It was a regular summer evening, and as it was on its way to end, silent little bugs were disrupting serene thinking. Not a single opened store outside, except for convenient ones. Trees were drawn in oblivion of upcoming sleep while all the people were marching home. One of them was Fabian Hawthorne, a tall, unassuming young fellow with green, wide-opened eyes that harbored despair and boredom over the feeling of wasted life in California, which he thought was “too late to change,” avoiding the fact that he didn't seem willing to do some changes. He'd rather hide for some time and come out with the most severe feeling of reluctance he ever had. He was merely sitting at home, asking for plans he wouldn't ever get around to commit and dreaming. Dreaming of a huge future of his, of breaking free. There was something peculiar about this afternoon evening. Deep, dismal thoughts were haunting him for a sustained period of time. He had no idea how to tackle his horrifying issue.
When he thinks of it, he flows into memories, the most recent ones, which appeared to be his most hated. He tries to remind himself that he didn't choose this kind of life, but is it helpful? Apart from that, however, he is grateful, for it could be way worse of a situation some people find themselves familiar with. A few days ago, on the Sunday night of December, his dad came late in the night from a local casino bar called “A Key to Fortune.” Wasted. Again. Mr. Hawthorne is a police officer, a sturdy one; he raised his son in the most rigorous environment, dreaming about a perfect version of a child he will grow into someday. Something went wrong.
His father was one of those people who value discipline and hate mess, so he is assured that to maintain discipline and keep the mess away he has to beat the hell out of people. He does it every time he sees something unsuitable or misshapen; then he beats the back, face, and stomach. And views it as a maintaining order.
When you took a look at him and at Fabian, you would be positive that there’s no way these people are related. He had a paunch, of which he was vain and called it “laborious callus” when he was pointed out at it directly. Mr. “Big Bill,” as he was called in the office, also appears to have a chin, almost completely swollen with fat, but which was invariably neatly shaved, so the short beardie did not add unnecessary ugliness to his face. Unlike him, Fabian always had a pretty, smooth like a baby butt face, which was usually hid under his hood or long greasy bangs, so it was rather unnecessary or he hesitated to show his phiz.
Fabian was hiding under the bed, shaking from every thought of his dad finding him and beating half to death. Again. It was definitely not the first time, but every time feels like the first. His eyes were half closed, though fear of being spotted prevented him from falling asleep. His strong, promising spirit was ruthlessly extinguished by cruelty and violence a long time ago. Mommy was not there. She never was. This woman realized she wasn't ready for family and slipped away as soon as Fabian came out of her. At least, that’s what his dad has been telling him since his early childhood. Perhaps this was the reason dad hates him: the love of his life is not there anymore; he has to roll things by himself. And this boy. He doesn't really fit in. The guy became an unemployed, always losing, drunken, messed up dad, who never showed any affection to his son, unless it was related to violence. Somehow, he was maintaining his position at work, which always startled Fabian. If all the authorities were like his dad, the world would turn to a giant, abysmal dumpster with no chance of recovery. Unexpectedly, he stands up. Two steps towards the room little boy was hiding in. Three steps closer. Heart pounds relentlessly, hands sweating. Breath is being taken away and turning to a loud gasp, mediocrely giving away Fabian’s presence. Three more steps. He almost reached the room, looking around. Three more steps. Fabian was assured Daddy will look under the bed first thing he gets to it, as this is the place he used to hide in as a kid. He was a bad hide-and-seek player. He covers his mouth with a hand and tries to turn down the sound of sobbing. One more step before dad finds his son. The boy tries hard not to cover room with his scream, leaning flatter to the floor, merging with it, and freezes. The silence was loud. Fabian could hear his own breathing, even though he seemed not to be breathing at all. Oh no. He sneezed. A big, filthy man with a hell of the paunch gets his son from under the bed, pulling him like if he were a rubber. Fabian has lost the game.
