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Frank had a drinking problem.
When Eliana died, he found himself nursing whatever he could get his hands on, whatever that was cheap. He was broody when he was drunk. He was bitter. It didn't matter that he had responsibilities, now—that he had a son to raise.
He was hurting too much for that.
Eliana’s sister (what was her name again?) took care of the then 2 week-old with great excitement. She couldn't have kids of her own, poor gal. Held James in her arms and gazed at him with the glossy, loving eyes of a mother. She didn't like Frank much. Told him that he should cut back on his “habit”. Told him that he reeked most days. Same thing with Eliana's mother, Giovanna (now that's a name you couldn't forget).
They fought a lot when he was drunk.
Frank couldn't bear to look at his newborn son some days. He looked too much like her—seeing Eliana's face in his threatened tears to fall from his eyes. One time, he made the mistake of calling James cursed in his drunken stupor, earning a smack across the cheek from Giovanna. She was within earshot, regretfully.
“If anybody cursed that child, it’s you!” she bellowed. “If you don't fix yourself now, it'll be the death of you both! I know it!”
Frank, rendered silent, slinked into his bedroom—now nursing a face that was hot and sore from the slap of a woman he thought cared too damn much. It was only when he sobered up that night when he realized the weight of her words.
I need to get my shit together.
Frank had been sober for 17 years.
Something was wrong with James. Frank knew what it was, but it filled him with dread the longer he thought about it. Adolescence wasn't easy for anybody, but James had it a bit more rough than the average kid. He was bullied—terrorized, really—in his youth. For things he couldn't really help.
He remembered the time the dread first came about, when James asked him what a “faggot” was at dinner when he was 7.
“Did…” Frank finally found his voice, staring at him in shock, “did somebody call you that?”
James nodded quietly.
“Oh, no, James… you're not a faggot, son. Never.”
“What is it, though?”
Frank chewed on his lip.
“It's… a mean way to call somebody a bad person. And you're not, James. You're not.”
James stared at his plate. “Okay.”
In the years that passed, his son got quieter. He spoke to Frank less and less, and it seemed like the older he got, the more he avoided his father. The dread didn't fully settle in until he saw a couple of cuts on James’ right arm when he was 15 in the bathroom getting ready for school.
James blinked, toothbrush still in his mouth. “Just some scratches I got.” He was quick to reassure him. “It's nothing to worry about.”
Frank wasn't satisfied.
He needed to be a father, to let James know that he was here for him. He didn't have the same feminine touch that Giovanna did, but he just… He needed to be a man for his son.
“Dad, it's nothing to worry about. I'm gonna be late.” His son slid past him out the bathroom door when pressed.
James didn't want to talk about it. The dread was getting worse.
“James, you-” he grabbed him by the arm to stop him, and his son shot him a look—a nasty, angry thing that made Frank's eyes water. He was significantly quieter when he finished his sentence:
“You know you can tell me anything, right?”
Frank's grip on his son's arm weakened; James’ face morphed into something cold and hard the longer he regarded his father.
“I'm gonna be late” was all that James said in response, shaking Frank's hand off his arm and grabbing his backpack on the couch. When his son left the apartment door unlocked after he left, he swallowed hard and leaned against the wall, sliding down it as he curled in on himself.
In the two years that had followed since, it was an open secret between them that James was hurting himself. Nobody said anything while the cuts on James' arms grew in size and in numbers. Frank didn't know what to do. His son was hurting, and he had no idea how to stop it.
He certainly didn't know how to stop it when he found James passed out in the bathtub, bleeding out from his wrists at 17 with the shower running. Frank had been out on an errand—something stupid in hindsight—and if he knew his son would've done something like this…
While rushing him to the hospital, he was barraged with all kinds of questions, and all he said was that he didn't know. He didn't know why he would do this. He didn't know that it would get to this point. He didn't know how to stop it.
Frank didn't know a damn thing about James.
Giovanna was too sick herself to visit James in the hospital. Her youngest daughter (the sister) was out of the country. Frank was all James had, and he'd stay with him for as long as he needed.
James was okay. He tried to kill himself, but he was okay. He was still here.
“I don’t know…” he said through sobs as he held his baby's bandaged hand. “I don’t know what to do. I don't know…”
“Dad,” James began, voice thick with exhaustion. “Why are you crying? You're not the one that's hurting.”
Frank stopped, and stared at him, agape. He felt James slowly pull his hand away from his grip.
“You're gonna ruin the bandages.”
His head turned to his now empty hand, and at last to truly see his son's face. It was that same nasty gaze, now molded by his brush with death. James then looked back down at his hands, and that far-away look in his eyes returned all at once.
Frank slumped back in his seat.
I need a pick-me-up.
Frank had relapsed.
Many a doctor had advised the father to shuttle his son off to a psychiatric ward. He was clearly unwell, clearly suicidal, and he needed a place to recuperate. Frank was terrified at the thought of his son among those people, but he soon gave in, and sent him away, praying that there wouldn't be too much trouble for him.
