Post by Elijah Theron Fleming on Mar 1, 2023 17:46:29 GMT -7
cw: death and dying.
━ you kill yourself for recognition. ━
"Dad...?" He called, surprised to find the living room empty. Their dad usually passed out on the sofa on nights like these, with all the lights on and an empty potion bottle hanging from his slack palm. Instead, there was just a few throw pillows and a couple of empty beer bottles left on the coffee table. Eli poked at one, seeing that it was empty and sighing. Temp must be away for work, and Atticus at school. Their dad isolated himself, but he was definitely worse without a guiding hand at home. Eli hadn't been around in ab0ut a week, performing his usual routine of slipping in unnoticed to remind his dad he did in fact have two sons. Eli retraced his steps to the kitchen, filling their little kettle and flicking the switch down - perhaps a strong black coffee would pull his dad from his pit of despair. Eli made it quietly, returning to set it on the coffee table in anticipation of his dad's arrival and saw an upturned photo frame by the arm of the sofa. He picked it up and flinched instinctively.
In the frame, his mom grinned up at him. An animated hand flapping at the camera as if to wave it off. She looked almost sheepish, embarrassed to be photographed, a young Calli on her hip with a tongue that stuck in and out on a magical loop. The glass was smudged with dirty fingerprints, and Eli's heart ached as he polished it clean. Clearly, their father had been feeling introspective, which was almost worse than the beers.
Biting the bullet, he placed the frame back on the living room cabinet and edged his way down the hallway to their dad's bedroom. The door was sealed tight, no light seeping out from underneath the frame. Eli felt a pit of dread in his stomach, almost afraid to face whichever version of his father he would find behind the closed doorway. Would he be bitter and angry, or weepy and affectionate? Maybe he would ignore Eli entirely, he'd done it before. Eli's palm was sweaty and cold when he curled his fingers into a fist and knocked on the door once. "Dad...?" He called out, a hand coming up to close around the handle. "Dad, I made you a coffee..." His throat was scratchy, a little shaky to display his obvious reluctance. Maybe he should just go, he thought, clearly his father wasn't feeling up to company. For some reason, he stayed, leaning his fist against the wood hard and knocking louder. "I'm gonna come in," He warned his, cracking the doorway with a loud, rusted squeak. Inside, the room was pitch black.
The bitter, stagnant stench of vomit assaulted Eli's nostrils all at once. He flinched, drawing back instinctively as he felt a sick twist in his belly. "Dad, are you okay?" He asked, a shake in his shoulders as he palmed the wall for the light switch. "I'm turning on the light..." He warned him, his fingers finding the socket and flicking it on.
Eli wouldn't really remember what he initially felt when he turned on the light, just the look on his dad's face. In fact, he'd consider that he hadn't felt anything at all. His mind closing off completely at the bruised, chalky pallor of his father's skin. The duvet cover so far up onto his chest that only his head poked out. How his eyes had been open and half lidded, along with his mouth. How Eli had known, almost immediately, that his father was dead. Horrifically, he would recall crossing the room just to be sure, placing a hand on his dad's concaved chest over the coverlet and finding him stiff and horribly cold. He'd then remember nothing until he was back out in the hallway and the door was pulled shut behind him, to be rid of the smell and the haunting image that lay inside.
Eli's wand hastily pulled out from his back pocket, his hands shaking as he tried to cast a patronus for his sister's help, her guidance. His hand shook so badly he slammed his wrist twice against the wall trying to steady himself, but it was no use. He couldn't even say the spell, and when he managed a whisper, not even a puff of light emerged. His covered his face then, sinking to the ground and groaning a low, painful whine as he knocked his skull against the plasterboard. 'What do I do?', he thought dumbly, 'Where do I go?'. Ultimately, it really didn't matter, because Eli couldn't move. He was slumped down on the ground, a vacant look on his face, wand abandoned on the wooden flooring. He'd stay like that for an unquantifiable amount of time, frozen in time and space until Temp returned from work and found him. Crouched on the floor by his father's bedroom door, curled into his knees with a sticky, snotty look about him. He didn't remember when he started crying.
