Layne waved back at the man mowing his lawn behind the short white fence. The neighbourhood he's grown up in hasn't changed much – still crammed up with cute little houses, painted in a whole range of pastel colours. Even the flower gardens in front of them seemed as if they have been exactly the same for years.
He had some doubts, and still, he rang the bell. It only took a minute before the door parted open, revealing his father's wrinkled face, framed by buzz-cut, greying hair.
"Hi, Father," Layne greeted and pushed past him inside.
"Just as always, Layne."
"The bus was overflowing the whole way here." Layne didn't look back at him when he made his way to the kitchen – he could only hear the man walking behind him. "Do you have any food? I'm starving."
Doyle Marks sat behind the kitchen table on a woven chair and watched his son in silence. Layne shrugged it off and opened the fridge.
"Is Mother at work?"
"Yes."
"You don't need to be so formal with me, you know?" He sat a piece of ham on the countertop and reached out for the knives rack. "I might not be the successful child you can brag about to your drinking buddies, but you can't deny my existence."
"How long is this gonna last, Layne?"
"What do you mean?"
"You, losing every job you get? Your family won't be able to cover for you forever," Doyle's voice rose. "You know that the RCI doesn't need much of a reason."
Layne turned at his father in a sudden movement. "Says the guy with an illegal beer brewery in his basement."
"Oh don't start this discussion."
"Just saying that maybe, before getting so set on me being rejected from Eumain, you should think about yourself." The younger man sat in front of his father and chewed on a sandwich. "I'd like to see which of us will go down first. At least I'm not doing anything illegal."
"You know very well it doesn't have to be illegal."
"Yeah yeah, you just have to be 'not good enough'. Hey, if I held up this long with all my imperfections, maybe I'll keep getting lucky like that."
"That's not something to joke about."
"I'm sure of that."
Doyle pressed his hand against his forehead and turned away. After finishing his meal, Layne carelessly traced the table's wooden surface with his finger.
An antique analogue clock – the one Layne himself gave his parents as their anniversary gift many years ago – ticked second after second. The man now understood why nobody made those clocks anymore. The sound could have made anyone go crazy in moments like those.
"You should cut your hair," Doyle spoke after a long silence. "Makes you look inappropriate."
Layne let his hand slide down along his ponytail. The hair only reached just below his shoulders now – quite shorter than how he used to keep it a couple years back. If he'd let it down, the strands of hair would hide the four long, clean scars along the side of his neck. At least partly.
"I like it this way." He shrugged.
"See, you're making yourself stand out even more. You don't know what the bystanders will think about that when they see you. Might take it the wrong way. Might..."
"Might think that I'm not up to their perfect image of masculinity enough and turn me in? That hasn't happened yet."
"Layne, you're twenty-five. Don't you think it's time to grow up?"
Layne froze for a moment and stared his father into the eyes. "You do know I'm not twenty-five, tho, right?"
Doyle laughed it off, just like he always would. Just like all of his son's words that didn't make any sense to him. Something in that made Layne's blood boil. Yet, he kept up a formal voice.
"You did remember my birthday a few weeks back, right?" he asked. "You just didn't call me because I'm not worth your attention... Right?"
"Oh don't mention it."
"Wow." Layne rolled his eyes and stood. "You don't even know your son's birthday."
"That's far from the point. See, you're nearing thirty and all you've done is lost another job in construction."
"So, what are you saying? That construction job is so meaningless someone couldn't even manage to lose it? Right?" Layne clutched his shaking fists. "Of course, if you don't have a fancy desk-job in a conditioned office where you can drink coffee and don't break a sweat, then you don't even have a real job."
"Can't you see? You're not that stupid, Layne. You should have been able to reach higher."
"And now everyone doing physical labour is stupid?"
"You're twisting my words." Doyle stood to be on his son's eye-level – although, just like his older one, he was on the taller side of the family.
"Of course, that's all I've ever done, am I right?"
