Survival Of The Fittest

The door to the Marsden home swung open and bounced off the doorstop. A rush of cool air followed Tyrell as he stepped inside. The house wasn't much warmer than outside, given his mother's manic penny-pinching. Where some people might've been reasonably frugal, she took things to an uncomfortable degree. They were poor, but they weren't that poor. Ty kicked off his shoes and strode into the house, adjusting the antiquated air conditioning dial on the wall back to something warmer than a fridge.

((Tyrell Lahti continued from on a quick sick rampage))

The house had a kind of antiquated nineties décor.  It was the sort of thing that came about from his parents being too stubborn to buy new furniture unless they absolutely had to. The walls were sparse, with only family photos and the odd painting hanging on the walls. Ty's grandfather had been a rather talented painter; his favorite subject was the upper peninsula of Michigan, on the coast of Lake Superior. They just fell short of photorealism.

Taking in the beige monotony for a moment, Ty's eyes wandered to a half-open door off the living room. It used to be a study, now it was his father's bedroom. The plaid bathrobe and the edge of one of his slippers were just barely visible.

A sense of apprehension loomed over Ty, and he took a deep breath before turning away and heading to the basement.

It was a walkout, though he rarely used the small concrete patio other than to park to his father's 1980 Triumph Bonneville. Since his father was beyond ever using it again, Ty had more or less appropriated it to his own needs – taking it to and from work as it was a much further distance than school. As much as he despised the man, he'd always thought the bike was fascinating. It frustrated Ty that his father never used it, choosing instead to drive around town in his pickup truck. They sold that a few months ago to help pay off some bills, though he was able to persuade his mother to keep the bike. "It would help me be independent" he told her. He'd be able to "help out more" if he had his own way to get around town, of course. It didn't take much to convince her. It helped that he was telling the truth, though convenience wasn't really the main reason he wanted it.

Mostly, it looked cool and he rode it to spite his father. Those were probably the two major reasons things like motorcycles even existed in the first place.

Ty shed his jacket and tossed his backpack lazily onto the floor as he dropped onto his bed. The room was chaotic, and that was how he liked it. There were no windows. The walls were painted a deep red, the ceiling completely black. It hadn't always been this way, but Ty had been making an effort to make it his own in the last year or so. Band posters adorned the walls in a haphazard fashion, some old and others brand new.

His favorite was a vintage "Mechanical Animals" poster, Marilyn Manson's then-androgynous visage staring down to where he slept. A few of the girls who he'd brought home found it unnerving, as the bed sat low to the floor and the paint on the walls made it seem like it was hovering in a dark void.  Some fucked-up part of his brain almost found it hot, though despite his father's repeated insults, he'd never actually had more than passing interest in men, let alone ‘rock stars'. Some of the time it reminded him sadly of the man's precipitous downfall after the Holy Wood album, what Ty considered his last decent work. He would do terrible things for a chance to travel back to the late nineties and see him live, but it was a waste of time now that he'd completely burned out. The early work was still awesome, and so the poster would remain.

Next to the bed, his old desk was littered with handwritten notes and strange things Ty had accrued in his day-to-day life. One page was the Finnish lyrics to "In the Pines" that he'd heard online, one of the more strange takes on the song; it fit well, though. Trying to learn Finnish was unreasonably difficult, though simply figuring out the pronunciation to sing it was a more manageable challenge. It certainly sounded better than his attempts to speak to Finns over Discord; the language's grammar was absolutely maddening.

A bundle of string sat in a mess on the corner, the remains of an attempt to make a bracelet in a fit of boredom. After failing, he decided to set fire to it. The scorch mark in the center of the desk was all that was left. Ty cared little for the desk's appearance; he felt those kinds of things – next to pentagram carvings, other scorch marks, and the notch he liked to stick a knife into – added character to the otherwise unremarkable wooden surface.

Lying in bed, he noticed his sparring gloves on the floor nearby. They were meant for practicing on the heavy bag that hung in the other corner of the room. Years of vented frustrations had meant it now had to be wrapped in duct tape. Though he'd initially resented his father's forcing him into a kickboxing gym, it was probably the only productive thing he'd done as a parent.