When James came home, nothing seemed to really change. Nothing except a newfound surliness that left the senior Sunderland reeling. He was 18, now. Spent his 18th birthday committed. Frank would be furious if he were James, too, but he didn't…
He didn't need to be so mean about it.
While moving out the last of his things for college, James found Frank sleeping on the couch that morning. The father awoke to the exasperated sigh of his son.
“Of course,” James muttered. “On the day of. Sure. Great.”
“I'm up! I'm up, I'm up…” Frank bolted upward and fumbled around for his cane. James quickly provided him with the mobility aid when he walked over.
“Thanks, kiddo.” Frank grunted as he stood, massaging the knee of his bad leg. James didn't say anything in return.
“Ah, wow.” He found his way to the kitchen, scratching his chin at today's date on the calendar. In the little white box, James' handwriting read: ’MOVE-IN DAY’ in all caps. “Today's the big day, huh?” Frank turned to face his son. “Do you have a roommate?”
James nodded, plucking his keys from the rack next to the apartment door.
“I see," Frank said as he straightned out his shoulders. "Well, I better get myself cleaned up, yeah?”
His son's face darkened a bit, and he regarded Frank with a quick glance. “I can drive myself, Dad.”
“What? No, no, no, it's okay. I can drive you and help you move in.” Frank smiled a bit. “Hey, if we get out of here early enough, I can get us a bite to eat at a nice little restaurant that just opened. They've got fantastic eggs.” He wandered out of the kitchen and towards his bedroom. “How does that sound? It's not too far from here.”
James chuckled. “Yeah, like I'd let my drunkard dad behind the wheel.”
Frank stopped dead in his tracks. “...Excuse me?”
His son turned to face him in full. “I'm driving myself.” He said.
Frank furrowed his brows. “James, what… I'm fine! I'm up! I can drive us! It'll be okay! Just- just give me a couple of minutes and I can get us out the door in-”
“Would you just shut up already?!”
James' voice ripped through the room; pure, loud, and angry. The dread came back in full force within Frank, and the face he saw on his son… God, the look on his face.
It was the nastiest look he'd seen him make yet.
Gnarled teeth, flared nostrils, and green eyes that had never looked so full of wrath before. Green eyes that were often so vacant. Green eyes that looked like his late Eliana's.
“You wanna know something? I’m fucking sick of you.” James spat. “I'm sick of your attitude, sick of cleaning up after you, sick of doing the work that you should be doing here!
You're pathetic, you know that?! You drink yourself to sleep every night, knowing what an absolute failure of a man you are. All you've ever done in your life is keep your head down and let people walk all over you because you think it's easier.
And you know what, Frank? I've tried that! Tried to follow your example, because who else do I have? And it's not easy! It's not fucking easy! And I'm tired of pretending like it is.”
Frank had never seen James so pained. Tears had begun to stain the new button-up shirt he was wearing. He remembered that James liked that shirt a lot. Bought it with his own money.
“I'm driving myself, and that's final. You can drop dead for all I care.”
James opened the door and slammed it shut. He left it unlocked. Frank stood in the living room for a long while. He then found a seat at the dining table, resting his cane against his thigh with his head in his hands.
She was right. I've cursed him.
James had a drinking problem.
Here and there, he snuck a can of his dad's beer and made his way to the rooftops of South Ashfield Heights, watching what remained of the stars while buzzed on shitty alcohol. He'd wake up with an awful headache the next day, so he kept it infrequent, but when he went off to college, things started to shift pretty quickly.
He wasn't a party person by any means, but on late nights when the world was asleep, he'd make his way to the downtown bar and drink to his heart's content. He was also lucky that they weren't keen on carding patrons, but it's not like he ever was when he bought booze for his friends during high school.
James found that people loved him when he was drunk—he was friendly, jovial, and laughed at just about everything. Somebody he wasn't when he was sober. He quickly fell in love with that side of himself, too. And yet, the waking world didn't take too kindly to his extracurricular activities.
James’ grades undoubtedly suffered from these excursions, and he got a talking to from many a professor, emotions ranging from concerned to aggravated. He was sour about it for a bit—his head hurt—but decided that it'd be better in the long run if he did apply himself.
That's when he learned that withdrawal was an absolute bitch.
James reasoned that he'd only been drinking what he could handle, but as it turned out, his holding capacity for alcohol was quite large. He was a large man himself, no doubt about it, but it did reveal to him why some of his smaller, skinnier drinking buddies got drunk so much faster.
He didn't want to get into trouble for drinking underage if he came to the campus nurses about it, so he took three days off and suffered in his dorm room. He remembered apologizing to his roommate over and over again, trembling and vomiting into the trash bin. He earned a placid “it's okay” every single time.
