My Son's a Late Night Drinker (short story)

[Thar]

[spoiler=My Son's a Late Night Drinker *1,348 words*]I have a son who’s 22 years old. He’s been nothing but a blessing to both me and my smokin’ wife. Sure, he was a bit of a hassle as he was growing up and he may have caused me a bit of frustration, but now he’s the epitome of a good son. He always locks himself in his room surfing the web, browsing the internet, posting on Reddit and forums and other stuff, but when I ask him to do something, he does it without hesitation, and I’m thankful for that.

Just this last weekend, I came into his room uninvited while he had his eyes glued to the computer screen and asked him if he wanted to wake up early to volunteer with me. He immediately looked at me and responded “sure.”

Part of me wanted to think he was only answering that way to make me feel better about not doing this alone, but I took what I could get. I was satisfied with what my good son chose to do, and whether or not he said no, I would’ve been happy either way. I went to bed satisfied, knowing I had reliable company with me when I had to wake up early as I usually do.

Though, the morning came a lot longer than I expected. The night was a long one. I’ve had nightmares and dreams where I’ve carried out into reality before where I’ve punched my wife in the face and gave her a bloody lip, but this was different. I was awake, and I was sure that I wasn’t dreaming. I could hear footsteps outside the bedroom. They sounded abnormal, but the steps themselves were that of feet with shoes on. What kind of monster would wear shoes in a house like this? It occurred to me that my son was wearing shoes the last time I saw him before he surrendered to his room.

I shook it off, knowing he was probably sleep-walking as I heard a door creak open. The door I heard let loose a gust throughout the house that made every other door creak only a crack but nothing more. I knew that gust as that of the door that led to the garage. After hearing another familiar sound of the refrigerator door opening, I knew what he was after. The guy had quite the sweet tooth, especially for soda, which is what he was grabbing. I knew that he had a problem with it, as it was what was putting his teeth in such bad shape. I was tempted to get out of bet and confront him about that, but I didn’t want to get out of my own bed, so I remained stationary in a comfortable position.

One hour later, I heard footsteps again. It was my son again, and I grew curious of that. Why is my son roaming the halls only an hour after the last time? The door I heard opening this time was not the garage door, but another door that sounded less echoed. Judging by the light that emitted and dimmed by the sound of the door closing, I would’ve only assumed it was his bathroom door. I knew that with all the soda he’s been drinking, he needed to pee a lot. I acknowledged this as I tried to get comfortable again.

Another hour passed when I heard the same thing again with the same door opening. My curiosity developed into worry. I couldn’t close my eyes and relax my head, as this time I heard voices.

“My family sucks.”

The voice was that of my son. I heard it echo through the house so faint that I had to look over at my wife yet knew she couldn’t hear it. I thought I was insane. How could my own son say that after all I’ve done for him?

I heard the door close as I pulled my sheets over me, hoping I’d never hear those words again. My head sunk into my pillow and blankets covering me over my shoulders, I heard the bathroom door open and footsteps stomping back into his room.

“I hate my family.”

Shivers went down my spine, but I had to shove it off. This kid is not like this. I know him, and I know he is not this kind of person.

The next night came, the day gone by smoothly. I said goodnight to as I always did, for which he always immediately responded the same thing. I waited for the same thing to happen tonight as it did last night.

Footsteps, “I hate my family,”

Garage door, “My family sucks,”

More footsteps, “I hate my family,”

Bathroom door closes, murmurs follow through the closed door.

Door opens, “My family sucks, I hate my family.

Bedroom door closes, my son remains silent the rest of the night.

I was genuinely scared. As the next night approached, I looked at the clock with nothing but shivers. My wife would look at me like there was something wrong with me, but I only told her it was cold. It was. Outside it was in the forties, which was damn cold in the south. But there were worse chills going down my spine. I knew what was coming.

The following night I was wide awake, awaiting the living nightmare. As I expected, the bedroom door opened, and footsteps followed. I knew I had to do something. This was not something I was willing to tolerate as a parent. I got out of bed, walking barefoot in my briefs for which I wore to bed, and walked down the halls just after the garage door closed. I rounded the corner, seeing no one in sight but knowing my son was in the garage opening the refrigerator. As the door opened, he came waddling along the hallway only to see my face peeping around the corner, making him jump with a bit of a yelp.

“What are you doing?” I ask out of curiosity, wanting to go to sleep.

“Just getting something to drink,” he said with a flustered face with one hand lightly gripping a can of grape soda. I eyed it with dismay, but dismissed the issue by waving him off and letting him walk past me back to his room. As he passed me, I noticed the side of his face wore a look of disgust. Ignoring it, I strut back to my room and recover myself in the bedsheets, trying to get to sleep.

An hour later, the frustration kicked in as the sound of my son’s door opening struck a nerve in me. I flung my bedsheets off as I strutted out my bedroom door.

“My family sucks…”

Those words and footsteps boomed in my ears again, and I grew infuriated of them. Those same wobbly footsteps from the first night that I heard them… I knew something was up. My frustration was enough to not care about how loud I sounded opening my door to have a creek ring through the house, but to my surprise, silence followed. I knew the footsteps were headed towards the bathroom, but I heard them head toward the kitchen instead.

“I hate my family…”

As my veins continued to pulse with increasing intensity upon hearing these words, I hear the sound of a glass bottle clinging from a high shelf. I recognized the location of that clang; that was the liquor cabinet. I lurched out, beginning to walk down the hallway, when another silence fell onto the seemingly empty house. My curiosity stacked onto my frustration as I heard the sound of steel.

“I hate my family…”

That was the last straw. I stomped towards the kitchen, rounding the corner to see a dark kitchen with my son standing in the darkness with a dim glare reflecting off both the bottle of vodka in his hand and the knife in the other.

“My family sucks…”

Those were the last words I heard before my son lunged at me with the knife slitting my throat.[/spoiler]

[mitchermitcher]

Some parts feel a bit off or weird but, that was quite chilling to read through. I really like the twisted father point of view narration. It was weird but you established a good amount of his character. Hell, I laughed when he mentioned beating his wife.

 

Something little that bothered me but, I kind of get what you wanted to convey when you chose to use the word "smokin' " in the very first paragraph, but honestly it just stands out too much and doesn't fit with the rest of his character. It conflicts with the naively pompous image I had of the father.