The first few weeks were nothing but terror, as if his father was throwing him into the deep end and expecting him to learn to swim. His instructor figured out fairly quickly the kind of place he was coming from, as did his peers - they were kids from the worse parts of town, who saw through the brave face he put on without much effort. They knew what he went through, and worse. Seeing the level of skill and commitment that they brought in spite of what they lived every day caught him off guard.  

He'd never thought of himself as a victim until that point. At least, he didn't think consciously of it. Those first few months he fell short of breath every time he walked into the gym and listened. It made him realize that on some level, he felt like prey. Some animal that had to run and hide as its primary mode of existence, that would only ever be on one end of the violence the world had to deliver. Seeing the others made him take a second look at himself. Reckoning early with his self-perception was the only way he ever managed to change. Learning to fight meant it didn't necessarily have to be that way. He didn't have much of a choice in attending anyway.  

After the first few months, he started to really take to it. Losses turned to victories, and as his frame filled out he began to establish a reputation for ferocity. At his height, his reach was somewhere in the realm of eighty-four inches, which made him able to easily throw strikes without having to leave his comfort zone. Eventually he didn't have to be dragged to the gym, as he began to leave to go straight there from school. While his looks made him stand out among the crowd there, he felt very much at home by the third year. As much as he resisted, his father's effort to toughen him up worked, at least a bit.

Not that Dad would ever stick around to see how I was doing. Only a few times, and he barely said a word.

Of course, Tyrell's father eventually started complaining about paying for it, so Ty got a part-time job to cover the cost, which at least led him to discover he loved cooking. His coach noticed this one afternoon, and proceeded to go out of his way to tell Ty's parents how he was doing. A gruff man who didn't mince his words, Ty could still remember trying not to grin as he overheard him over the phone:

"Look Bill, your kid's got talent. Hits like a damned freight train and he's got the reach and stamina to boot. If he ain't fixin' to compete, he should be."

That's a hell of a compliment coming from Coach, so what does Dad say?

"Huh. Well, that's good to hear. Thanks Al." And that was it. Barely said a word to Ty himself, pleased as he could have been.

Initially enraged that his father seemed to care little for the only thing he really could've done right in his eyes, Ty eventually gleaned the real reason behind his father's reticence. For the first time, Bill Marsden was afraid of his son. For years he'd been able to intimidate him, but now – Ty could do more than defend himself. At the time Ty had long surpassed his father in height, taking more after his mother's family in that regard. After showing up for one tournament match, he began to give Ty a wide berth. Bill's physical deterioration was in full swing by then, and combined with the incident with the spanner, they spoke even less from that point on.

Then Elliott goes and takes most of Dad with him, so here we are still sharing the same fucking roof.

Ty ran his hand over the scar on his face. He could still feel it, and he was sure it was one of the first things anyone saw when they looked at him. The sharp edge of the wrench cut deep. Maybe it was menacing, or it made him look exotic. Ty never got used to it, and hated making up answers to questions about it. It was at least easier to adapt to that than the idea that a few of his teeth were now made of titanium. They never felt quite the same.

A teenager with a motorcycle and dangerous looking scars. The surest sign that shit went wrong somewhere down the line. What a stupid fucking cliché.

Their financial situation ended whatever career he might've had in competing; though he wasn't especially interested in taking it further than an outlet to vent his aggression. If he made it out of Chattanooga, he told himself he'd get back into it again. After all, punching people was pretty fun.

On that thought and the faint memory of what the gym smelled like, Ty found lying down and ruminating decidedly uncomfortable. It seemed like a good idea at first, especially after the day he'd had – his interaction with Ivy Langley had left him emotionally exhausted – but now it just felt altogether too idle.  The room was too quiet, and the inside of his head felt anything but. Ty needed outside noise to keep the din at a minimum.

He sat up, tossing his shirt to the floor and grabbing a tank-top out of a nearby drawer. It was rare that he wore anything to reveal his arms past the elbow, as they were a map of every physical manifestation of emotional harm he'd experienced in the last eighteen years. There were cigarette burns, cuts both deep and shallow; some he made himself, and others in fights well outside the boundaries of the gym.

Still, he didn't want to sweat through a band shirt. Too many washes and the designs tended to fade. Ty pulled rings from his knuckles and tied his hair back into a band, then pulled out most of his jewelry and left it on his nightstand. The sparring gloves were a bit tight, but they fit.

