“For the last time, son, I am not a charity!” roared the strained voice of the man within the dimly lit room.
A pause followed, the phone cradled within his wrinkled fingers falling silent.
“Dad, I never said that I wanted free money,” a smoother voice responded, “I will pay you back. Ashley is expecting in just three weeks-”
“With what job? Last I heard you were fired!”
Why couldn't his kids keep a job like he always could? They just needed to try harder, he thought.
“Dad, I wasn't fired,” he replied, “I was let go because the company went under. I know the economy-”
He clicked the phone off. He was so tired of the excuses! His son needed to know the joy of making it by himself!
He sat back in the soft padding of his chair with an angered sigh. Kids these days, he thought. Was it too much to ask that they suffer a bit for what they wanted and needed in life?
“I never got any handouts,” he grumbled to himself.
A glint of something suddenly caught his eye. He turned his attention to a spot upon the floor. A small, round object was shimmering before him. He stood and approached the curious item, pausing for a moment to stoop down and pick the thing from the carpet. The smallest of smiles decorated his aged face as the silvery quarter felt cool within his grasp. His son's birth year was present upon the etched surface. A gasp of surprise and pain suddenly burst from him as it suddenly lifted upon it's side and raced across his palm, cutting his skin deeply. He shook his head in disbelief as he saw his own blood beginning to pool within his hand. He stumbled from the room and into the adjoining kitchen, allowing his hand to run beneath a stream of cool water.
“What the hell was-”
“Dad,” his son's voice suddenly sourced from directly behind him.
He wheeled around in shock. An icy stone fell somewhere within his gut at the sight before him. His son was standing before him, a multitude of scrapes, bruises and gashes etched throughout his body. One eye was swollen shut, the other watching him intently.
“My boy!” the man bellowed, his own eyes bristling with tears, “What happened? Are you all right?”
His son smiled widely, catching him off guard.
“The car blew a tire on the freeway,” he seemed to say in triumph, “Tires haven't been changed in awhile. Stuff happens, huh?”
His attention turned away at now noticing someone else within the brightly-lit kitchen. A young woman was seated upon the tile, her head hunched down. She appeared to be holding something.
“Terry, what's going on?” he said, now recognizing the woman as his son's wife.
He stepped past him and knelt down before her. Her entire body was bathed in blood, her hair dripping from it. At the mention of her name, her face shot upward with a smile.
“Look, Damien!” she chirped with a smile filled with broken, bloody teeth, “It's your grandpa!”
The baby within her arms did not move. The man turned his attention away with a sob, not daring to look back into the dead child's blank stare.
“We couldn't afford a hospital,” came the voice of his son over him, “So we delivered him at home! Isn't he beautiful?”
The man's eyes slammed shut. He couldn't breathe; so much sorrow had overcome him. Then, as suddenly as it began, he felt their presence vanish around him. He looked about for a few moments with tentative eyes. He looked to his hand to see the cut had vanished. He stood and practically ran to the nearest phone.
“Son? Yes, it's your father again,” he said after a few moments, his breath a bit ragged from exertion.
“Dad? Are you all right?” his son's concerned voice rang out in his ear.
“Yes, I'm fine,” he said in response, “But you are not. I know you'll be able to make it on your own eventually, but how about I help out a bit until then?”
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