I sat at the edge of the mahogany table, my calloused hand tracin' its smooth, aged surface. It was solid, the kind built to withstand years of wear, but its glossy finish had begun to fade in certain spots—worn down by time, meals, and memories. The edges of the table were chipped, revealin' layers of lighter wood beneath the deep reddish-brown surface. My fingers lingered on these scars, a quiet reminder of the battles I had fought and survived, now reflected in the furniture around me.
I took a slow sip from my glass, the whiskey burnin' as it coated my throat, leavin' a sharp, bitter taste that mellowed into a warm, smoky sweetness. It was an old bottle, but the liquid within had aged well—like me, refined but hardened. The warmth spread through my chest, but it did little to ease the chill that had settled deep within me since the end of my dear Isabella.
The house around me creaked with the familiar weight of solitude. The walls were dark and aged, lined with faint cracks from years of settling. Paintings and mementos from my travels adorned the walls. The once-vibrant tapestries now faded and hung limp in the dim light that barely filtered through the thick, rain-soaked air. Outside, the heavy smell of damp soil seeped into the room through the cracks in the window frames, the scent of earth and rain mixin' with the sharp scent of whiskey and timber smoke from the dyin' fire in the hearth.
Every breath I took was heavy with the soil-like fragrance of wet dirt, as if the world outside was alive and breathin', while inside the house, everything felt stagnant. The wooden floor beneath me was cold, and the dampness from the rain still clung to the walls, giving the whole house a slightly musty smell, like an old book forgotten in a corner.
For a moment, I let my eyes drift to the window. The droplets of rain still clung to the glass, casting tiny reflections of the dyin' fire. Beyond it, the world was wet and gray, the storm clouds lingerin' over the distant hills. I had been to those hills once, fought alongside companions whose faces now blurred in my memory. I took another sip of the whiskey, welcomin' the familiar burn as it grounded me in the present, even as my mind wandered to the past.
I thought of Thamolin, the boy—no, the young man now—who carried the fire of rebellion in his veins. A fire that reminded me too much of my own reckless youth.
Thamolin was wild and untamed, just like I had been when I was younger, before responsibility forced me to settle down. But where I had the strength of companions, the guidance of mentors, Thamolin seemed determined to walk his path alone. I feared where that path might lead him.
I took another sip of the whiskey, lettin' its sharp bite distract me for a fleeting moment.
I had left the world of adventurin' behind for Thamolin's sake, tradin' sword and shield for hearth and home. Yet, I couldn't help but feel I had failed. My son needed his mother, Isabella. She would have been the heart of their family—the one who could see through Thamolin's anger and defiance, who could pull him back from the edge. But she was gone, leavin' me alone to raise a boy I barely knew how to understand.
My hand gripped the glass tighter as the memory of Isabella crept in. Her laughter, her fierce love, her unshakable belief in the good within people—within me. She had been everything I wasn't. Where I had been rough, she was gentle. Where I had been hard, she was soft, and together we had found balance. Without her... everything had unraveled.
I was no father, not in the way Thamolin needed. I could teach him how to survive in the world, but when it came to matters of the heart—how to be gentle, how to listen, how to be present—I felt completely lost.
My chest tightened with the weight of failure. I had tried, but the boy had grown more distant, more troubled. Every week, it seemed, there was another fight, another confrontation, another reckless act that had me at my wit's end. We argued more than we spoke, and each time, I could see the disappointment in Thamolin's eyes—the same disappointment I carried within myself.
I exhaled heavily, the damp smell of the soil from outside minglin' with the pungent sting of whiskey on my breath. I placed the glass on the table, runnin' a hand through my grayin' hair. I wasn't built for this. Raisin' a boy, being a father. Thamolin was a boy on the verge of becoming a man, and I feared I wasn't enough to guide him.
I looked again at the dark rain-soaked window and muttered under my breath, "You needed her, boy… Not me."
A soft crackle from the dyin' fire echoed through the room as I slumped back in my chair. If Isabella were here, she would know what to say, what to do. She would have pulled Thamolin in close, sat him down, and somehow, with just a few words, she would have reached him. But all I had were rough hands and a short temper, neither of which was much use for raisin' a son.
As the silence of the room pressed in, I closed my eyes, wishin' for the hundredth time that Isabella was still here, that she could take over, that I wouldn't have to feel so helpless.
But she wasn't. And now it was up to me.
"I'm trying, boy," I whispered, my voice crackin'. "I swear I'm tryin'."
As I continued to drink, the whiskey began to work its way into my head, dullin' my senses and cloudin' my thoughts. The warmth in my chest spread outward, but it did nothin' to soothe the storm brewin' in my mind. With every sip, my thoughts grew heavier, turnin' from guilt to something darker—rage.
Thamolin doesn't know how good he has it, I thought, my grip tightening around the glass. The boy had a roof over his head and food on his plate every night. He had never gone without, never had to scramble for coin like I had in my youth. And yet, all he did was rebel—lash out at every opportunity as if I were some sort of tyrant.
