The Bull

It’s 11:34pm on a Tuesday night and my bloody son is still awake. Daniel hasn’t had it easy. He’s isolated at school, trying to find his community, and being continually rejected; it’s just turning angst into his personality. One more embarrassing life event and he’ll turn to tik-tok and start dancing in public venues to My Chemical Romance or whatever the equivalent is to teenagers these days. SO… I’m trying to scrape together what little patience I have left while the never-ending chores that keep me up so late wear me thin. Each fold of the supposed “cherry-blossom fresh” washed clothes pairs with a bang, bang, bang, from upstairs. One fold, bang. He’s probably just air-guitaring. Two folds, bang. Maybe he’s re-arranging his room. Three folds, bang. He’s… OH BOY. No. That does it.

I slam down the freshly washed t-shirt onto the pile of other freshly washed t-shirts on top of the dryer in this room that is a never-ending prison of dirty clothes and housework. My own shirts vary in shades of browns and black, while Daniel’s have anhomomorphic dancing cows and anime characters. What better way to catch the eye of potential friends then walking around like a billboard advertising niche hobbies? The pile slants somewhat lopsidedly like some pathetic attempt at some failing piece of European architecture, but like them, it’s the best I’ve got. The cat, Fergus, who has stationed himself strategically on the warm towels, gives me a sidelong glance as if to say, ‘Disturb me and die, Fuckface.’

I leave the light on, turn into the dark hallway, and walk from muscle memory to the banister at the bottom of the staircase. It’s not like Daniel doesn’t have other passions. He’s taken up sewing, which is at least in some way constructive. It’s taking a hit on my wallet for him to be able to look like various anime characters, but all I can hope is that it’s a financial investment in his future. Har. Har. If I can only get him into cooking and cleaning, he might stand a chance at being a fully functioning adult. Holding on to the ornamental knob at the top of the banister, I propel myself up the stair’s multiple steps at a time. The faster I can run up past the framed photographic shards of my marriage the better.

Jamie leaving was a dick move. To leave me? Fine. I’m a somewhat unlovable asshole. Daniel didn’t (and still doesn’t) deserve to be without; especially heading into the most hormone filled, confusing, self-isolating years of his life. I do what I can, and those friends with multi coloured hair that make Japanese noises or animal noises or whatever it is help too in their own way. I guess that’s the problem with having a child young. Either you grow up fast or you chase the youth you lost until you’re chasing it out the door.

And I’m stuck running away from the memories to the top of the stairs. The banging gets louder. Sewing doesn’t make this much loud noise. This is exactly why I deterred him from taking up the drums. Because I like my sleep. And yet here I am, sleep deprived, outside the door of a 14 year old boy who I hope to god isn’t doing some weird sex thing. My hand hovers outside the door, prepared to knock.

What if he’s doing some weird sex thing? I don’t need to walk in on that. No, screw it. I can’t deter responsible parenting on the off chance my son is doing some obscenely loud, methodical, sex thing in his bedroom at 11:35pm on a Tuesday night.

My hand slams down on the door. Bang. Bang. Bang.

The internal banging stops.

I don’t wait for the call before I open the door.

To room is trashed. There is a corridor between the mess where the floor is cleared from one end to the other. There’s a red t-shirt hanging from a hook from the light in the centre of the room and flooridor. Daniel is at one end. It has to be Daniel. Because what’s looking at me is a human inside a fluffy, furry, suit with horns.

My son is a cartoon-esque, anthropomorphic bull.