Layne turned around on his heels and stormed out of the room and into what was once his own bedroom. Doyle yelled something behind him but he did not care enough to hear it. Closing the door behind him, Layne breathed out deeply and looked around.
During his childhood and teenage years, that room was Layne's own personal kingdom – the only place in the entire world he could lock himself in whenever shit got too crazy to handle. Which would happen.
Back then, though, it used to be filled with books, his collections of statuettes, caricatures and large maps decorated the walls. Layne wondered if all that stuff was still hidden behind all of the cardboard boxes, as the room was now used for storage.
Layne squeezed himself through the stacks of things nobody even needed anymore to reach what used to be his bed. Removing all of the trash revealed an old, bumpy mattress. A few of the springs were sticking out but that didn't bother him before. While he rummaged through the boxes searching for some spare beddings and perhaps old clothing of his or Levi's, the main door opened, followed by the sound of high heels smacking at the hardwood floor.
The man sighed and sat on the mattress, watching the door. His parents were talking in the kitchen. Layne couldn't hear the conversation but the disappointed voices gave out all the information needed. Soon enough, his mother knocked at the door – even mockingly gently, as he thought to himself.
"Come in," he called after the door was already open.
Kendra's head peeked through. Her hair was now dyed unnaturally bright yellow, impossible to tell whether that was just a colouring failure or her attempt to look young and cool while the wrinkles on her forehead kept on getting deeper from frowning. She stretched out the thin, deep red lips into an almost natural looking smile and flung her arms wide open.
Her son did not move.
"Layne, are you alright?" The woman's arms dropped down to her sides.
He forced out a smile. "Yeah, as always. What's with the hair?"
Kendra twisted the end of one strand of hair in her fingers. "Just tell me what happened."
"So I got into a bad fight with one of the ass-kissers and he made sure I'd be fired. Then they kicked me out of the flat provided by the company. You know, just as always."
"What is your definition of those 'ass-kissers', Layne?"
"The suckers who'd sell their soul for the boss' appreciation, duh."
The woman gave her son a side-eye.
"Who work hard and care deeply for the company," he added. "They are, of course, there because they love their job and not because they must fool the RCI into thinking so."
Kendra shook her head and clicked her tongue in a disapproving manner. Still, just a few seconds later, a smile reappeared on her face.
"You'll figure it out," she said. "Things aren't always as great as they're expected to be. It's not the end of the world."
Layne chewed on his lower lip. Something in his mother's tone seemed just a little wrong, fake and flowery. She never was quite that tolerant to her son's mistakes and he's never heard her say something that encouraging.
After giving it a little thought, Layne offered the woman a hug, which she eagerly accepted. Maybe all of their lives where going through changes, which could only be a good thing.
"Do you need anything?" asked Kendra.
"Yeah, some bedsheets."
The woman chuckled. She only had to check a few boxes before finding the one she needed. "Everything should be in this stack. Will you manage by yourself?"
"I'm not a baby, as you and Father always remind me."
"Right." Kendra walked towards the door, exaggerating irresponsible manner in her movements. "You know where to find us if you need anything."
"Sure."
Even when his mother was long gone, Layne had a hard time putting everything that had happened together. Upon deciding not to pay too much attention to that, he hurried to make a bed just for that long-awaited relief of stretching out and clearing his mind. The smell of the old bedsheets reminded of all the childhood years Layne had hoped he wouldn't have to reminisce. Still, unlike what he would have thought, it didn't bother him one single bit.
Layne's parents were talking in the other room, their voices hushed, words incomprehensible. That by itself, of course, was a just a normality, thus the man didn't give it a second thought. Only when their tones started rising it became clear that something had been wrong... And at the same time, strangely right.
"What do you even mean by that?" Doyle seemed to be getting upset. "Of course everything is always on me."
"What do you expect me to think? How am I supposed to raise a son when he doesn't have a proper example?"
