Dream. Part 1

His back is turned to me.

He is anxious, shuffling his feet, torn between looking me in the eye and running in the other direction.

But this time, he’s not running.

Not yet, anyway.

He wants to. I want him to.

But I don’t.

To tell the truth, I’m enjoying it.

He wrings his hands, shifts his weight, writhing in mental anguish. He’s tasting what I’ve felt for years. To live, eat, and breath pure, unadulterated fury and anger.

He’s under pressure, alarms are ringing in his head, his breath is shallow, he needs out.

He doesn’t want to do it. He can’t do it. But he needs to.

And it’s tearing him apart.

The mere thought of having to confront a problem and admit to his faults is wreaking havoc on his ability to speak.

He’s mumbling and fighting and arguing with himself.

One side begging him to give in, to accept it. To lay it all on the line, and man up no matter how hard it seems.

The other side screaming and belittling him for being so weak and disgusting. How dare he put you in this situation? Your own fucking son. How can he be so fucking callous—you’ve done your part. It’s not your fault. Fuck him and get on with your life.

How did it come to this?