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Chapter Thirteen

Saturday June 28, 2008

10:40pm

The house was possessed by stillness, dark until Tyson, whirling a key ring 'round a clawed finger, stumbled across his father reclining in the upstairs television's luminescence. The younger shepherd paused to smirk before quietly hurdling the last set of stairs.

What a day, he thought to himself, pushing his bedroom door shut and blindly reaching for the light switch.

A flick of his finger revealed the carnage.

His curtain and rail had been ripped from their window. Clothes from an upended hamper and a dresser with cockeyed drawers had been strewn across the floor. A short bookcase had been turned facedown, leaving albums of old sports cards and magazines scattered about. A shelf his father had built lay in jagged pieces among broken mementos of his youth baseball career.

"What the fuck?" groaned the young shepherd, and he whirled around, feeling another's presence. His voice quavered upon a growl of anger. "What the fuck did you do to my room?"

Bedraggled in a tee and fleece pajamas, Patricia stared blankly through her son-- moved a paw to a temple, said nothing.

"What the fuck is wrong with you!" screamed Tyson, his voice stretching throughout the quiet house.

Patricia only gazed at her son with lifeless eyes.

"Are you deaf?"

Face coming to life with an ugly frown, Patricia snarled back. "I can hear you just fine, Ty," she said. "I can hear you, but it doesn't matter. Whatever I say to you: it doesn't matter." Both of the mother's paws found a fistful of hair and pulled.

"What are you on about?" huffed Tyson.

"I saw you, goddamn it!"

Tyson's stomach rolled.

"Why would you lie to me?" asked Patricia, and she blindly hammered the wall behind her with a fist. "Why won't you listen to me!"

"Because you're being a fucking psychopath!" fumed Tyson.

"Get out!" screamed Patricia, cocking her fist back. "Get out of my fucking house before I--"

"Do it!" dared Tyson, and he crossed his arms, donned the most provocative sneer he could come up with while drawing such excited breaths.

But before Patricia could make her lunge, she was grabbed from behind by her sleepy-eyed husband.

"That's enough, Patty! Calm down--You need to rest."

"I'm done with him!" shouted Patricia, still fighting to move forward. "Let me go, Roger! Let me go!"

While he restrained his flailing wife, Roger Spriggs fixed his eyes on his son. "Clean up your room and sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

"But--"

"In the morning."

Patricia was reluctantly dragged from the room, leaving Tyson alone, surrounded by the aftermath. With still shaking paws, the young shepherd ducked down to gather spilt clothes, torn magazines and ruined baseball trophies.

* * *

Sunday June 29, 2008

8:49am

The same anger that had prevented Tyson from sleeping pushed him hard on his next morning run--giving his body a welcome chance to exert itself, but his spirits remained diminished as he returned to the house. Pushing the front door askew, Tyson caught the smell of pancakes.

Well, somebody's up.

The young shepherd doffed his sneakers and prepared himself.

But it was Roger who manned the griddle in the kitchen and echoed his son's surly morning greeting. "I haven't seen your mother that pissed in a while," he went on to say.

"Meh," replied Tyson, pausing at the threshold of the kitchen and dining room, shrugging warm shoulders and pulling one foot back in a stretch.

"Son, I saved your ass last night. Now your mom's in bed with a migraine, so I'll get you up to speed. You and the fox are through."

"What do you mean?" asked Tyson, releasing his calf and crossing his arms.

"Your mom talked to her--Elena, right? I was there, listening, and your girl agreed. It's over, Ty."

She called her again?

Everything took on an air of surrealism, and Tyson glared through a pulsing fog of rage. "Why wasn't I involved in this?" he asked, distantly hearing himself.

"You had your chance." Roger turned back to his pancakes. "Trust me, I didn't want to be a part of it."

What the fuck?

Paws in shaking fists, Tyson went to the bathroom. He spared the mirror and his fist, then began the coldest, most miserable shower of his life.

We're through?

Tyson stomped to his room, dressed and fell into the computer chair with a deep scowl. An untitled, unread message sat at the top of his inbox when he logged into his email, and he leaned forward to breeze through it.

Tyson

I don't know where to start this. I keep writing and rewriting. Maybe you already know what this is about. I don't want this, but I can't keep jeopardizing things for you and your family. It would be too selfish of me to keep this going. I'm so sorry, but we'll have to stop seeing each other. I feel awful about this, but thank you so much, Tyson. I had a lot of fun together (the most I've had in years). Please continue to be the kind, smart, and sexy person you are.

-Elena

XO

P.S. I wish I could have called or met you in person to say this, but I promised your mother that I wouldn't call you anymore. I'm so sorry that things have to end this way.

The young shepherd stared at the screen, focus fading from Elena's text. So, that's it? he thought, paws dangling.

He sat lifelessly at the computer, ignorant of the world around him for some time, and for the rest of the day his dreary presence haunted the house.

* * *

6:20pm

Anessa, who had overheard the previous night's bout from her bedroom across the hall, gave Tyson a short, sympathetic hug after supper, leaving him alone at the table with his father.

"Alright?" asked Roger. He received only an annoyed grunt.

Tyson wasn't sure how he felt, but he knew that it wasn't alright.

A minute later he grumbled a thanks for his untouched meal and left the house.

With dusk just starting to claim the sky, Tyson struck out, cruising towards the edge of Sandy. His phone and car, no longer threatening his mother, were back in his possession. A poor consolation. Once the road opened up, Tyson pushed the little car as hard as it could go. Common sense and anger vied for the 944's control.