The doorbell rang. The doorbell never rang. Sage tweaked the curtain, peering cautiously through a small gap in the shabby fabric. He was greeted, not by the police uniform he was expecting, but the familiar gentle demeanour of his father.
He darted around the room, kicking piles of smelly laundry under a similarly grotty bed and stacking dirty dishes behind stacks of stained boxes and splattered paint cans.
"Not really any better," he thought to himself. A cold sadness crept up on him as he took in his shabby living arrangements. He rallied himself, adorning his charmer’s smile, and unbolted, unchained and opened the door.
He squinted slightly, as the unfamiliar brightness of the day shone through the gap. A warm smile awaited him on the other side. A warm smile that filled him with more warmth than the beating sun ever could. That cold sadness stirred again before he could let the warmth in; the warmth he knew he didn’t deserve.
"Hey."
A simple greeting from his father, accompanied by a small wave of his hand by his hip. They hadn’t spoken since Sage had left home over a year ago now. He’d heard enough from his younger sister to know that his dad’s marriage was still in shambles, and the shouting matches were still a daily occurrence.
But his father had stayed. Despite the arguments, despite the constant belittling, despite being left to look after the house and children alone—he stayed. Not for himself, but for the kids.
And Sage had left.
"Hey," Sage replied, as the feelings of guilt swelled. He stepped aside and gestured to come in. Ushering his father to a crooked deck chair draped in a musty blanket—a makeshift armchair built from other’s junk—he ventured to the kitchen and returned with two chipped mugs of tea.
Dropping onto the mattress strewn haphazardly on the floor, he leant back against the solitary pillow with the questionable stains. A spider, startled by the movement, scuttled out from the fraying blanket and retreated to it’s well-established web behind Sage’s easel, which stood awkwardly in the corner of the room, broken leg propped up by empty paint cans and old newspapers.
The conversation was scarce. Short, friendly exchanges wrapped in awkward smiles that quickly faded to uncomfortable silences, exposed sadness and the inability to maintain eye contact. Many words were left unspoken.
Sage went to get a second round of drinks—anything to get a break from the tension. As he exited through the hall to the kitchen, he pushed the door closed behind him. Old doors on old hinges betrayed him, as the vibration caused the door to the spare room to gently swing open. The sound caused his father to turn, tilting his head and face dropping, as he spotted the pile of questionable items that had been hiding beyond.
A short discussion followed—his father’s face only dropped further. The discussion verged on becoming heated, as Sage attempted to defend his actions and his lifestyle—his lack of money, his lack of prospects, his lack of talent, his lack of support. Sage claiming lack of support struck a nerve with his father, who’s rising frustration immediately dissipated and was replaced with look of great sadness and disappointment.
His father got up, offering a few conciliatory words as he swung the front door open. He turned back for a moment and met Sage’s eyes. A stabbing pain of guilt and remorse for his words overcame Sage and was quickly replaced with defensive anger. For a moment, it looked as if his father was going to say something. Instead, he let out a slow sigh and turned his back to Sage, solemnly walking out of the house and closing the door behind himself.
Sage slammed his open palm against the closed door, before leaning against the wall and sliding down to the floor. He sat, knees tucked into his chest, for a while. The sun set through the un-curtained window and lonely shadows swept into the house. An empty bottle glinted in the lights from the street. Sage needed a drink.