Chapter 1

Sitting at the edge of the bathtub, all I could focus on were the dirty stains on the tiles from months of hard water settling over them. Water dripped from the faucet, pooling around the tiles and creating dark, crusty edges. It was like watching paper darken and curl when touched by fire—a thought so vivid the burning edges almost seemed to carry a smell.

Maybe I get too caught up in the details. Who's to say what matters and what doesn't? It's all subjective anyway. Even now, the flaws stand out—the so-called imperfections, like the faint smear of blood on the sink from nicking my jaw while shaving this morning. Little observations like these are what ticks me off.

But as I sat there, dissecting every inch of the bathroom, I wondered, "What's taking him so long? He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago." The water was getting cold, and the heater would take an hour to warm it up again. Getting him into the bath today was a must—it'd been days.

I sighed and stood, my foot accidentally nudging an empty shampoo bottle. It had to be empty. No one else bothered around the house to throw it out. The hollow clatter interrupted the peaceful observational environment I had going on.

"Who's there?"

The voice came from the kitchen; there was no doubt about it. Of course, this had to happen now of all times.

Stepping out of the bathroom meant leaving behind whatever passed for serenity in this house (sarcasm fully intended). I found Dad gripping a knife from the counter. His eyes darted, wild and unfocused, with four fingers clutching the blade.

Now, let me tell you, this wasn't the first time he'd done this. I was completely oblivious to the fact that he was holding a sharp-edged knife. What truly threw things off-track was the way the tire marks crisscrossed around the house, tracing his restless movements.

"Dad, it's me," I said in a rather believable tone. I've dealt with this situation multiple times, I knew exactly what to expect. "Get out!" he barked, jabbing the knife toward me. That was the moment everything snapped into focus—only during a live-or-die situation. Dying wasn't an option, especially not at the hands of my father.

I managed to reach out and grab the picture frame that I'd strategically planted in the cabinet for such occasions. A nine-year-old me smiled out from the photo, seated beside him at my very first baseball game. I don't remember much from back then but my crooked front teeth were quite prominent in the picture. Kids at school would call me 'the clown' but I didn't dare to fight back. Not because I didn't want to but just because those bullies were ten times bigger than me, which implied their strength.

Survival of the fittest they say… Well, they're not wrong. That picture is non-living proof.

Dad's grip loosened as his eyes softened, recognition flickering through the cataract haze. "Daniel?", he said in his gruff, worn-out voice as he placed the knife back onto the counter.

"It's me, Dad. We've got to get you to take a bath." The words came out calm but firm. It'd been four whole days. He'd developed the old-man stink. I have nothing against old men in general but they do have a particular smell associated with them. It's like the scent associated with the head of a newborn baby, except this was far from pleasant and belonged to a seventy-two-year-old man.

I wheeled him toward the bathroom. Seeing him naked wasn't anything particularly new, but today something felt different. No 'aura' or any mystical sense like the so-called visionaries claim, but there was a distinct feeling. I first took his sweater off, it'd been sticking to his hairy skin like a second layer, with pilling starting to come out.

White hair crowned his head and his skin hung rather loosely, marked by scars that were etched onto his chest. I dipped the sponge into the tub of warm water and began scrubbing his skin in circular motions. Layers of dirt sloughed away, his dry, cracked skin soaking in the moisture just like the pictures of a drought that you see when you search it up over the internet. Just imagine squeezing a sponge filled with water over it. That's what this looked like. I continued scrubbing, it was almost satisfying despite the smell.

Out of nowhere, he grabbed the mug of water from the edge of the tub and flung it across the room. "Who the hell are you?!" he shouted. I sighed, too drained to argue. Without a word, I handed him the picture again and continued scrubbing.

He stared at it and his shoulders began to shake. I don't know if a lot of people can understand emotions just by looking at the back of one's head but I could tell that he was crying. Just the thought of it made me tear up. I'd kept myself together for so long, but I couldn't stand seeing him like that.