Ungrateful. The word echoed in my mind, growin' louder with each drink. Spoiled. I had sacrificed everything—my adventurin', my freedom, my old life—and for what? For a son who seemed to think the world owed him somethin' more?
My brow furrowed, and my lips curled into a sneer as my intoxicated mind ran rampant. What more does he want? I had fought monsters, bled in battle, faced death time and time again, and Thamolin acted like he was the one with the difficult life. He'd never known real hardship. He'd never felt the sting of hunger or the cruel bite of the wilderness. No, he had always had everythin'.
My hand clenched tighter around the glass, my knuckles turning white. I could hear my heart poundin' in my ears, the bitterness seepin' into my blood like poison.
Ungrateful brat, I thought, my vision startin' to blur at the edges. I could see Thamolin's face in my mind—the same defiant expression he wore every time we argued, the look of contempt in his eyes that drove me mad.
He doesn't know a damn thing about struggle. He doesn't know what it's like to fight for everythin'!
Suddenly, with a sharp crack, the glass in my hand shattered, pieces diggin' into my palm. I cursed loudly, the sharp sting of pain snapping me back to reality for a moment.
"Damn it!" I growled, starin' down at my bleedin' hand, the whiskey mixin' with the blood and drippin' onto the floor. My breath came in short, ragged bursts, my chest heavin' with a mixture of fury and regret.
For a moment, I just stood there, starin' at the mess I had made, my pulse racing. I could still feel the fury boilin' in my chest, but now it was tempered by the realization of my own recklessness. Stupid. So damn stupid.
I muttered another curse under my breath and stumbled toward the kitchen, grabbin' a rag to wipe up the whiskey and glass shards from the table and floor. The jagged pieces glinted under the dim light, tauntin' me as if mockin' my inability to control my emotions.
With shaky hands, I carefully swept the shards into a pile and tossed them into a nearby waste bin. The cut on my palm stung, the blood still slowly oozin' from the wound. I pressed the rag against it, wincin' at the sharp pain, and wrapped it tightly around my hand. The alcohol buzz dulled the pain slightly, but the deeper ache—the one in my chest—remained.
As I stood there, starin' at my bandaged hand, I felt the rage begin to drain from me, leavin' only a hollow emptiness behind. I sank back into the chair, the weight of everything pressin' down on me. The house was quiet again, save for the soft patter of rain outside.
"I'm tryin'…" I mumbled to no one, the alcohol slurrin' my words. But even to my own ears, the excuse felt empty. I wasn't sure anymore if I was doing the right thing for Thamolin. I wasn't sure of anything.
With a heavy sigh, I leaned my head against the back of the chair, my eyes flutterin' closed as exhaustion, both physical and emotional, began to take hold.
Outside, the rain continued to fall, the earth soakin' in the moisture, while inside, I was left to drown in my own thoughts.
I didn't even hear the door creak open as Thamolin stepped into the room. My mind was still clouded by the whiskey, the remnants of my shattered glass now swept away and the faint sting of the cut on my hand barely registerin'.
"Where the hell you've been?" I slurred, my voice low and accusatory, barely glancin' up at my son.
Thamolin, now standin' in the doorway, wiped the rain from his forehead and gave me a disinterested look. "Out," he replied, his tone casual but with an edge of defiance. "I'm a man now. I can take care of myself."
The words hit me like a hammer. A man now? My blood boiled, the liquor fuelin' the fire already simmerin' within me. I set the bottle of whiskey down on the table with a dull thud and stood up, my chair scrapin' loudly against the wooden floor.
"You can't talk to me like that," I growled, my fists clenchin' by my sides. My voice swayed between hurt and rage. "I'm still your father."
"I haven't said anything wrong," Thamolin shot back, meetin' my gaze with steely eyes, unwillin' to back down. He crossed his arms over his chest, his own frustration barely masked. "You don't need to worry about me all the time. I can handle myself."
"You're talkin' back again!" I snapped, my voice rising as I jabbed a finger toward Thamolin. My anger flared with each word, my breath thick with the smell of liquor. I hated feelin' like I was losin' control, like my son was slippin' through my fingers. He's all I got left.
"I'm not! I'm just saying you don't have to treat me like a kid anymore," Thamolin argued, his voice still calm but strained. "I'm not trying to fight you—"
"There! You're doin' it again!" I interrupted, my voice almost a growl. My frustration boiled over, and his face twisted in a mixture of pain and anger. "You've been nothin' but disrespectful."
Thamolin shook his head, biting back the words he wanted to say. His jaw clenched as he struggled to stay composed, even as the tension in the air thickened. His eyes drifted to the half-empty whiskey bottle in my hand.
"You've been drinking too much again," Thamolin finally said, quietly, trying to defuse the situation. It wasn't an accusation, just a statement of fact. But the moment the words left his mouth…
Without warning, my hand lashed out, slapping Thamolin hard across the face. The sharp crack echoed in the small dining room, the force of the blow sendin' Thamolin's head snapping to the side. His cheek burned red, but it was the shock, not the pain, that stopped him in his tracks. He stood frozen for a moment, the weight of what just happened settlin' between us.