He turned to face the heavy bag, chained to the ceiling and still. As the first blows landed on the bag, rattling the chains above, Ty began to feel comfortable again.

***Content Warning - Abuse***

Ty emerged from the basement a short time later, his steps less labored than before. Not wasting a thought on the dreary nature of his family's home, he quickly set about doing what had to be done. The responsibilities he'd taken to keep them at home and off the street. He stepped back into the front porch and rifled through the mailbox, which was bursting with junk-mail and a few official-looking envelopes.

Returning to the kitchen, he tossed the lion's share of the haul into the trash bin. The remaining envelopes were exactly what he expected. Inside were statements printed on official-looking letterhead, offering the latest information on their debts owed. Every month, the numbers shrank bit by bit, but it was never fast enough. There was always something, and it drove Tyrell's mother to the brink.

Not as much as Dad, but close.

The dates on the letters reminded him of something he made a concerted effort to forget. He quickly folded them and placed them back into their envelopes, then to a small box next to the fridge replete with those of months past. Noting the hour, he produced his cellphone and placed a call to his mother. It was around the time she'd be leaving the primary school and heading to her second job, and they usually had a few minutes to touch base.

It took some time for her to pick up, but eventually he heard his mother's hollow voice on the other end. The wind in the background made it clear she was outside.

"Hello?"

"Hey Jen, it's Ty."

"Oh." There was quiet from the other line, and then the sound of a car door opening and closing. "Are you home? How was school?"

"School's good, I'm home. Got the bills in the mail, it's what we thought it'd be."

"Okay, good. Did you check on your father? You remember it's today, right?"

Ty looked past the kitchen to the door to his father's room. It was open just a crack – they never left it completely closed. The sound of news programs faintly emanated from inside, but little else.

"I was just about to."

"Okay, alright. Good. Good. So, uh… I'm going to try and get off a bit early tonight. Are you going to be home for dinner?"

Jen had a thousand things on her mind at once, as she often did. Their conversations were typically comprised of her asking frantic questions, and him trying his best to allay her worries.

"Jen, I'm making dinner tonight, remember? I was going to do that fish that he used to like."

"Right, now I remember. Thank you, for doing that. I would but I…" She trailed off. Ty knew where to pick up; his voice softened.

"Mom, it's alright. Just take a deep breath, you'll get through the day, and I'll have everything ready when you get home. Okay?"

Silence from the other end. He could hear her shaky breathing. The woman got barely any time in the day to herself that wasn't spent working or sleeping.

"Whew. Alright. See you tonight. I love you Ty."

"I love you too, Mom."

He placed his cellphone in his back pocket, and stood silently in the kitchen. It was hard to understand why people found talking on phones difficult. It was easier to just change the tone in his voice and say the right words than it was to carefully construct punctuation so someone got the right message. Even if he wasn't smiling when he told his mother he loved her, she at least heard what she needed to. That was his responsibility now. She shouldn't have to suffer through what her life had become, even after all her failures. Some people were always going to need help, even if they didn't deserve it.

The sound of coughing came from his father's room, and Ty rubbed his eyes, almost in anticipation of what he'd see. There were a set of plastic water bottles in the kitchen, the kind of thing someone might take to the gym, with straws sticking out. He couldn't drink from a regular glass anymore. Ty filled one with cool water and set off to the room, steeling himself to a sight he'd never quite get used to.

Opening the door to the room, a musty smell wafted past his nose. It was medication and body odor, the kind of uncomfortable combination of a hospital and a locker room. A refurbished hospital bed sat behind a heavy beaten reclining armchair. A television was screwed into the wall, a flat-screen that used to sit in the actual living room. Bill used to have his friends over to watch football on it, and it was one of the few extravagances that remained in their home. Given that he'd be spending most of his time here, it made sense to move it in.

Bill looked to Ty as he entered. Deep, dark bags sat under his eyes, only one of which completely focused on him. It was difficult for him to shave properly these days, as he only really had the manual dexterity to use an electric shaver. Wisps of the hairs he missed hung from his chin. His paralyzed face sagged, slightly wet from his coughing fit. Where once he was the kind of man to be fastidiously tidy, his black and grey hair was now long and messy, haphazardly combed back in a show of effort more than anything else.

