Needing the Impossible (A Clato Fanfic)

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Clove's POV:

I stare blankly at a crack on my ancient ceiling. I've been watching it for so long that it has begun to move. It bends and twist, merging with other cracks to draw pictures, fooling my eyes into believing it is alive. The thoughts which had been so violently racing around in my head have slowed to a slow, though no less consuming, ramble.

Why does he hate me? I ask myself for the millionth time in the past month. As far as I know, I have done nothing to offend him, yet he treats me with almost violent contempt.

I think back to the beginning of it all. I had showed up for training the day after my birthday, thinking everything would be normal – perhaps even better. He had given me a birthday present after all, which seemed to mark some sort of deepening in our relationship. Perhaps a mutual trust. Yet, as I walked through the door of the gymnasium, he had given me a look of such disdain that the only logical conclusion was that I had somehow offended him. The hostility hadn't stopped there. We had mostly trained separately that day, doing next to no exercises together. He had left without saying a word to me, callously brushing my simple goodbye to the side. This behavior had continued for an entire week, when I had finally decided to confront him about it. He was extremely rude, but since then, he has at least began to work with me again. But he still doesn't speak to me except to teach me a new fencing maneuver.

What the hell did I do? I question again. No matter how hard I try, I cannot pinpoint the moment, word, or action that triggered his hostility. Sighing, I push myself off my bed and make my way to the kitchen. I guess I'll never know. The smell of simmering meat tempts me over the stove top. I am extremely disappointed to find not a mouth-watering cut of meat, but last night's stew being re-heated. Father started slacking off at work when Mother died. The result was pay cut. This had only led him to despair further, and he had begun drinking. Of course, alcohol isn't free. So not only did this awful habit result in further pay cut, it also drained our finances. I was lucky if I woke up with something to eat for breakfast. If lunch wasn't provided for me at school, it's not unlikely that I would suffer from malnutrition.

Father meanders into the kitchen from his room. As he passes me, I smell the foul stench of alcohol on his breath. He grabs the open bottle of liquor he left on the counter and takes another swig. I watch as he stares stupidly at the stew for a moment and then moves to get out three bowls from the cabinet. I sigh, sinking into my place at the table. It's not uncommon for him to set the table for three. Whether he does this to sooth himself or if he actually thinks she's coming to dinner, I'm not sure. But either way, it annoys me. The worst part about the whole thing is that when I try to confront him about it, he doesn't get mad the way most people would, he just gets really, really upset.

One time I had completely unleashed myself on him, shouting at him, accusing him of letting us go hungry, telling him Alida wouldn't be back, cursing him for abandoning me, and many other things that I hardly regretted later. Instead of spewing profanity, shouting, or hitting me, he had begun to cry. Tears had welled up in his eyes as he sat there listening to me. When I'd finished, he had wiped the table clear with one swipe of his arm, sending plates and food flying to the floor, and then left. No argument, no nothing. Just a random, illogical act. It almost frustrates me that he isn't an angry drunk. I have no one to fight with anymore. Mother is gone, so I can't hate her anymore. Father is too complacent. And Cato doesn't speak to me. All my anger and aggression just continues to build up inside me, threatening to explode at any moment.

Father brings all three of the bowls over to the table at once, stew sloshing over the sides as he tries to handle too much at one time. He places a bowl in front of me, one at Mother's old seat, and then sits down with a bowl in front of him. I watch as he reaches for invisible silverware and then stares blankly at his meager meal. “Forgot the spoons,” he mumbles, and begins to lift himself out of the chair.