For a long beat, we stared at each other. Thamolin's chest heaved, his face flushed with frustration rather than sadness. His hands balled into fists at his sides as his mind raced. He was angry—furious even—but there was something else that hurt more: the disappointment.
Thamolin's voice cracked as he spoke, low and heated. "Why do you always do this?" His eyes shone with emotion as he looked at me, who stood glaring at him, chest risin' and fallin' heavily.
My grip tightened around the whiskey bottle, but before I could even react, Thamolin's arm shot out, slappin' the bottle out of my hand. The bottle crashed to the floor, glass shatterin', whiskey spillin' everywhere. The pungent smell of alcohol filled the room, minglin' with the tension, almost suffocatin' us both.
My face twisted into pure rage as I raised my hand again, preparin' to strike. This time, Thamolin was ready. His arm shot up, blockin' the blow with his forearm. The force of it sent me stumblin' back slightly, unsteady on my feet. Thamolin gave me a hard shove, pushin' me aside, his breath quick and angry.
"I'm done with this. You're the one with the problem, and I have to suffer for it. You don't see what that stuff does to us," Thamolin muttered, his voice raw as he stormed past me, makin' his way toward his room. He paused at the doorway for a brief second, glancin' back at me, who was still standin' in the mess of broken glass and spilled whiskey.
Neither of us spoke as Thamolin disappeared down the hallway, slammin' his door shut behind him. The sound echoed through the house, followed by silence.
I stood there, starin' at the empty space where my son had been, my mind swimmin' in alcohol and regret. My hand, still throbbing from the broken glass, hung uselessly by my side as I stared down at the mess I made—both literally and figuratively.
But it was too late. Too late to take any of it back.
As Thamolin's door slammed shut, the weight of everythin' crashed down on me like a tidal wave. The anger that had fueled me moments ago drained away, leavin' only a hollow emptiness in its place. My chest tightened, and before I could stop myself, the tears came—silent at first, then growin' into uncontrollable sobs that wracked my body.
My son's words, "Why do you always do this?" echoed in my mind, over and over again, like a curse. Each repetition felt like another dagger being driven deeper into my heart. The truth behind them stung more than the slap I had delivered. Why do I always do this? My tremblin' hands came up to cover my face as I crumpled back into the chair by the table, shoulders shakin' with grief and regret.
For so long, I convinced myself I was doin' my best—providin' a roof, keepin' Thamolin fed. But that wasn't enough. That wasn't being a father. Thamolin deserved more. He deserved better.
Through blurry eyes, I caught sight of the whiskey poolin' on the floor, glistenin' in the dim light of the room. It seemed to mock me now. I sought comfort in the bottle, in the numbin' haze of alcohol, but it had only driven a wedge between me and the only person I had left.
My hands still shakin', I stood, stumblin' toward the kitchen cabinets. My breath came out in ragged gasps as I threw open the doors, revealin' row upon row of bottles—bitter reminders of my failures. The amber liquid inside shimmered, temptin', familiar.
But no more.
One by one, I grabbed the bottles and twisted off their caps, the sharp scent of alcohol hittin' my nose. I began dumpin' their contents into the sink, the liquor swirlin' down the drain, washin' away the nights of my weakness. I discarded each bottle with a dull thud into the trash, not stoppin' until the last drop was gone.
I held the last bottle in my hand. Just one more bottle, then tomorrow I'll be sober. With tremblin' hands, I popped it open, smelling the sweet whiskey. The warmth the bottle bought me is the best I've ever known. No, Isabelle as my witness, I will sober up. I placed the bottle on the counter and growled in agony, my hands sweepin' back my hair in frustration. I looked at the amber substance, lurin' me, callin' my name. Maybe just one last shot, then I'll put the bottle down.
I slowly walked closer to the liquor. I reached for it, tentatively bringin' it closer to my lips. Then I slammed it down, shatterin' the bottle. "Gods damn. No wonder they call 'em spirits. They really had a hold on me."
As I tossed the remnants of the final bottle away, my hands gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white. My breath hitched in my throat, and for a moment, I stood there, starin' down at the sink, feelin' the crushin' weight of my decisions.
But this time, I wouldn't let that weight drag me down. This time, I was goin' to change.
"For him," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. "For Thamolin."
I wiped the tears from my eyes, my resolve renewin'. I couldn't undo the past, couldn't erase all the mistakes I had made, but I could make sure that from this moment on, things would be different. I'd prove it, not just with words, but with action. I had to—Thamolin deserved a father he could be proud of.
I stood there, the sound of the rain outside gently tappin' against the roof, I felt something stir inside me; Hope. It was faint, but it was there. And for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to believe that I could be better. That I could be the father Thamolin needed.
I turned toward the hallway where my son had disappeared and whispered softly, "I won't let you down again, boy. I swear it."