I rested my head against his shoulder, the smell didn't bother me this time. Fighting to hold back the tears, they still brimmed in my eyes, blurring everything around me. I'm certain he felt the warmth of my breath and the dampness of my tears on his shoulder. Yet, I couldn't let him see. I didn't want him to know his son was weak.

Being a man means you don't get to fall apart. That's the rule, right? You're supposed to hold it all together—be the foundation, the fixer, the calm in the storm. It doesn't matter if the weight of it grinds you into dust; you're the one who's expected to carry it. And when you stumble, when you feel the cracks forming under the strain, everyone just looks at you like, "What's wrong with you? You're the man. Fix it."

It's not about choice. It's about obligation. Dad used to tell me, "You're my son, Daniel. One day, this will all be on you." And I guess he was right. It is on me. The house, the bills, the baths, the memories he can't even hold onto anymore. It's all on me, like a sentence handed down without trial.

I don't get to complain. Men don't complain. You suck it up. You deal with it. You bury your emotions under a mountain of "I'm fines" and "Don't worry about its." Because what's the alternative? Who steps in when the man steps out? No one. That's the answer. No one.

Sometimes I wonder if this is what being a man is supposed to feel like. Is it supposed to feel like suffocating under the expectations, like you're drowning in a sea of 'shoulds' and 'musts'? Is it supposed to feel like giving everything you have until there's nothing left, only to be told it's still not enough?

But then I look at him—the man who taught me what it means to carry the weight. I see the way it bends his shoulders, how it lingers in his eyes, and I know I can't stop. Because if I do, who will? I'm his son. And that has to mean something. Even when it feels like it's breaking me, even when it feels too heavy to bear… it still means something.

After a brief moment, I pulled myself together, wiping my face with wet hands that did little to dry the tears. I kept scrubbing, cleaning away those layers of dirt. "I'll get us through this, Dad," I promised as I wiped him clean with a dry towel.

I wheeled him back to his room. A new shirt had already been selected, a deep olive green that accentuated the depth of his eyes. I helped him into the shirt, guiding one arm through the sleeve, then the other. Once it was on, I buttoned it up carefully.

Sunlight poured into the room, casting a warm, honey-like glow that clung to the walls. Dust motes danced through the rays of light, swirling in slow, deliberate patterns, caught in a silent rhythm only they could hear. Their aimless drift reminded me of the molecular diagrams I used to sketch as a kid—tiny, suspended orbs, each one a part of something greater.

I'd already changed the sheets before the bath, so I wouldn't have to worry about it for another week. I guided him to the table for lunch.

Steam rose from the stew I'd prepared, along with his favorite black tea from 'Denny's'. I took a seat across from him and watched as he sipped from his cup. His chapped lips made a slurping noise that buzzed in the back of my head. "You've been awfully quiet since the bath," I said, pouring myself a cup of tea.

"Daniel, everything I did had its reasons," he said, his voice taking on that familiar sternness. He used the same intonation when he was angry—whether it was yelling at me for playing in the house or arguing with the mailman over a late delivery. It was the kind of voice that demanded compliance, even when the reasons were hard to understand. "I know," I replied, my voice flat as I took a sip from my cup. The warmth of the tea did nothing to settle the tightness in my chest. Each word felt heavy, like I was swallowing more than just liquid—like I was swallowing years of unanswered questions. The slurping noise from earlier had already killed my appetite. The tea was too hot, too bitter, and the stew sat there, untouched, like everything had been tainted by that noise.

After lunch, I gently helped him into bed, lifting him carefully from the wheelchair. I settled him onto the mattress, then tucked the blanket around him. Pressing a kiss on his forehead, I placed his medication and a glass of water in his hands. The same yellow pill, taken after every meal—almost ritualistic.

As soon as the door clicked shut, the hallway stretched out in front of me, the same as it always was, but somehow it felt heavier. The faded wallpaper, peeling at the corners, stuck to the walls like it couldn't be bothered anymore. The floorboards, worn down from years of people trudging back and forth, let out tired groans with every step I took. It wasn't different, not really, but it felt like the whole place was holding its breath, waiting for something.

That's when I noticed something unfamiliar in this all-too-familiar house. The edge of one floorboard was raised like someone had pried it open before.