Three awful days had passed, but his father didn’t show up.

Ryan sat in his dimly lit living room, his leg feverishly hopping up and down as if he would puncture the floor. He poured himself another drink of fine whiskey and stroked his black hair with his hand.

The third day has arrived. Maybe he’s not his father’s son after all. Perhaps he is the failure he so quickly proclaims. But why does it matter to him? It baffled him.

Why does that affect him when he has spent his entire adult life attempting to separate himself from his father? Why does he think he's a failure? He didn’t even want to do it. He doesn’t want to see him again, anyway.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. There's nothing he can do to stop his thoughts from racing through his mind like race cars, so he pours himself another glass.

His house was rarely this deserted; most evenings he would go out drinking and return with various people who would stay the night or even the entire weekend.

He sometimes invites anyone who wants to have a good time, just so he wouldn't be alone. The silence made him feel crazy. He wished he had a hand to grip or an arm around his shoulders, but there wasn’t one offered. Ever.

Although his house is heated, he’s chilly and shivering, so he pours another glass of whiskey to warm up; the alcohol burns his throat and he can feel it go down, warming his chest. A slow poison for the soul. 

Perhaps he doesn't want me to come. It's the last day; if he doesn't send his driver, I'll be free of him once more, he thinks to himself. Maybe it was simply a stupid test. Maybe it was his twisted way of having an excuse to visit me and that's it.

Ordering his brain to function or drowning it in drugs and booze are his only options for escaping his relentless thoughts. It all depends on how he awoke.

If he's having a good day, he'll work until his brain is exhausted; if he's having a bad day, he'll drink until his brain is so foggy that he can't tell what day it is.

Those are usually his two options, but recently he prefers the latter. Why work anyway? It’s not like he needs money or power or to make a name for himself. He has no one in his life; he doesn’t need to prove anything, so why bother?

He sighs and sinks into his plush sofa, his glass clutched in his palm. He needs to get away from this house. Fast. He's suffocating from the anticipation of the unknown.

He chugs his glass of whiskey and walks to the door, only to be met by his father, who stands at the door to his living room.

“Going somewhere?” His father walkes right past him.

“N-No.” His eyes are wide and it takes Ryan a few seconds to pull himself together.

His father moves past the coffee table and stands in front of the sofa. “Sit,” he says in a harsh tone.

Ryan sits down and pours himself another glass of whiskey, oblivious to his father's expression. His father snorts at the sight of the half-empty bottle on the table.

“Did you close the deal?” he asks Ryan, his hands in his pockets.

“Nope.”

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

“Why are you in my house?” Ryans finally fixes his gaze on his father.

“Your house?!” he chuckles. “I paid for this house. With my money, because my son is too troubled to achieve anything on his own. So this house and everything in it is mine. Don’t you forget about that, boy.”

Ryan’s hand clutch firmly around the whiskey glass he’s now holding again. The only way he can deal with his father is with a drink, so he pours himself another. “I will close the deal. Don’t worry about it. You can leave now.”

There's a pause. Ryan lifts his head to see his father staring at him. “How the hell did I raise such a disgrace of a son?”

Ryan's throat bobbed and his mouth was dry. He returned his father's stare and felt his wits abandon him. He can’t think of anything clever to say. Anything that may divert his father's attention away from him.

“I told you I got it,” he gasps, squeezing the glass so tightly that he fears it would shatter.

“It’s been three days.”

“I SAID I GOT IT!” Ryan snaps at his father and leaps from the sofa.

He wasn't sure if it was the booze or just a natural motion his body knew from childhood, but it seemed he couldn’t control it. He couldn't stop himself from lifting the half-empty bottle of whiskey from the table and hurling it against the wall.

He was now standing in front of his father, panting heavily, and for a little while, he didn't understand who was in front of him, but as soon as his head cleared, he felt his intestines collapse. He knew what was coming.

Ryan was thrown off balance and onto the floor as his father grabbed his shirt collar and whacked him across the face. He only had time to lift his hands to cover his face when his father's foot slammed into his stomach, knocking the air out of him. He coughed and coughed and gasped for air when another kick landed on his ribs. And another. And another. He was yanked by his hair once again when another fist slammed into his face. Blood was trickling from his lips and the side of his right eye. He made an effort to fight. At the very least, he believed he fought.

He couldn't understand what was going on; it was as if his mind had taken a step back.

Every time he thought he could hit back, every time he thought he could block a fist or a kick, it was too late. A few seconds too late.

He absorbed the trauma, swallowed the pain. Pain is just an illusory sensation, he reminded himself. You can shut it down later.

“Stop” he cried, raising his hands to his head, tasting the stinging taste of blood in his mouth. “Stop!” he pleaded. He didn't want to beg, but it seemed he didn't have any other choice.

His father let go of his grip on him and murmured, "How weak you are, boy."

Ryan collapsed to the floor, grateful for the carpet underneath him as a barrier between him and the chilly floor.

He heard his father walk away from him, soft footsteps on the carpet, followed by the click of his shoes on the floor, the doorknob turning, and then a pause.

“I'll control you if you can't control yourself. Keep that in mind."

And then the door closed.