Neatly Folded: I Was So Excited For Moments That Never Happened (“Happy Fathers Day, Hudson Vale!”)

“Happy Fathers Day, Hudson Vale!”

Words on construction paper he finger-painted at age seven, folded neatly into a card.

Now, pressed against his chest in a bed too large for one man. It rose and fell with his breath, still folded neatly.

There were things he could never say out loud -- not anymore. Sometime between arts and crafts at age seven and graduating Saint George's School, he'd felt the breaker flip and, he didn't think he'd ever get that power back.

Words he'd finger painted in bright colors all over his mind. "I love you, Dad." "You mean the world to me." "I wish I could feel you love me back."

They were all neatly folded, stored in an antique chest of drawers he kept his feelings in.

It was Father's Day.

Again.

And Hugo pretended to himself that didn't hurt.

He folded that up with the rest.

There was a child inside him begging to express himself.

There was a child inside him, begging him to acknowledge it's existence.

The child was neatly folded as well.

As were his screams.

Tucked away.

Harder to hear it that way. Which was good, because no one was listening -- least of all him.

What sounds escaped the chest of drawers were further muted by the bottle of Macallan Double Cask. He drank it straight. Not that he needed an excuse, but it was the worst day of the year, after all.

Sometimes, even through the cloud of scotch in his head from that bottle he kept at his side when Danny Boy wasn't around, he couldn't help but see the kid.

A blonde-headed, chubby-cheeked boy with light in his eyes, who somehow kept a smile on his face through all the rejection. He had faith in things. Faith in his father's love. Faith in God. Faith his mother would one day be a nice woman.

Now, his hair was dark, perfect, cheeks thin and chiseled.

Neatly folded.

Danny Boy was busy, what with the tournament and all. He'd lied and said he'd been invited to participate, but unlike Daniel, declined.

He hadn't been.

The boy in the drawer said to cheer Daniel on, to be there for him in this tournament no matter what, because best friends do that for each other.

He agreed... to some extent.

He looked down at his chest. The card rose and fell, rose and fell. Hugo fantasized about whipping his lighter out and setting it ablaze right there on his chest, visualized it spreading across him and onto the bed. He dreamt of tearing it apart, ripping it to pieces, destroying the first thing he'd ever neatly folded.

If he could, he would.

But...

In his left hand he palmed his phone. Considered checking jabber but the last thing he wanted to see was all the Happy Fathers Day messages that possibly littered the app.

He had grabbed it, at first, to call Hudson.

To just...

Just read the fucking words he finger painted for his father those twelve years ago.

But as he held the phone in his palm, he began to tremble. Literally, he shook. Vibrated, even. The physical reaction surprised even him, convinced him to get out of bed just long enough to grab the Macallan before jumping back in.

It failed to stop his shaky hands.

He placed his phone down momentarily and lit a cigarette, the lighter quaking in his hand while the cig was firm between his pouty lips.

If anyone had been around to bear witness to this weakness, his reputation would be utterly ruined.

Nothing phased Hugo.

He made sure the entire world knew that.

A deep inhale from the cig, followed by an exhale of gray -- the only color he didn't find childish, because he didn't find it much of anything at all.

"Fuck it. Stop being a pussy."

He picked up the phone.

Pressed 'Hudson' in contacts.

Pressed the call button.

...

Pressed the disconnect button.

Fuck Hudson.

Fuck him.

All he ever did (besides provide him a life of monetary riches beyond the vast majority of people's wildest dreams) was leave him on read. Literally and figuratively.

But mainly emotionally.

And honestly? Maybe that's the kind of father that little boy in the drawers needed. Because he was soft. With a different father, he'd have never survived this world, much less strike forth from it with his best friend toward a legacy entirely of their own making.

Can you imagine? A loving father?

The sort of weakness that would bring forth? The sort of contempt from his peers he would face?

This was the Father's Day ritual of the last 3 years. Lying in bed all day, getting drunk on the most expensive liquor in the cabinet which he would swipe a week beforehand.

It was a quiet ceremony.

Less of a party, more of a funeral.

The little boy in the drawers had grown particularly loud now. He could hear it crying. Crying for him to call his father, to say the thing(s) he never got to say, to hug the man he never got a hug from. It made Hugo feel nauseous, that's why his eyes had glazed over with a salty solution that he fought like hell to contain.

Of course, he could only fight so long before they spilled out a little.

They won the match.

Like Bandits.

He quickly wiped his eyes. That was enough of that. It was 4pm and the day was almost gone and God only knew what Danny Boy was doing -- training, probably, the absolute psychopath. He'd kill himself to win.

Hugo, on the other hand, had to realize that, for now, there was nothing to fight for.

And despite the little boy screaming that, contrary to his beliefs, he had everything still to fight for, Hugo only formed a fist to wrap around the neck of that bottle and turn it upside down, right into his mouth.

He placed the neatly folded card on a black oak end table by his bed.

He figured at some point, he was just going to have to man up and kill that little blonde boy in those drawers.

Hugo found the question of what to do with his old self's body once he finished the job mildly interesting.

The answer, less so.

Because he'd just keep it in the drawers, neatly folded, along with everything else he was too old to believe in.