The pain of falling apart
....
Past
Liam is eight when he finds a passion for writing. He likes the way his pencil flows across the paper. Loves the way a fresh notebook smells when it’s opened for the first time. He loves how he can just sit down and write everything he’s thinking onto paper.
He starts by just constructing little stories about action heroes and stories about friends fighting dragons together. He transfers to cute little poems that his mom pins up on the fridge and he ignores the way his dad sneers at them and rips them down. It’s okay because he knows his mom is proud of what he’s doing, and that’s enough.
One day he stops by the small grocery store in town to pick up a packet of new pencils. Excited to hold the brand new pieces of wood that would soon create a new story or poem that he could give to his mum.
He steps out of the store and catches a glimpse of the liquor store across the street where his father stumbles out carrying a case of beer. He sucks in a breath and goes into the shadows, trembling. He can still feel the phantom fingers of his dad’s hand wrapping around his wrist. Can see the bruises.
A lady entering the shop gives him a sympathetic smile. She knows. God, the town knows. But nobody does -- nobody says... anything. They just let it happen and that’s just the way town life is. The way it’s always been.
By the time he snaps out of it, his dad has already stumbled down the street back home and now it’s his turn. So, he does. He straggles back home, but instead of going inside, he plops himself down in his backyard underneath a pine tree and writes. Instead of writing about how he’s scared of going inside, he writes about a boy who learns how to fly and leaves his family to become something bigger than himself.
He’s so immersed in his notebook, in his story, that he doesn’t hear the slam of the back door. He doesn’t hear the clomping footsteps. He only looks up when he finds himself flat on his back with his father towering over him.
“What are you doing?” His father demands, his words slurring together.
“I’m sorry,” Liam manages to squeak out, holding his notebook tightly to his chest.
“What the fuck is that?” His father reaches forward and tears the notebook out of his songs hand. “It’s that fucking faggy notebook. That stupid fucking notebook you always write in.”
“Please be careful,” Liam pleads, voice quiet.
His father’s grip on the notebook tightens. He sneers down at his son. “Get your head out of the clouds, boy. Maybe if you did something besides writing down stories in this faggy fucking notebook, you’d stop crying into your mommy’s shoulder.”
“Dad...”
“Fuck off,” he spits. He stares down at Liam’s notebook and takes it with both hands. “You think you’re ever going to go anywhere with this? You think you’re going to make it? You’re nothing, Liam. You’re going to realize that you don’t have anything going for you and then you know what’s going to happen? You’re going to end up like me. Just. Like. Me.”
With that, he tears the notebook in two. A loud ripping noise echoes throughout the air and Liam swears he feels his heart tear in two as well. With another sneer, the notebook is thrown on the ground and his father retreats back into the house. No doubt to drown back another beer or two.
Liam is left sitting on the ground, staring at his notebook in agony. He gathers it up in his hands and stares at the broken pages and cries. He cries until it gets dark and he can see his mother staring out at him through the kitchen window. He stands up, notebook still in hand and goes to head in. Hesitating for a moment before throwing the notebook in the trees behind him.
---
Present
Liam stares down at his notebook, pencil on paper as he thinks about Annabeth’s eyes and hair -- her laugh. He thinks about Griffon and his uplifting words. But then he remembers his father’s words from when he’s a child and hesitates before shoving it back under his pillow for another day. When he’s stronger.
