Two students on bicycles passed Oswald as he walked under the shade of the cherry blossom trees—pink leaves raining from their gently swaying branches. To his right, the river flowed freely, its therapeutic sound entrancing the passersby.
He slowed to a stop, gazing at the river. Before it stood a metal guardrail and a line of government-installed benches, all overlooking the water. He walked toward the river, past the benches to the guardrail, putting his weight onto the flat, cold metal.
He took a deep breath, falling into a zen state as the rushing water filled his ears—muting all other sounds.
I can do this. I...
His rested forearms switched to gripping the rails.
I will do this today. Today, I will finally talk to my parents. It's going to be simple. Ask how their day was, and talk about my new hobby of writing... Please.
His knuckles whitened.
Please, let this decade of suffering end today.
He let out a silent whistle.
Alright.
He gave the guardrail a final brush with his fingers and turned around.
Let's do this. Time to face them, again.
He slipped his other hand through the strap, holding both and heading homeward.
* * *
He left the whispering river and vibrant cherry blossoms behind and entered his suburban neighborhood—a masterclass in uniform dullness. Every house was a clone—the same placement of the gate, the same two-car garage, the same two-story box—distinguishable only by the paint on their facades. His own house sat in the middle of the street, a beige box with a navy blue gate.
I pray I don't get colorblind in my years of living here. That would be extremely inconvenient.
Also, it's quiet today—no cars passing, no kids playing, no dogs barking. Just me, myself, and I.
He sighed as he arrived at his house and knocked on the door despite knowing mom left it unlocked. "I'm home!"
CLICK!
He closed the door behind him, placing his shoe in the rack, his dad's black office-shoes on the top shelf.
"Welcome back! Dad's in the bathroom!" his mom yelled from the kitchen.
"Understood!" Oswald yelled back, ascending the stairs—rhythmic, quiet thuds sounding with each step of his socked feet.
Entering his room, he walked past the table at the foot of his bed—his gray laptop and black wireless mouse to one side, a dark blue mug holding his pens and pencils. He tossed his bag on the bed by the window, walking to the white wardrobe beside the bed. He looked at the Shield Hero's poster above the headboard of the bed.
The only poster I'll ever get cause DAMN! These are expensive.
He changed to a plain blue shirt and gray shorts—his lounge-wear. Heading to the kitchen, he paused before the door, hand hovering over the handle.
I can't stop. If I don't change now, I'll never be able to talk to my parents again—I'll regret it if they die before it.
With a few deep breaths, he opened the door and left his room.
* * *
I'm ready, I'm so ready. Mom's special spaghetti is before me. Both are sitting on either side. It's simple, talk about their day, and my new hobby of writing. Here we go.
Oswald took a silent, deep breath and opened his mouth to speak. No words came out. What? He spoke—yes—but his vocal cords hadn't produced words. W-Wait, why is... What's happening?! M-My mind is blank. Why is it blank, again?
His breathing quickened, sweat drenching his face. No, no, NO! NOT AGAIN! EVERY TIME!
He clenched his fist under the table. Inside, his mind was a screaming void. DAMN IT! DAMN IT! DAMN IT!!!
On the outside, he was the picture of placid indifference, methodically chewing a mouthful of spaghetti as he normally did everyday. Finished, he stood up and placed his empty yet stained plate in the sink, quietly heading to his room.
He closed the door, his hands still pressed against it, staring at his feet. WHY! One of the hands clenched into a fist.
I tried what the books, t-the articles, and the FUCKING videos said. WHY ISN'T IT WORKING?!
WHOOSH!
He wound and threw a punch against the wall—only to stop a hair's breadth before collision. He let out a shuddering breath, his arms fell loosely beside him.
Damn it...
He turned on his heel, taking drunken footsteps to his bed. He lay facing the ceiling, his forearm shielding his eyes from the sunlight. Tears fell behind his forearm.
"W-What's the point of talking, i-if I can't even talk with my own mom and dad."
He closed his tear-filled eyes, a heavy weight settled upon him for failing such a trivial task. Before sleep overtook him, he saw himself or rather the person he wants to be—bantering with friends and family, muscular but not burly built, and the hairstyle he liked but wouldn't look good on his current form.
Damn... you look so good.
With that image held tight in his mind, he went off to dreamland.
* * *
7Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyiMjviZvzl
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