Ty inhaled sharply through his teeth, putting on a pleasant face for his father as he knelt down to his level.

"Hey Dad, sorry it took me so long. I heard you coughing and brought some water. How're you feeling?"

Bill's eyebrows rose, as he continued to be surprised by his son's attention. He offered a shaky thumbs-up, before taking a long sip from the straw. The massive stroke had robbed him of his ability to speak; anything that came out was heavily slurred and indecipherable. The doctors suspected was likely something he'd never recover from. Usually he'd indicate how he felt by hand signals or a pad of paper if one is handy.

Ty stood up and picked up a plate of bread crusts that sat next to a TV tray. It was all that was left of a sandwich; Bill never liked the crusts.

Like a child.

"So, I'm going out in a few minutes to go to work. Nancy's going to come by a little later to check in, so you won't be on your own too long."

A few soiled napkins lay nearby as well. No doubt his father had a runny nose because of the cold. Ty made a mental note to talk to his mother about the necessity of keeping it warm in the house. He pushed them onto the plate and made for the kitchen, talking to his father as he did so.

"You remember Nancy, right? She lives a few doors down, Mom knows her from school. I think you might've met her husband once or twice."

Ty washed his hands in the kitchen sink, somewhat excessively. He returned to the bedroom, drying his hands with a small towel. "So Mom and I are getting off work early tonight so we can all have dinner together. You remember what's tonight, right?"

It had been over a year since Elliott's last birthday, though less than that since he'd thrown himself to his death out in Washington. Today was the first anniversary of any kind that they were marking. Ty would've let the day pass by with only a stray thought, but it was important to his parents. At least, Bill tried to make that clear as best as he could. He looked at Ty and nodded solemnly.

"Figured I'd do fish, I have a recipe Elliott used to like. I don't think you ever tried it back then, but I think you'll like it. Won't be hard for you, either – it isn't hard to cut or anything. And no, don't worry – it's not ‘too fancy.' I know you like to keep it simple." Ty smiled at his father from the doorway, genuinely. There were times he felt close to his breaking point, having to look after his parents. It felt perverse and backwards now and again, but someone had to do it. He knelt down next to his father again, putting a hand on his father's shoulder.

"Okay. I'm heading out now. Is there anything you need? TV's alright, you don't need to go to the bathroom or anything?"

Shaking his head, he offered another thumbs-up, managing to mutter, quietly. "Mmm… m'okay."

"Good. I'm off then." Ty stood up and walked to the door, his eyes catching the framed photo of his brother that hung on the wall nearby. They'd put up more around the house since he was gone, at least Ty's mother had. Before he was completely through the doorway, he heard his father speak once more. Trying genuinely to make his voice heard, what he said stopped Tyrell dead in his tracks.

"S…son. My… son."

The steel ring around Ty's finger tapped against the door for a moment, an unintentional nervous twitch. He grasped the frame and closed it, leaving the two of them inside. A hook seemed to catch in his chest, keeping him in place. It hurt. It hurt so very much. After this, after everything? He can call him that?

Did you finally have enough time to think about what you did, you piece of shit?

Ty turned around, himself on the verge of tears, to find his father looking in his direction. Not at him. Not even close. Following his gaze, he saw his eyes locked firmly on the picture of Elliott. Bill almost seemed to be trying to pry him out of the frame with his stare alone. The sound of his own breathing caught Ty off guard. His heart was ready to detonate, his knuckles throbbing again from the workout on the heavy bag as he couldn't help but clench them.

Closing in on his father with none of the gentle affectations he had before, Ty stood in front of the picture. They locked eyes, and in those of his son Bill saw nothing but hatred. On the reverse, Ty only saw confusion and fear.

His voice held an even tone as he spoke. "Right. Your good son. This is probably pretty hard for you, the first birthday without him.  You had three kids, but fucked up the first two so much you're left with me. How come we never marked Katie's birthday, huh? You know, we've got to schedule our lives around not leaving you alone too long. Nancy didn't even want to come at first; she made every excuse in the world, because she knew what kind of person you are.  

