incandescent » phan

•one•

Dan turns over blearily, and, suddenly, as if a switch has been flipped, the raucous sound of his alarm filters through his head, causing him to sit up clumsily. He somehow knocks his head on the wall. What a wake-up.

The room is dark, and Dan fumbles to switch off his alarm and turn on the lamp on his bedside table. He curses under his breath as the blinding light hits his eyes, causing them to scrunch up at the unpleasant brilliance.

As he stumbles out of bed to his closet, he hears shouting from downstairs, but it's too faint for him to make out anything more than his name. Probably just another argument on how to handle his situation. He's been there plenty of times.

Dan opens his closet, pondering his options of what to wear. Black, black, or black seem to be the only choices. Dark and depressing it is. He pulls on tight jeans and a t-shirt before starting downstairs. He almost misses the third step and nearly has a heart attack.

The kitchen is too loud for his taste, and he wonders how just two people can make so much noise. His dad is downing his second gigantic mug of coffee (based on his glaringly bright, hyperactive-looking aura) while his mum is attempting to straighten his tie while making scrambled eggs. Dan waits for them to say something, and when they don't, he clears his throat pointedly.

"Oh, good morning, dear," says his mum quickly, before turning around and resuming her efforts. Her glow flickers. Frustration, most likely.

"Hi, Mum," he replies, sounding monotone.

"Morning, son," acknowledges his father.

"Hi, Dad." He knows it's pointless to ask why they were yelling. All he'll get is a vague response along the lines of oh, nothing, which is practically the equivalent of telling him to run along and play.

Dan's mum gives up trying to fix her husband's tie and focuses her attention on scraping the eggs from the pan to a plate. "These are for you, dear," she says, placing the food in front of him. There's no fork, so Dan gets one himself. It's little things like that which convince him of his parents' distant attitude with their affection. They're small, but they add up.

"How's work, son?" asks his dad.

"Fine."

"Today's the busy day, right?"

"Mhm." The eggs are burnt.

"Well, you'll do fine." He's clearly at a loss of what to say.

"Yep." It's a monosyllable sort of morning.

"Good. Good." His dad is definitely feeling awkward now, and Dan feels a mixture of satisfaction and wow-you-really-messed-that-up-you-little-{shiz}. He pushes the eggs away from him, unable to stand the taste anymore.

"Well, I should head out," Dan says, an attempt to break the uncomfortable silence. The atmosphere in the room is still awkward, and his parents' glows are restless. One could almost say wary.

"All right, have a nice day, then," his mum answers.

"Thanks. Same to you." He doesn't mean it. Not really.

Dan steps out the side door and into the garage. He's still surprised that his parents let him have his own car. He barely trusts himself at the wheel.

As he pulls out of the driveway, he groans at the memorisation that today is a Wednesday.

At the retail store where Dan (unfortunately) works, Wednesdays are "stock days," known by the employees as, simply, "hell." It's when all the products for the week come in and the workers have to stock the shelves. Making the already difficult hours of labour worse is their boss, who constantly shouts such encouragements as, "Hurry up!" and "You're all worthless!" He's a short, balding, blustery man, but everyone fears him. Someone with a glow as forceful as his is not to be toyed with.