Problem Children

Chapter Twenty Six

Cigarette after cigarette was plucked, smoked, and crushed with the same fingers that had given it life mere minutes ago. The depression deepening on his pillow left by his head was no match for his mind's sorry ache, and his heart's worsening state. His eyes were glued to the wall, constantly checking the door for any movement. Getting caught smoking would end in his distraction removed from his reach, and his emotions would magnify greatly.

It didn't matter, he supposed, he finished the last one anyway. Just in time too for his bedroom door slowly opened, and in his father walked. The cigarettes belonging to him, Angus counted his lucky stars. What he had left of them.

Mr. Young walked in slowly, as if he was a stranger invited into someone's house for the first time. It wasn't often the man visited his sons' rooms; he had no reason to. His wife usually took it upon herself to comfort and control them. Seeing her just as heartbroken, however, with her head sunk down to her chest and her arms gripping either side of the chair, he decided he ought to help out.

Taking in the details of the room, Mr. Young edged his way in. This room is messy, he's got a lot of oddities collecting dust up here. Is that...a magazine?? I never got that for him... Kneeling down by the bed his face met his son. A pale, red nosed, bleary eyed, face. His eyes glanced up for a second seeing his father's smiling ones, then returned to looking at the wall. Tissues were sprawled around the carpet beneath him and Mr. Young stepped over them and sat on the bed. "Hey, son, you mind if I take a rest here?" he asked. Angus shifted over giving him room. Boy, your bed is lumpy! "Ah, that's better," he said laying down next to him. "How's my boy doin'?"

"..."

"Still feverish?" he asked feeling his forehead. Angus closed his eyes under the cool touch of his father's palm. The hair was brushed from his face. "Hey, you miss her?" Angus sniffed, unsure if it was his cold that made him. He burrowed further under his blanket. "Want a drink?" The cup was declined and set back on the nightstand. "You really liked her, eh? I know how you feel." Angus gave his father a slight frown. "I do, ya' know. Long way back when I first met your mum. Loveliest woman I'd ever seen and I knew I'd never get another like her. You know what I did?"

"..."

"I introduce myself, that's what I do. I say my name, and I ask what hers is. Young, can you believe it? Sweet Maggie Young, soon to be Sweet Maggie...Young," the man finished with a smile. Angus rolled his eyes a little, but thought it funny all the same. With a reminiscent smile the man continued. "We became good friends in our relationship as well as husband and wife. I-won't go too far into that, your mother can cover that subject." Angus couldn't help but give a slight silent laugh, but it faded quickly. Mr. Young stole a glance at his son, happy that he could make him smile, even if only a mere second. "We married, bought a home, and had a lovely child. Then we had another one. And another one. And another one, and another..." Angus started laughing again, this time vocally. His father clasped a hand on his shoulder and shook it in jest, laughing as well. "Then we had you. And boy, we were quite finished. There was always a kid in the house, there was always one too young to go off on their own. Eventually George left an' that's how it's been since." Angus had once again covered his face with his blanket, suddenly feeling a slight chill. A dry cough worked its way through his chest and the glass of water was offered to him again. He took it this time.

"You okay?" After he nodded, the glass was taken from his hand and set back on the nightstand. "You throw your dirty laundry in the drawer over here?" Mr. Young asked, scrunching his face. "Smells a little off." Angus eyed the drawer in question, where he had hidden the stolen tobacco after its use. He made sure to crush the flame completely before stuffing them in his wooden nightstand, yet he hadn't thought to mask the scent. "Smells familiar, actually-" Angus began coughing into his blanket again, harsher than before. The health of his son grew in importance and he forgot about the putrid distraction on his other side. The coughing stopped sooner than expected and Angus really didn't need the water this time. "Anyway, you and Malcolm were the closest it seemed, being so close in age an' all. Despite all the fights I hear you get into..." Angus cracked a grin. "Almost this entire family went into music, same goes for you an' Mal. I'm real proud of you all. Proud of you." Angus earned a kiss on his head and lightly smiled. "Now my boy here is almost all grown an' he's falling the same way I did years ago. What was her name again? Susanna?"