"I wasn't going to even have a drink in Elliott's memory today, wasn't going to waste a fucking thought on it. It hurts too much. But nobody else is going to help Mom, so here I am. Your eighteen year old son, working his ass off to keep this shit afloat. I'll level with you: I'm only going to pretend to give a shit long enough that Mom can get through this. You can do whatever the fuck you want. Whatever you can."

Ty produced his cellphone from his pocket again, and set it on the table towards his father, turning it towards him. Bill couldn't really use phones, as even if he could speak his manual dexterity was so impaired it was hard to figure out how to even place a call. Tyrell knew this.

"Go ahead, why don't you call up the old gang? It's been a long time, they've got to know their pal is hurting? Maybe they'll come by, try and cheer you up? Drink away the pain. They'll drink for you, I mean. I actually liked Dave's stories about the kids he was training at the camp, they sounded like real fuck-ups."

You threatened me with that place once.

"'Sorry excuses for Men', I guess you would say. If you could. And hey, for an old drunk, your buddy Albert has a pretty good taste in war movies! A Bridge Too Far, Das Boot, Platoon – hell, he even brought American Sniper. That one was jingoistic bullshit but you probably would've liked it. I might put it on here sometime."

Ty never broke eye contact with his father, even as Bill tried to look away. He pulled the phone off the table, his point made.

"You know, come to think of it, I haven't seen any of your pals in a while. Any of ‘em, really – Dave, Al, Lonny, Scott, Thomas. You can tell a lot about someone by the company they keep. Scott was the last one, right? Or was it Tom? I can't remember, it must've been months ago. Do you? Do you remember the last time someone willingly wanted to be in your presence?"

Bill squirmed in his chair, trying to ignore Tyrell. Fox News was playing in the background; Bill tried reaching for the television remote as Ty brushed it aside, just out of reach. Bill looked to him once more, his face pleading.

"There's no getting away from this. You remember the last time. You've been counting the fucking days, since anyone came. Counting them since you last saw Elliott. What else can you do, except listen to that shit?"

Ty grabbed the remote, and powered down the TV. Elliott's picture seemed to stare at him from the nearby wall.

"You know what, while we're marking the occasion, lemme tell you something. About Elliott."

His father went still. His eyes were glassy, and it seemed to take considerable effort to not look away from Ty.

I'll cash this in. It's time. You're ready for it, you son of a bitch.

Ty was now kneeling in front of his father's chair, though still more or less at eye level. He clasped his fathers' hands in his, well aware that the man abhorred any kind of physical contact.

"Dad, I was the last person Elliott talked to before he died. He called me, long-distance. He was in tears. Saying he felt he could never live up to what people thought of him, that his grades were failing, that he wasn't sure this was what he wanted. Elliott wanted to come home but he was afraid what you might do if he tried. Afraid you'd disown him for running, like a coward.

You hated cowards and losers, and he didn't want you to hate him. Even though he knew what you were like, he still wanted to please you. He knew Mom was proud of him, that she was glad he got the fuck out of here. Didn't want to disappoint her either.

There was this girl he liked, too. They'd actually started dating, but he had this complex – if he wasn't good enough for himself, how could he be for anyone else? Who would love him for his imperfections? See, he saw me and knew how people would treat him if he wasn't perfect. How you would. He broke up with her that night and couldn't live with it. Couldn't tell her why he was doing it, apparently she was completely heartbroken. Said she really loved him, thought they had a future together."

It was like they were having the conversation all over again. Ty could still hear the sound of Elliott's voice over the phone. He didn't want to show his father how this affected him. He wanted it to hurt. Bill could still probably tell, no matter how hard he tried.

"Most people, from what I've heard, are under all kinds of stress in that first year. Teachers talk about it at school, about the pressure to do drugs, to party a bit too hard. They warn us all the time. It's all a reaction to being out in the world for the first time. Elliott… I guess he couldn't handle it.  He walked into a situation and found out he wasn't the strong young man everyone said he was. Wasn't the track star, or the scout. He was nobody. For the first time in his life he felt out of his depth, and his whole identity just fell right the fuck apart!"

He felt alone. Completely alone. I never heard him like that before.