On the last day of the worst of it, his roommate closed the book he was reading one time and asked if he needed to be driven to the hospital. James, swathed in all the blankets he had, furiously shook his head.
He'll muscle it out. He'll be fine. James miraculously did get some decent sleep that night.
When the second semester rolled around for James, he hadn't had a drop of alcohol since he went cold turkey. Academically speaking, he was doing pretty well, and his extracurricular activities had him getting more involved with the school's wrestling team.
The captain liked him a lot.
A couple of days after he turned 19, he got an itch of sorts. He purposefully kept his birthday alcohol-free, opting to spend it with a couple of people he really trusted in a quiet place where they just hung out and talked about life. It was one of the better birthdays he had—Hell of a lot better than his 18th—and it filled him with warmth whenever he recalled it.
But… this itch. It didn't seem to stop.
One thing led to another, and he found himself giggling in his favorite booth in that bar with a glass of rum and coke, sitting across from a cute girl he immediately forgot the name of. He was so bad with names.
Damn you, Frank.
“So, James,” she said, a little bit tipsy herself. “What's… your family life like?”
James hummed, long and drawn out. He then shrugged. “It's just me and my dad.”
“You're an only child? Wow, I'm jealous!”
James laughed, bemused. “What's there to be jealous of?” He took another swig.
“Well…” the girl traced her finger around the edge of her glass. “I've got a younger brother—half sibling—he's only home sometimes, but he's sooooo fucking annoying.” She pressed her head against the table in exasperation. “I hate going home for the holidays.”
“How old is he?”
“Like,” she sighed mid-sentence as she sat up. “He's 15. He thinks he's so grown up. It pisses me off.”
“Ah, yeah, that'd do it.” James nodded. “How old are you?”
The girl looked around and leaned over the table, whispering in his ear. “18.”
“I'm 19,” he whispered back. They stared at each other for a moment before breaking out into childish giggles.
“You don't look 19 at all,” she tilted her head after she leaned back in her seat. “You look, like… 25, or something.”
“I do?!” James sputtered a bit, setting his glass down on the table. The girl chuckled some more as he gathered his thoughts. “Well, I guess I've always looked a little bit older…”
“Yeah… mmm.” The girl looked contemplative for a moment. James stared at her, waiting for a response. She looked back at him and smirked against her hand. “What?”
James blinked. “Sorry, I was just…”
“Think I'm pretty or something?” She tilted her head again, grinning in full.
He felt his ears burn. “I- I mean… you are.” He reflexively pressed the palm of his hand to the nape of his neck, rubbing it gingerly.
The girl's smile settled into something more bashful. “Thanks… you're pretty handsome yourself, you know?”
Even when he was buzzed, he didn't know how to handle compliments of that caliber. All he could do was give her a single nod in response.
After a moment of silence, she stood up from the booth. “Well, I think it's time to go home.” James blinked again and stared up at her.
“Do you need someone to walk you home?” It came out more slurred than he would've liked.
“Oh, no, I'm alright. I'll just call a cab. No biggie.” She waved her hands in reassurance.
“That far?” James pressed his chin into the palm of his hand, and she nodded, smiling.
“Well, goodbye, James! Get home safe, alright?” She waved as she headed for the door. He returned her gesture in kind when he remembered something.
“Oh, wait, before you go,” he stood from the booth himself. “What was your name again?”
“Mary. My name's Mary.” She winked at him as she pushed the bar door open. “Make sure to write it down!”
Mary… Okay.
There wasn't much else to do for James but to stumble on home himself. The bar wasn't too far from campus grounds, and he made it back in one piece, luckily. As quietly as he could, he unlocked the door to his dorm and slipped in, only to immediately hit his shin on the frame of his bed after closing the door.
Wincing, he turned to see that his roommate was still sound asleep.
Oh, thank God.
James peeled off whatever clothes he could and collapsed onto his mattress.
Mary, Mary, Mary…
“Mary!”
James woke up to a clear blue sky peeking in from the window blinds. He groaned, pinching his nose as his head immediately started to pound.
“You're late again.” His roommate said, sitting on his bed as he flipped a page to the book he was reading.
“Wh… what? What time is it?” James croaked. His roommate checked his watch.
“1:32 PM.”
1P… Oh, my God.
“Fucking- Why didn't you wake me up sooner?!” He jumped up off his bed and threw his dresser drawer open, searching for a decent outfit for the day. He missed two of the three classes he had for today already. This was bad.
“I did, before I left for my first class.”
“And?” James sneered, whipping his head around.
“Seems I didn't do a good enough job.” He regarded him with an icy stare. James wilted instantly. He continued to get ready, albeit in silence. When he threw his backpack over his shoulder and headed for the door, he stopped for a moment, holding the handle.
“I'm sorry,” was all that James said, and he left, leaving the door unlocked.
His roommate stared at the door for a moment before closing his book, tossing it away, and stretching out his arms.
“Yep,” he sighed. “He's fucked.”