Strings Attached

~Chapter 11~

That day and today have been no different, apart from the fact that I've finally bashed Rich down, something I was itching to do since last week. He was being a douchebag and I have no patience with an arse like him. I'm surprised dad hasn't come running back home yet, demanding an explanation for this blow-up, coz I'm sure the ba*tard's already related everything to him. But I don't think he'd cut short his vacation even for his precious lad. Anyway, the bloke tries to stay out of my way now. And that's all I want.

When I get to school today, I spend my time at the gym, practicing my boxing moves. It's been two years since I boxed last. I'd almost forgotten about my gloves. I found them at the bottom of my drawer this morning and couldn't stop the urge to use them. It's my self-discovered therapy. A solution I've found giving actual results. Helps me calm down. And I drown out the ticking of the clock as I keep punching the bag in front of me for hours.

By the time I take a break, it's already 12 in the afternoon, and I'm sweating like a pig. I've been boxing for almost three hours, and my arms are aching frightfully plenty. I'm about to sip on some water when the coach enters. "Shouldn't you be in class?" he asks me, raising an eyebrow questioningly. "I need the space, sir," I tell him simply, and he slowly nods back in understanding. Walker's a good man. We don't speak anything more and after checking equipment about the room, he leaves. And now feeling considerably lighter, I leave as well.

As usual, I get back home to silence. But it seems unusual to me. And when I move towards the kitchen, I know why. Molly has gone on one of those few trips to the outside world. Good for her! I don't feel like eating anything, so downing a glass of orange juice in one large gulp, I drag myself upstairs.

Once reaching my room, I open the cupboard to get my guitar out, realizing that it's still broken. Nevertheless, I spread myself on the floor, stretching my legs to free them of the cramped feeling and try getting out a tune from Dylan, my guitar. But nothing comes out of it, except some excruciatingly-painful-to-the-ear sounds. And thinking my music as a lost cause, I close my eyes and fall asleep. My life is a vicious cycle of disappointments.

Sometime around 2 'o clock, Molly comes aknocking at the door with food, and I curse the woman ferociously, sending her away. And when she's gone, I realize how hungry I am. After that, I fall asleep once more. No one interrupts me again.

When I wake up, it's already four in the afternoon. Feels like ages since I fell asleep. And it feels like ages since I had that sandwich at the café! And feeling exceptionally hungry, I open the door, rubbing my eyes to pry sleep off them. I shouldn't have sent Molly away. She's the only one who cares for me in this household. And I internally scold myself for pushing her away all the time.

My mind argues that she's a servant and I don't want sympathy from a servant. I've taken too many favors from her, a housemaid. But to be very honest, she really isn't just a family maid who accompanied mum when she got married, not anymore. The woman has become a part of the family. And I need her here more than anyone else.

When I enter the kitchen, Molly is sitting at the counter, sipping her 4 o'clock tea. "What's for lunch?" I ask her, and she makes no move to let me know that she heard me. Silence reigns in this place. Guess the happy couple haven't arrived yet! They were to come back today. It's just the two of us here, still. Rich's been gallivanting somewhere; I don't care where. At the same moment my stomach gives a painful lurch, and I launch myself in front of her. "I asked you something. What's for lunch?" This time, I enquire a little sternly.

The woman turns her face away from me. "Look for yourself! I'm not your waiter at some restaurant that you'd be asking me that," she answers, without giving me so much as a glance. So she's cross with me. I can handle that. Making up with Molly is as easy as upsetting her is. "You're the cook here." "And the cook's duty is to inform the people in the house that the food is ready! Not hearing bad words from them in return!!" she retorts, fuming.

I can't help grinning. Not to sound sadistic, but her anger somehow entertains me. "C'mon! You wouldn't want to treat your darling Inayah's son this way!" And that's the easiest way to melt her. Just mention mum! Molly had been with mum ever since she was a baby, so she has a soft spot for her and anything related to her. And I happened to be her dearest possession, when she was alive. But I believe I still am. And finally, she turns her head to look at me tenderly.

"Sometimes you remind me so much of your mother, Danny. God bless the dear girl's soul," she says, her voice breaking slightly. I don't interrupt her. Chiefly, coz I want someone with whom I can talk about mum. Someone who misses her like I do. And Molly is the only one who remembers her, besides me.

"And yet, you have a lot like him in you, too," she says, referring to my unworthy father. "But I can't leave you. Not when I promised her." She sits there sobbing for a while, and I keep myself from taking her hand to console her. That would be too much! When she doesn't stop even after two whole minutes, I feel irritation bubbling within me.

And getting frustrated with her for comparing me to dad, I shake myself out of this stupid emotional stupor. I shake the woman too, back to the present, and dry her eyes hurriedly. She lets out a cry of protest. I'm being extremely gentle with her, even if I say so myself. But it looks like she wants to go on bawling. I don't give her a chance to carry on, though. My stomach's groaning for food here. "Now that that's done and dried up, get me some food. Quick!" I command her, urging her to get moving.

After I've had my fill (pestering Molly is quite entertaining), I think I could lie down and sleep some more. But then, I realize with a groan that I had to go get my guitar repaired. I wouldn't be able to breathe properly until it's well again. It's that living an object for me! But in order to do that, I need money. I hope I'm not running short of it. I get out my wallet to get a good look on my financial status, only to see that it's dwindling.

And I let out a second and louder groan this time! Where does all my money go? 'It's not like you have a steady source of income, blockhead!' my mind reminds me. And I remember that I blew my chances of ever going to the PoG. Nevertheless, I shoulder Dylan and get out in search of places to sing, money to make, and a better life to live.