"When he called – he just needed someone to tell him it was okay, to pull him back from the brink. To say like, there was something worth doing on this side. It's okay to fail sometimes, and you just pull yourself back up and move on. I mean, he probably knew that, but he didn't know it well enough. Needed affirmation, reinforcement, that sort of thing. Someone who wouldn't hold him to a standard he could never meet, and that sure as hell wasn't something he could do on his own.

Of course I'd help him. Why not? I loved Elliott. You know when you'd send me to my room without anything to eat, and he went to do the dishes after dinner, he'd sneak food to my room. I dunno how you thought I was going to fill out if you kept starving me, but hey - 'rules are rules.' "

Ty was shaking, unable to entirely hold back how he felt. Shouting at his father, he only lowered his tone when he realized how close he was to completely losing it.

"You had to put your foot down, right? RIGHT?! See this?! This scar, the one people love to ask about? He was the one that got me patched up. Not Mom, she wouldn't dare leave your sight to help your little faggot son, no. It was Elliott who got me to the hospital, and Elliott who fed the line of bullshit that kept your sorry ass out of jail. He was the one got me my first underage drink, bought me a couple of records with his own money."

Marilyn Manson was a pretty safe bet for a weird kid with long hair who was into metal. One of Elliott's friends recommended the older albums. The poster was a nice touch too. Elliott must've had a sense it would piss off their Dad, and it was supposed to be something he'd hold onto when Ty had a room of his own out in Washington.

"He doesn't even like the music I do, didn't know anything about it, but tried. That was all anyone needed to do. Try. Elliott told me the facts of life, you know? I could never ask you guys - I was curious once and you told a ten year old he was never going to get laid 'acting like such a pussy all the time'. You really fucked me up with that one, for a while. I didn't forget that kind of hurt until you hit me in the face with a wrench."

He still held Bill's hands in his own. Ty's knuckles were white.

"You'd threaten to 'put me to sleep' if I wouldn't stop crying in bed, so Elliott came to check on me every night. Made sure I knew everything would get better. He said he'd leave for Washington and set up a place, and I'd come join him in a few years. Said we might even get Katie to come visit once in a while. You know, the daughter you had that ran as far away as she could once you showed her what a ‘real man' was like."

Nausea interrupted him, bile rising in his throat as he thought back on what little he knew of his sister's departure. The thought was more repugnant than the smell in the air.

"He taught me how to stick up for myself when things got bad. How to act in the world. It's what kept me going. I loved Elliott, Dad. More than you could ever know. But he left. And I was stuck here with you, and Jen. Hard to call her Mom when she barely fucking did anything to earn being called one.

I heard you go on about him. I could tell you missed him. You wished I'd left and he stayed, but you knew he'd be back. Tell you all about his successes. You'd shoot the shit and ask him awkward questions about how many girls he'd stuck his dick into. You counted on it. What the fuck was waiting for you here, other than a wife who's only here because she's scared shitless and a punching bag you couldn't bear to call a son?

So I thought about what I was going to say. I thought about how much I loved him. I missed him. How he abandoned me to be stuck here, with you. Then I thought about how much you loved him. And missed him. And how much it would just fucking destroy you to lose him."

Bill's eyes widened.

"You know where I'm going with this, don't you? I remember well what I said to him. Hard to forget. I said Elliott, I wish I knew what to say. I don't think I can help you. I don't think anyone can. He was quiet for a bit, then said goodbye, and hung up. And you know what happened after that. You tried so hard to forget it, to believe it wasn't happening. Trying so hard, that put you right here. The doctors blamed the drinking, but everybody knew that losing your son – your favorite son - was too much for someone like you."

Ty let go of his father's hands, as if to throw away something dirty. He stood, wanting little else than to leave. There was more to say, though.

"Fucking coward. It was more than I could've hoped for, honestly. I don't have to wait for you to die now, at least. A grown man, fifty five years old, and you can't even go to the bathroom on your own. C'mon, sit up straight! Why can't you clean yourself up, for fucks sake? You look like a fuckin' vagrant! Don't you have any self-respect?"

All things Ty had heard growing up. He spoke them in a mocking voice akin to the one his father had lost.

"Anyone with eyes and a stomach should be sick just looking at you. I don't even think I should call you a man, not by your own standards. What kind of man can't even dress himself? Can't feed himself? Is such a burden on his family they can barely afford to heat their home? Whose wife has to work two jobs, and barely sleeps at night?"

