Who Are you Looking For?
Mikael took a sip of his coffee. He had long since grown used to the richness of the coffee provided at the school; it made the weak and watery brew he made at home even more apparent. Though, it didn't make sense to waste more grounds for taste. Mikael let his coffee cup make contact with the wooden table with a dull thunk, sending ripples through the dark liquid.
Cream was a luxury, one that, while they could probably afford it, was far too troublesome to obtain. Neither of them had any desire to make the journey. Winter made everything more difficult, a price for solidarity, his father had always said. Cryptic and unmoving in his steadfast loyalty to hide from the shadows that haunted him. Mikael had long since given up trying to understand the older man and the things that clung to him like a heavy shroud. His gaze rose from the dark liquid in his cup to the narrow opening that led to the living room.
His father was crouched by the tree he had brought in. He wasn't too sure how he hadn't noticed it when he had returned home. The tree wasn't horribly tall, but it was not very short either. Rather average when it came to looks, and it stood precariously in the corner, as though it wasn't too sure if it was allowed to be there at all. Mikael's gaze traced the broad planes of his father's back. Or maybe it was him that stood precariously. For when had he ever acted in any way fatherly? Yet, here he was, trimming the tree with such careful precision. Tenderly bestowing upon him a sacrificial tree, as though his small offering could force the shape of a happy family.
The boy's gaze fell away, unable to look toward the sight no longer. Instead, he returned his gaze to the small kitchen. The old laminate of the kitchen counter did little to hide its age. Its once white, speckled color had long since faded to a tired yellow. Peeling up at the edges and jutting out defiantly. The sun flooded in through the frostbitten windows, the pale light illuminating the dust that drifted lazily through the air. The lace curtains hung on either side of the wooden frame, dusty from disuse. A quiet reminder of loss, of someone who had once walked these halls among them. He assumed his father also carried the same weight. Unable or unwilling to take them down, as if removing them would be a sin. Perhaps, if he thought long enough, he would have admitted he wasn't much different.
He let out a small sigh, quiet enough that his father would hopefully not wish to investigate. Thankfully, the sound of his father shifting around the living room did not seem to pause, and the boy looked down at the steam rising from his cup. The steam seemed to curl in around itself as if it were shying away from the cold air that hung in the space. A frown pulled across his face as he thumbed at the ceramic handle. His mind felt like it was twisting with the steam. A vast complexity of thought that burrowed into his brain and filled him with a sense of nothingness. His gaze fell back into the black liquid, dark enough to hold the faint reflection of the window and a dark figure.
Mikael froze as his brain tried to catch up with what his eyes were seeing. It felt like his chest was stalled halfway through a breath, a rising urgency that flooded his nervous system. His fingers tightened around the mug's handle, as if it were his only lifeline. Mikael swallowed, his own breathing feeling far too loud. His breath felt like a caged bird, beating its wings against his ribs; he felt trapped. Mikael's gaze slowly slid away from the cup and towards the window. His eyes lifted slowly up from the worn windowsill toward where he saw the figure. Mikael felt his eyes widen, and his breath came out in short gasps. The window was empty.
Standing up, the boy walked towards the window, glancing through it as he tried to search for proof he hadn't imagined it. His veins felt like the cold Norwegian winters as he stood in front of the window. One hand placed hesitantly upon the glass as he peered around the snow-covered ground. As he stood there, he could not help but tell himself it had to have been nothing. It could have been a bird. Or maybe just a mere shadow. He didn't look toward the living room as his father's movements ceased. He didn't call for his father to tell him what he saw. For his father would think he was going mad like his mother.
As he stepped away from the glass, his eyes would wander over to his father's unmoving form. Watching him with a look of concern, mixed with something heavier. Resignation. What did they say again? A bad mother will make a bad pup. For bad blood does not stop at one generation. It was a thought that seemed to stab cruelly into the forefront of his mind, as his father's dark eyes seemed to bore holes into him with the weight of a thousand words unsaid. Mikael stared back at him, his breath slowing down to something more manageable. His gaze locked onto his father's mouth as he moved to speak. Yet, Mikael would not allow him to openly acknowledge what had occurred. He turned quickly, leaving the kitchen, and climbing up the old staircase to his room.
Mikael would ignore the creaking wood, as his father would follow after him into the hall. Though as the boy opened the door to his room, he could not help but be grateful when he did not hear the telltale creaking of someone coming up the stairs. Mikael felt his breath come out in soft pants as he glanced around his room. The door clicked quietly behind him. The boy walked over toward his bed, sitting down on the edge. Leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, he let his head lie heavy in his hands. Maybe he had truly gone insane. Lost within the expanses of his own imagination. The house creaked quietly as it settled, void of any other movement. Quiet. Yet, he found no calmness in this quiet.
Finished Thread
PC: Percival Rainwood