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Definitely easier.
“My father and I…”
I couldn’t continue. Somewhere between my mind and my tongue, the words were lost. I couldn’t even picture the scenes in my head. A thousand metaphorical walls rising a thousand metaphorical feet into the air barricaded the memories of that time.
As it should be.
“We argued,” I finally said.
“Often?” Tria asked for clarification.
“Toward the end, I guess,” I said. “My father thought it was very important that I go into the family business, and I thought other things in life were more important. He didn’t care for my choices. Eventually it blew up, and I walked out.”
“He didn’t want you to fight,” Tria surmised.
I didn’t correct her. My teeth clenched together as a little skirmish inside my head broke out, and each side tried to rationalize whether or not the lack of correction on my part constituted a lie. Technically, the statement was true. Though he was supportive of the high school wrestling and martial arts as a hobby, he didn’t want me to continue fighting in college. He had expected me to focus on academics.
“I decided I was going to do what I thought was the right thing,” I finally said, neither confirming nor denying her assumption. “He said if I didn’t do what he wanted, I was going to be cut off, so I started to leave. He said if I left, I couldn’t come back, so I haven’t.”
“And this was when you were seventeen?” Tria asked.
“Yeah.”
“Ten years ago?”
“Yeah.”
“And you haven’t spoken to either of them since then?”
“I have not.”
“Liam,” she said in her it’s-time-to-chastise-me-for-saying-something-stupid voice, “you have completely avoided your parents for that long based on one argument?”
“It wasn’t just a simple argument,” I said, though my throat tightened up as I had to fight to hold up the walls. “Just leave it at that.”
“What did you fight about?” she asked.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Then why don’t you contact them?”
“I’m not going to do that.”
“Then what you fought about did matter,” she surmised.
“It doesn’t matter now,” I said again.
“Then tell me why you fought!” she demanded once more.
“No!”
Whatever was inside of me holding my shit together collapsed.
“Stop fucking asking me!” I screamed at her as I pushed myself out of the bed and marched to the closet. I grabbed my tennis shoes and pulled them on without bothering to tie up the laces. I left the room without another word, ignoring Tria’s calls after me. Even when I grabbed my jacket and walked out of the front door, I ignored her calling my name.
Thoughts of the movie Fight Club went through my head, and as I took off down the street, I wondered if I could actually hit myself like the guy in that movie did in front of his boss. I didn’t have any destination in mind; I just ran. It wasn’t long before I was exhausted though—the late hour and the cold contributing to my fatigue. I slowed to a walk and then dropped myself down on a bench by the bus stop.
“Hey, baby.” Some whore in six-inch heels slid up to me and tried to sit on my lap. “Having a bad night? I can make it all better.”
