anobrain // narry au

new

"You mean Robert," there's unfamiliarity in my voice: this hate I've never encountered unless the name of my father is abruptly brought up. An emotion I never experience on a day-to-day basis. I almost feel metamorphosed into a spiteful character. All the same it's beyond my control.

"Yes Niall, Robert, your father," my mum utters. Her gaze on me is steady, crossed. That look of disappointment reappears until I murmur, "Enough about Robert. Tell me how'd it go in London."

And with some hesitation nothing but mild, she does. My mummy's hazel eyes sparkle with every detail about her new upcoming line and the preparation for the annual fashion week -- that she'll be contributing and debuting her line for --. Her words jumble and fumble when describing the bittersweet experience of volunteering to watch the Delevingne models shoot for a well-known magazine for eight straight hours. And how the wild wind from the fan made her stumble and trip like she had two left feet.

Then there's assumptions and tales about Cara and her current scenery in America. California, to be exact. She's shooting with a good friend/great model Kendall --that I've may have glanced at on my Instagram feed once or twice--. And I sit here listening. Listening and proudly holding onto every redundantly sweet word of my mothers like I'm some proud father of his two goal achieving daughters. But I'm the youngest and only son in the Delevingne-Horan family.

But there are some arrangements you can't change nor alter in the slightest condition, so, you learn to accept the fate. As I've learned to accept I'm the only unaccomplished, unknown child in his entire family. With a reputation that worries my mother when she eyes me up skeptically. I turn into stone under her hard stare.

"What did you do when Cara and I were gone?" she calmly asks, but there's a look in her eye that chills me even with the hoodie I have on. Still I wrap my arms around myself as her interrogation goes further. "Hopefully, nothing you did when you were fourteen."

My throat itches and burns but I find myself bluffing as if my life is some ten minute poker game with unseen stocks and wild pairs that have been laid out onto a table. "I've thought we've moved on from this. The three of us," I unconfidently whisper.

Mum hums, "And we have, but I'm allowed to be worried about you Nilly."

Wordlessly I nod. It's almost as if my suppressed thoughts are creeping up on me in the dark, already beginning to tap me on my shoulder with a surprise greeting. So sudden I feel queasy all in and around my stomach — the feeling to retch but you can't, so the acid allows itself to build up from the stomach to the oesophagus.

"I'm also worried about what your goals are after sixth form is over for you," mother continues. A smile that's painted a matte burgundy curves her lips upward and prominently shows her perfect teeth. "I can always make a spot for you in the fashion industries."

Subconsciously I deny by shaking my head repeatedly. "I want no part in the fashion world," it's a confident mumble because I'm fully sure of my statement. "But thank you, mum."

Mum hums as she makes a peculiar noise in the back of her throat. "Then what are your plans after school, Niall?"

And what are my plans when college is through and everyone separates to pursue theirs hopes, dreams, and desires for the future? I certainly haven't though of it — all I've ever wanted and expected was a career. Something more serious than my job at Punk Rock. Just something permanent doing commands that are satisfying and tolerable.

"I just want a career," I say. There's this angsty feeling I've heard of — when you're altering between the ages of an adolescent to an adult. Realisation hit me: I'm an adolescent.

In life you're usually accustomed to watching others older than you grow and develop before yourself. Then when it comes time for you to follow along their treaded paths, it feels beyond surreal. Cara. I think of Cara. About her finishing secondary then spending no more than a year in sixth form before modelling started up for her. And Gemma transitioning into an adult when she went to the local university in the heart of Manchester after college.

I've watched these people, my friend and my sister, grow before me. And now it's my turn to grow.

It's surreal. I hold onto to that feeling when dinner finishes up and my mother finishes her glass of sweet, fruity flavoured liqueur. When I couldn't finish my order of a dozen macaroons so I ask for our waiter to wrap them for me to go. The feeling's still aroused as my mother and I depart from the posh restaurant towards our home. And realisation remains as I fall asleep that night, surrounded by the darkness that resembles my future; my unknown future, career, and goals.

Then the following day, Friday, when I'm habitually surrounded by all of the other adolescents around the age of sixteen and seventeen and eighteen. Most likely going through similar trials and tribulations, that feeling doesn't suppress in even the slightest.

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iT TOOK ME FOREVER TO WRITE THIS. It's very shit because I've tried various times and various ways to introduce the scene and Niall's mothers character.

Thank you all for the large amount of reads I've gotten in the span of about two weeks. Weird, but I'm very thankful. Anyways you guys drink soy milk and stay strong but not too strong. Because too strong is .. kind of weird. And just have a nice day!