. Always. Nonstop. But that doesn't mean I'm not huge. There is no way I'll make soccer in the fall.

"It is too important. It's important to me. I matter here.

"Well, I don't know, but I don't want to be this way anymore. I don't. Does it have to be so much?"

Nicholas's voice trailed off, softer, slipping into a gentle whisper. John leaned closer pressing his ear against the door.

From the other side he heard a faint scratching, mixed with a barely audible gurgling. As it stopped, Nicholas spoke once more, still in that muted whisper.

"Are you sure? I didn't hear nothing."

He paused and the gurgling bubbled up through the quiet, along with that soft scratching. As it subsided, John could make out the faint sounds of a bag of chips crinkling, followed by footsteps approaching.

"Hello?"

John pressed back from the door just in time as it eased open a crack. His son stared out, one paranoid eye framed in the gap between the door and the doorway.

"Yes, dad."

"Open the door."

"What?"

John sighed then butted his shoulder into the door. Nicholas stumbled back, pinwheeling his arms, then fell flat onto his ass.

"You heard me. I said open the door."

John entered, stepping over his son, and shut the door behind him.

"Who were you talking to?" he asked as he took in the entirety of the room. It was a mess of junk food wrappers, empty plates, trash fantasy books, and coverless comics – the last just one more habit of which John intended to break Nicholas.

"No one, dad."

"Uh-huh." John marched to the closet and flung the door open: nothing but shirts, both hanging and wadded in a ball on the floor. "You need to clean that up."

"Yes, sir."

John turned 180 degrees and hauled to the bed, lifting the frame up as he peered under. More comics and wrappers. A cockroach skittered back from the light.

"Shit, son. You need to clean this whole room before our house becomes infested."

"Yes, sir."

"This place is a shitheap, you know that?"

"Yes. Yes, sir."

"Well then why didn't you do something about it?"