━ you kill yourself for recognition. ━
march 3rd 2028
THE FIRST THING ELI NOTICED UPON ENTERING HIS DAD'S FLAT WAS THAT ALL THE LIGHTS WERE ON. A great buttery blaze of oversaturated bulbs, washing the beige walls out and making him squint from the entryway. He tossed his key onto the console table and did as he always did, following the beam of light and methodically flicking off each switch as he went. It was a habit their dad had developed some time ago, turning on lights and leaving them. It usually meant that Temp wasn't home, or Atticus. Hallways, bathroom, closet, living room, kitchen. Eli burned a path into the front room, leaving an eerie darkness in his wake. "Dad...?" He called, surprised to find the living room empty. Their dad usually passed out on the sofa on nights like these, with all the lights on and an empty potion bottle hanging from his slack palm. Instead, there was just a few throw pillows and a couple of empty beer bottles left on the coffee table. Eli poked at one, seeing that it was empty and sighing. Temp must be away for work, and Atticus at school. Their dad isolated himself, but he was definitely worse without a guiding hand at home. Eli hadn't been around in ab0ut a week, performing his usual routine of slipping in unnoticed to remind his dad he did in fact have two sons. Eli retraced his steps to the kitchen, filling their little kettle and flicking the switch down - perhaps a strong black coffee would pull his dad from his pit of despair. Eli made it quietly, returning to set it on the coffee table in anticipation of his dad's arrival and saw an upturned photo frame by the arm of the sofa. He picked it up and flinched instinctively.
In the frame, his mom grinned up at him. An animated hand flapping at the camera as if to wave it off. She looked almost sheepish, embarrassed to be photographed, a young Calli on her hip with a tongue that stuck in and out on a magical loop. The glass was smudged with dirty fingerprints, and Eli's heart ached as he polished it clean. Clearly, their father had been feeling introspective, which was almost worse than the beers.
Biting the bullet, he placed the frame back on the living room cabinet and edged his way down the hallway to their dad's bedroom. The door was sealed tight, no light seeping out from underneath the frame. Eli felt a pit of dread in his stomach, almost afraid to face whichever version of his father he would find behind the closed doorway. Would he be bitter and angry, or weepy and affectionate? Maybe he would ignore Eli entirely, he'd done it before. Eli's palm was sweaty and cold when he curled his fingers into a fist and knocked on the door once. "Dad...?" He called out, a hand coming up to close around the handle. "Dad, I made you a coffee..." His throat was scratchy, a little shaky to display his obvious reluctance. Maybe he should just go, he thought, clearly his father wasn't feeling up to company. For some reason, he stayed, leaning his fist against the wood hard and knocking louder. "I'm gonna come in," He warned his, cracking the doorway with a loud, rusted squeak. Inside, the room was pitch black.
The bitter, stagnant stench of vomit assaulted Eli's nostrils all at once. He flinched, drawing back instinctively as he felt a sick twist in his belly. "Dad, are you okay?" He asked, a shake in his shoulders as he palmed the wall for the light switch. "I'm turning on the light..." He warned him, his fingers finding the socket and flicking it on.
Eli wouldn't really remember what he initially felt when he turned on the light, just the look on his dad's face. In fact, he'd consider that he hadn't felt anything at all. His mind closing off completely at the bruised, chalky pallor of his father's skin. The duvet cover so far up onto his chest that only his head poked out. How his eyes had been open and half lidded, along with his mouth. How Eli had known, almost immediately, that his father was dead. Horrifically, he would recall crossing the room just to be sure, placing a hand on his dad's concaved chest over the coverlet and finding him stiff and horribly cold. He'd then remember nothing until he was back out in the hallway and the door was pulled shut behind him, to be rid of the smell and the haunting image that lay inside.
Eli's wand hastily pulled out from his back pocket, his hands shaking as he tried to cast a patronus for his sister's help, her guidance. His hand shook so badly he slammed his wrist twice against the wall trying to steady himself, but it was no use. He couldn't even say the spell, and when he managed a whisper, not even a puff of light emerged. His covered his face then, sinking to the ground and groaning a low, painful whine as he knocked his skull against the plasterboard. 'What do I do?', he thought dumbly, 'Where do I go?'. Ultimately, it really didn't matter, because Eli couldn't move. He was slumped down on the ground, a vacant look on his face, wand abandoned on the wooden flooring. He'd stay like that for an unquantifiable amount of time, frozen in time and space until Temp returned from work and found him. Crouched on the floor by his father's bedroom door, curled into his knees with a sticky, snotty look about him. He didn't remember when he started crying.