"And that's your only damn argument, huh, Kendra?"
"What, is that too much for you?"
"Look at Levi!"
"Levi is not your goddamn achievement."
Layne turned to lay face down and covered his head with a pillow. He didn't need to look to know that his parents were drinking again – he knew a pattern. It'd always start with them talking freely to each other and voicing their concerns, which they couldn't go through if they were sober. Then, the fun part would begin.
Just as expected, a few bangs and shouts came from the kitchen. Layne stood and placed a couple pillows against the door in an attempt to dim down the noise, which, at first, was even successful. Soon, however, the incomprehensible yelling filtered through, sounding louder than ever.
The noise kept rising. Layne sat leaning against the door, his eyes closed, waiting for it to end. According to his experience, that could last at least a couple hours. The only thing he couldn't understand was what made him the failure of the family. Also, how were his parents so darn lucky.
Layne jolted straight up when the tone of the yelling changed from anger to down-right fury. Of course, his parents fought a lot during their 'drinking nights', yet, he never witnessed it being that bad.
A few bangs. Something breaking. The yelling stopped, yet hushed voices made the man worry even more.
"Is everything ok?" He set the door ajar and poked his head out. The voices stopped.
Layne slinked towards the kitchen, still wondering if he should have stayed back instead. Unsure if he wanted to see his parents in their current condition, again. Pushing the doubts away, he pressed down the handle of the kitchen door and let it swing open by itself.
The kitchen table sat on its side, the remains of broken bottles laying scattered around the ground. The floor flooded with clear, strong-smelling liquid. That was not Doyle's home-brewed beer.
Kendra stood in the middle of the room. Reddish face, messy hair. She held a small pocket knife by its silver handle – one she would always keep with her as a 'good luck charm'. Just seeing it, Layne could almost feel the scars on his neck open up again.
Doyle leaned against the counter just a meter away from his wife, looking perhaps even worse than her. His eyes were fixed into the shattered glass on the floor. It looked as if the conflict was nearing its end.
"Get out of here," Kendra commanded in an incoherent voice. "Go to bed."
"I'm not ten, you can't tell me that. Put the knife away, you'll hurt yourself." Layne took a step towards them, careful not to step on the glass. Life has not prepared him for a situation like that – other than from books or movies. Those, of course, did not help. He had no idea what to say or do.
The woman pressed her arm against her side, still holding onto the knife. She eyed her son, who was by all means avoiding the contact.
"You're acting like a maniac," Doyle slurred out, catching his wife's attention once again.
In seconds, the two began arguing once again. Layne didn't even bother trying to follow the conversation – his parents were yelling one over another, their speech fast and unclear. It was a mystery how they even understood each other. More than likely, they didn't even have to, as the whole conversation consisted of exchanging insults with each other.
As much as Layne wanted to leave the scene, his mother was waving the knife around once again, still standing dangerously close to his father. He doubted the woman would intentionally hurt her husband, yet her ability to use the pocketknife under the influence of substances has already been proven before.
"Stop it!" He reached out for Kendra's hand – her disoriented self wouldn't have been able to fully comprehend what was happening anyway, thus Layne didn't see much risk.
He was wrong.
Kendra jolted her arm away with a strong force. A loud, pained groan filled the atmosphere. Layne could only watch in horror how his father grabbed his mother's hand in order to pull a knife stuck right by his neck.
Instead of backing down, the woman yelled and freed her hand. She looked at the horrible mistake for a few seconds.
Then, she lost it.
Her injured husband, holding a hand pressed onto the wound, didn't have the time to react before she stabbed him again.
And again.
Layne woke up from a trance-like state, still shocked and unable to think fast. He lunged forward, injuring himself with a piece of glass in the process, and grabbed his mother's hands. The woman struggled with more strength than anyone could have expected her to have.
Doyle sagged to the floor. Kendra flailed about, still refusing to let go of her weapon.
Layne realised was not able to control the situation.