"..."

"Johanna, Miranda...help me out here, son."

"...Hannah," Angus' hoarse voice replied. It was muffled by his blanket.

"Hannah? Hannah! That's it, good ol' Hannah. I never really got to see her too much, save for when you kids were much younger. What uh...what exactly happened to her? I hate to ask, but I'm still a bit behind on your love life."

"There is no love life," he answered sniffing. "I guess today she was movin' back to America an' no one-no one bothered to fuckin' tell me."

"Angus..." his father warned. He didn't respond. "Did Malcolm say anything?"

"Said it was her job," he replied dully.

"And she didn't say anything either?"

"No! Doesn't say a fuckin'-not a single word this whole time an' lets me find out last minute when she's already gone!" Mr. Young placed a hand to his son's eyes to stop the late tears from falling. "Not a damn, bloody word."

"Son..." The man sighed trying to put a sentence together. "Imagine how she felt. That's some pretty heavy news to share, she must have been scared out of her wits! Being separated for a week don't help matters either-"

"This isn't my fault," Angus interrupted. "I never would have stayed at home this whole time had I known."

"I know, I know." Mr. Young patted Angus' shoulder in hope of some consolation. The boy in turn pouted, wiping his nose with his arm. "I know. You know she feels just as poorly as you do, you were her friend as well. Had you heard any rumors at school that she might be leavin'?"

"No." His voice was quick and rough. Throat grainy and dry, the word was hardly audible. "Not a fuckin' word." Mr. Young sighed again.

"This is no one's fault, son. Understand? Not Malcolm's fault, not Hannah's fault, and certainly not your fault." A few moments of much needed silence fell between them. Mrs. Young crept up the stairs with mouse like footsteps, each one smaller than the last. She braced herself upon entering Angus' room but stopped as she saw her husband and son. She remained hidden, the thought of interrupting such a peaceful and rare moment undesirable. After a quick talk with Malcolm, assuring him there was no reason to feel any guilt, she came to check on her youngest. So far the peace had been kept with her husband taking the part. But she knew how that boy of hers was. "I know you love her, son."

"No I don't! I told you guys, I never have an' I never will! She's nothin' but a-"

"Angus, calm down!" The boy had squirmed his way out of his father's embrace and thrashed away any attempt at a return. Mrs. Young started in to help, but stepped back knowing Angus was already exhausted with sickness, and still so from his first struggle. He was already showing signs of weariness.

"I hate that stupid little-"

"Son, calm down! Calm down." Angus' arms had been secured to his sides by his father's. The boy surrendered to his clouding fatigue and illness. Tears had spilled out from his eyes and pooled on the fabric of his father's sleeve. His raspy cough had returned, his chest now a punching bag for their numerous arrivals. His father had begun to rock him as he started shaking from his fever. "Shh, calm down."

"I hate her! I hate him!"

Downstairs Malcolm winced at the voice he heard in misery. His guitar sat on his lap while his hands worked together to get a new string wound in as one had split when it met the ground in Angus' pain driven scrap. His fingers were sore and one was bleeding, but it distracted him from thinking, feeling, reliving the misfortune that day. His heart went out to Angus who didn't have such a diversion. Hearing his brother scream with pitiful attempts at anger only flooded his mind with the sound, and the string took minutes longer to replace than it should have. The words shouldn't have meant a pinch to him, he knew he didn't mean it. Though sometimes words hurt worse than the sharpest rock you could ever throw.

Mrs. Young wiped her eyes with her thumb and stayed hidden behind the doorway. Angus' thrashing had finally stopped but his hoarse lamenting hadn't. "I hate her...I hate her..." His words couldn't be distinguished from harsh wheezing to those that weren't close enough. His fever seemed to be rising yet his constant shaking would articulate otherwise. "I hate her..."

"Shhh..."

"I hate her."

"No you don't," his father whispered. "You love her. You wouldn't be feeling this way if you didn't love her." Angus didn't answer. His voice had all but burned up. The flame of his energy had been smothered.

I hate her.