Bill was in agony. Not the physical pain he bore every day, but something much more profound. "P...please..."

"Please what? Stop? It's just the truth. Didn't you always tell me to not be afraid of the truth? The world's a tough place, and you've got to be tougher. C'mon Dad, toughen the fuck up! Most people look at you and feel sorry for you. They say what they're supposed to say and act the way they're supposed to act and feel the way they're supposed to feel because poor Bill Marsden lost his favorite son. Well, I don't want to pretend to feel sorry for you anymore."

"I found out at one point that I could survive it better if I just didn't react to this shit. If I shut down and closed myself off to the parts that felt anything. I kept doing that every time you raised your fists to me. Every time you said those things to me. Eventually I guess it just… stuck that way. It's easier now to just pretend."

Tyrell grabbed the remote once more, turning on the TV. He flipped the channel, to NBC. Ellen was on around this time of day, the kind of thing which he knew his father to have a special aversion to. He set the remote far out of reach, and brushed his hair out of his eyes. Through the window he could see the sun starting to set, which meant he now definitely had to take the bike to work lest he risk being seriously late.
Leaning in next to his father's ear, Ty offered a parting comment before kissing his father on the top of the head. It was a gesture of affection Bill would never have been able to bear before.

"You deserve every minute of this. If this place burned down with you in it, I'd use it to light a cigarette and move the fuck on. It's your own fault you're stuck here with me, I want you to know that. Bye, 'Dad'."

~

As he pulled out of the driveway on the bike, the conversation kept playing over and over in Ty's mind. Not his tirade, but the last time he spoke to Elliott. It wasn't as he'd described, though his father didn't have to know that. No one did.

Tyrell sat up in bed, the basement completely quiet save for the faint sound of his brother's sobbing over the phone. The call came in the middle of the night, and they'd been talking for nearly an hour.

"Ty, I can't do this anymore. I can't… She really loved me, and I just… I fucked that up. I'm going to fuck this up, I know it."

It hurt to hear Elliott like this. He'd never heard him so upset, so vulnerable. As far as he was concerned, there probably wasn't anyone else in the world who would even entertain the thought of caring. It was the kind of conversation Ty wasn't used to being on the other side of.

"Elliott, listen to me. You're the strongest person I've ever met. You're a good guy, everyone who knows you knows that. You can get through this. If we can get through growing up with the fucking Drill Sergeant, you can get through college. Remember our plans? You were going to clear a spot for me out there?"

"…yeah…."

"Well, I started looking at culinary programs. There's one out there I think I'd like. I think I'm going to apply next year. It won't be too long before we're in it together, in person."

"…I'd like that."

"Bro, I believe in you. You're going to be some famous fucking architect designing buildings, and I'll probably end up working in a fancy-ass kitchen in one
of them. Your name on the front, mine at the bottom of a menu. It'll be great. You just have to hang on. You can do that, right?"

"…I don't know. I don't think I can. I… Ty, I've never felt like this before. I don't think I'm going to get better. I don't know how. It just… it feels like I know something I didn't know before, and I'm never going to be able to forget it."

"You will. Look – you remember what you told me at the hospital, when I was shaking? That it's just as hard to imagine what it's like to be in pain when you're fine as it is the other way around? You remember what it's like to be okay. You've got to hang onto that. You know you'd be saying the same thing to me, right?"

"…yeah…"

"And there are people who care about you. I care about you. That girl, she-"

"She's too good for me."

"Hey, HEY. Don't say that to yourself. I know you've got a lot to give someone. You know that, deep down."

"No, I don't-"

"-You do. You just don't have enough to prove to yourself that everything's ok. I feel like I'm just quoting you, dude. You know what that means right?"

"What?"

"You've got the tools to get through this, and you can. Do it for me. Do it for that girl. Hell, do it for Katie even. You know we're going to have to find her eventually. We've got to be in one piece for that. But you've got to find a reason."

"I…I'll try. Ty, I'll really try."

"I love you, man. I always will."

Ty squeezed the throttle on the bike and tore up the road. In his mind he imagined the day he'd take this road and never come back. It couldn't come soon enough.

((Tyrell Lahti continued in Gifts))