WHO: Henry, open to Tinsel or Iestyn (if Iestyn gets worried and comes over) but can stand alone WHEN: Saturday WHERE: Henry's place WHAT: Just Henry feelin like shit WARNINGS: Parental indifference and then SMUT at the endddd
Starbucks... or giving toys to children? I'm having a little trouble sympathising with you on that one...
Maybe the woman he had been speaking to was right. Maybe Henry's refusal to take part in the family business was ridiculous and awful when he could be doing his part to make children happy. Maybe he should have accepted his role as a cog in the family machine, swallowed up his feelings on the matter and just done it. And maybe the fact that he felt hurt over the way his parents treated him was just him being oversensitive...
My father told me if I came near his business again he'd basically kill me, so, there are worse fathers. Not that it's a competition.
The woman was right, Henry's father had certainly never threatened him in any way. And it wasn't just because, as the shitty little voice in the back of his head suggested, because Santa didn't even care enough about him to threaten him. The man wasn't violent.
Surely there were more ways to harm a child though.
Henry closed his laptop and headed into his bathroom to stare at his reflection in the mirror. He was sporting a wicked black eye, swollen closed, the flesh stained blue and purple. His hair was still slicked back though, and Henry scowled at himself. What the fuck was he even playing at? Pretending he had his life together? He twisted the tap on and shoved his hands under the water, wetting them. Then he ran his hands through his hair, getting rid of the gel. When his hair was sufficiently wet, he shook it out, painting the mirror with droplets, his hair hanging in wet curls.
He stalked away from the bathroom and grabbed his phone, dialling his mother's number as he flopped onto his bed. It rang once and was cut off. Huffing, Henry dialled his father, only to have the same thing happen. He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling as tears pricked at the corners. This was so stupid. He was twenty five, why did he care what his parents thought of him?
There are worse fathers-
Henry dialled again and abruptly the call was answered. "Dad? Hey! Hi, can I-"
"I don't have time for this kind of thing, Henry," was the abrupt answer, and Henry felt like his stomach was coated with ice. 'This kind of thing'. Like calling to talk to your parents because you felt like they didn't love you was just him being overdramatic. Like all he did was cause them pain. Like he was nothing but a disappointment.
"I'm sorry, sir," Henry said, his voice flat. "I just wanted- I guess I wanted to hear your voice."
There was a silence and then, "in the future, a call to my secretary will ensure I am not in the middle of a meeting-"
Henry ended the call and switched his phone off. Not that it's a competition-. Of course it wasn't. So why did he still feel like the shit someone scraped off their shoe? Henry groaned and he grabbed the blankets, pulling them up over his head. He curled into a ball and stayed there, unwilling to move until he was forced to.