Asher ✓

22 | punishment

JULY 17, 2012 / DELROV HOUSEHOLD

The method of creating and implementing a punishment was unfamiliar to Vasily Delrov. 

He had delivered scoldings and ultimatums before, but those were when Vasily knew how to manage his son; this was different. The aging man had walked past his son's closed door, opened it, peered in, thrice, just for the comfort of knowing he was still there, sleeping through his drunkenness. 

It was extreme, how quickly Vasily had lost most of his trust in Asher.

He couldn't trust Asher with who he hung around, how he behaved and his intentions. Vasily couldn't even really trust his son with taking care of himself anymore. Asher knew what was and wasn't safe for him to do, and so did Vasily. The problem was, their definitions of safety didn't align — and even if they did, Asher wouldn't listen. 

So when Asher got up at two in the afternoon, and made himself coffee for breakfast, downed it like he downed the drinks the night before, Vasily stayed in his study, avoiding his son.

Finally, when Asher was trying to massage his headache away — after trying pills and a shower — Vasily re-emerged, determined to keep his cool about this curve ball.

Asher knew the look that creased his father's eyebrows, knew it like he knew the scars on his body. 

It was the combination of anger, worry and disappointment that smothered him whenever his father arrived at the hospital, saw Asher just before he went into surgery — a familiar process by now — with another broken bone. It was the look of broken trust, worsened by Asher's previous words of, "Don't worry."

And it was never made better by an apology. Asher knew that, but always said it anyway. 

"I'm sorry."

Vasily scoffed, realising the repetitiveness of this conversation. "If you were that sorry, you wouldn't have done it in the first place."

Deep down, Asher disagreed. He deserved his freedom; he deserved a life just as fun as Kerrish Soto's, or Ryanel Gonzales'. He deserved more than what fate had given him, but since he couldn't get the health he wanted, he'd look for other methods of happiness.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. It was harsh, and half-arsed.

"I don't think you understand my point." Vasily fiddled with the buttons on his cuff — a nervous habit that Ekaterina associated with insecurity. "You told me you'd be home before eleven, and came home at four in the morning. I let you go with your friends to celebrate, but you can't act recklessly and expect no consequences! Do you know what could have happened to you? It's dangerous in town."

"You think I don't know about consequences?" Asher whined. "I've been dealing with amplified consequences my entire life. So what? Just because I'm diseased and fragile, I can't have a life?"

"You can have a life! You have friends," though Vasily was severely questioning the influence of said friends, "you're good at school, you have a goddamn motorcycle."

"That's not the type of life I want," Asher mumbled.

Vasily exploded, "What do you want, then? Alcohol, girls and cheap thrills? That's not a good life, Asher."

"Better than having to say no to everything because you might break. I felt so weak when I had to pass up on school trips and summer outings. I just got my license, and Dr. Kruger said I was strong enough to have normal life. Is this the part where you say you know what's best for me? Because you don't."

"I don't know what's best for you, but my best guess would be better than what you did last night. Asher, you have got to start thinking for yourself. You need to put aside what you want, and start thinking about what is safe."

"I'd rather be happy than safe."

"You're saying happiness and safety are mutually exclusive? What an over-dramatic, stupid thing to say."

Asher grunted in frustration, slapping the top of the breakfast table with his palms. The impact left his hands stinging, as he yelled, "You still think I need protecting! I can handle myself, Dad. Why don't you trust me?"

"Trust you?" Vasily spluttered, "Do I need to remind you what happened last night? And even before that, what about all those times you were convinced you were strong enough to handle yourself. You might be stronger, but you have gotten careless. It's not your strength I need to trust. I can deal with your broken bones. I will not put up with you lying to me."

"I apologised for that!"

"And I told you: I don't want your apologies, since they have proved useless in the past. I should be able to trust my son."

Asher snapped, screeched the chair backwards, and screamed, "And I should be able to love my father!"

Vasily reeled backwards, though in truth, he was expecting some sort of rash retaliation from Asher. Along the lines of being an teenager, this was one moment Asher was just as normal as all the teenagers at his school. Asher sniffed, and wiped his sleeve across his face, "Just tell me what my punishment is."

Here, Vasily just started spewing out punishments that he never thought he would have to use. He imagined Ekaterina doing this, identifying and separating Asher's passions from him. She would have done it much better than him. "You hand in your phone to me. No more seeing your friends for the rest of the summer."

Asher remained stiff, taking in the punishments with a slight relief; things could be worse. Vasily knew it wasn't harsh enough, because Asher wasn't complaining. "You can't ride your motorcycle until school starts. And you'll have to get a job until school starts, as well."

And then the complaints started. Asher felt like everything for which he had trudged through a shitty year of school was being taken from him; no friends, no internet, no joyrides, no free time. 

What else was there to do in summer?

When he was younger, Asher never complained about anything; he took his condition with such a mature dignity; he suffered through with school with strong silence; and endured his mother's passing with solid fortitude.

And then they moved to America. Vasily wasn't sure if it was adolescence or the American way of living that was turning his child into a selfish, reckless brat.

"Starting tomorrow," Vasily's tone was final. "I'd suggest getting rid of that hangover, if you want to last."

Asher threw one withering glare at his father, not understanding why he was still a weak, needy boy in his eyes. Why did his father not believe in him? Asher accepted that Vasily's trust had been abused, and for that, he was apologetic. He was not, however, apologetic for wanting a life to experience.

Asher stomped to his room, and Vasily cleared the empty coffee mug from the table; the door of the angry teenager's room slammed, rattling the very foundations of the house, and Vasily calmly shut the door to his study. 

And alone, both father and son sank to the floor, crying.