Kenneth pulled him to the car with a solid grip around his wrist, practically pushing him down into the passenger's seat with his hand, "Patience," he warned.
Travis gulped as his father slammed the door in his face and began walking around the car in order to sit himself in the driver's seat.
It seemed as though Kenneth was beginning to re-adhere to his usual personality, his goofy smiles and bizarrely sweet words fading away, replaced with the scowl that Travis had always known.
He balled his clammy hands into fists upon his lap and kept his head down as his father got behind the wheel and pulled the car out of the driveway.
There was silence between them for several moments as Kenneth drive down the street in front of their house, flashing his headlights in the otherwise dark and gloomy neighborhood.
Travis stared out the window, craning his head rightwards, watching the black trees and quiet, sleeping households pass by.
"You always look so helpless," his father said very suddenly, wrapping both of his rough, calloused hands around the steering wheel. His voice was calm but his eyes were just as sharp as ever.
Travis swallowed apprehensively, glancing at him for a split moment, and then back out the window, unsure of what to say, unsure of how easy it would be to anger his dad.
Kenneth sighed briefly, "Andrea, she always told me that I was too cold towards you." His gaze was lost somewhere in the dark, concrete road pavement.
Travis stiffened at the mention of her name, biting the inside of his cheek.
The gloom of his father's words filled the air like a thick cloud, surrounding both of them and overtaking any semblance of joy that Travis had managed to conjure up earlier that night.
"She realized all of her coddling would not be enough to change what you're meant to be," Kenneth continued bluntly, "I suppose that's why she took off."
Travis's brows furrowed at the equivocation of his tone, and he felt his face become hot upon hearing such hurtful accusations about his mom.
His body tensed up and unexpectedly, he lifted his head, still not daring to look in Kenneth's direction. He took his lower lip between his teeth and blinked a few times, breathing deeply, "My mother loved me," he asserted, his voice louder than he'd anticipated.
His father was quiet for a long while, a sort of numbing quiet that made Travis want to throw himself out of the car window, a quiet that made him think, for a moment, that Kenneth may not answer at all.
But of course, he could never be so lucky.
"Yes," the man mumbled, staring at him out of the corner of his eye. His voice was chillingly even and relaxed, "she certainly did love the parts of you that were hers."
Travis gritted his teeth, sucking in a weak breath through his nose, his shoulders quivering slightly as he fought to compose himself.
He wanted to rip his hair out, to scream out into the night sky and make sure that Kenneth knew that no one could ever love the parts of him that were his father's.
"She was never willing to accept it," He said, turning a corner suddenly, "that you're mine as much as you are hers, even if you do take after her visually," Kenneth mumbled, tracing his thumb along the black, leather steering wheel. "I thought the blonde hair might help you look more like a Phelps," he said pausing for a moment, "but back then, and even now, facially, you've always been your mother's."
Travis recalled Mr. Addison saying that he took after his father just a few weeks ago. He wondered now if Terrence had been lying, or if he genuinely believed it.
He wondered if, every time Kenneth Phelps looked at his son, he saw the shadows of his ex-wife in his face, and if that was the reason he resented him.
No, his father was harsh on him before his mother had even left. Even if her memory was one of the reasons that he was so cold towards him, it wasn't the full reason.
A part of it, Travis realized, must have been what he had always suspected. Kenneth Phelps was, by nature, a bitter and unloving man.
An unexpected surge of confidence rushing through him, he opened his mouth to speak again, "Did you love her?" he asked, watching as his father pulled up in front of the church.
"Who?"
Travis stole a glance in his direction, gulping, and all at once, realizing what a horrid mistake he'd made, "My mom," he mumbled meekly.
Kenneth shut off the car and let out a heavy sigh, his face tensing into a shape that was reminiscent of stone and marble statues of stern men from centuries ago.
"Marriage," he said, "Is more complicated than loving and not loving. If you find yourself a wife one day, you'll understand that."
Travis stared down at his lap, trying to ignore the fact that Kenneth had not answered his question, which likely indicated a no. He knew he shouldn't have been surprised.
But part of him wanted to know if there was a version of Kenneth Phelps, buried deeply under the ignorance and cold demeanor that could truly and unequivocally love someone else.
"You'd do well to refrain from asking inappropriate questions, Travis."
Perhaps he would.
Travis followed him into the church and bit back the overwhelming urge to inquire about what they were doing there, especially at this time of night.
Instead, he trailed behind Kenneth, under the shadow of his broad back, his head ducked slightly. His phone vibrated in his pocket and he knew much better than to pull it out and look at the message, which was undoubtedly from Sally Face, wondering if he'd gotten back home safely.
Travis wouldn't know how to answer anyway.
He watched as his father knelt to the ground, pulling up the corner of the area rug that laid just behind the altar.
Underneath was a small square of wood with a metal lock on it, built into the old floor. It was an entrance to what Travis figured must have been a small wine cellar or a safe.
He was very wrong.
Kenneth unlocked the door and pushed it up to reveal a large, dark, stone staircase leading downwards, beneath the ground. It smelled like mold and rainwater.
Travis blinked at the discovery and opened his mouth to ask one of the millions of questions swarming about in his brain, but before he could, his father was urging him forward, towards — and into — the narrow opening in the floor.
He remembered the faux friendliness that Kenneth had displayed, just minutes before, when Travis showed up on the Phelps doorstep, the way he'd smiled and acknowledged Travis's birthday just to reel him into whatever it was that he had planned.
He had, for a moment, hoped and believed that the kindness was real.
Kenneth followed him down, quick on his heels, unusually calm, as if he had been down this passageway hundreds of thousands of times before.
The steps with covered in a thick layer of dust and dirt, but Travis could see older footprints leading downwards. People had been down here recently.
"Where... Where does this lead?" Travis asked tentatively, glancing halfway over his shoulder. "I've never been down here before."
Kenneth almost laughed at this, a soft, barely there chuckle leaving his mouth as they came across the door at the end of the staircase, "You have, actually."
Travis swallowed and turned to face him, his clammy hand curling around the doorknob behind him.
"Though," his father mused softly, "I'm not terribly surprised that you don't remember. It was years ago."
Travis looked up into grey eyes. He breathed shallowly, his chest stuttering for a moment.
Kenneth motioned to the door with his hand, "Go on now," He urged him.
His son turned the knob slowly, pushing the door open with the palm of his free hand and peeking his face into the room.
Travis was finding it hard to breathe, his poor, shriveled lungs begging and pleading for him to suck in breath after breath, but he couldn't focus.
In front of them, in the large, darkened room, stood a little less than a dozen people, each of them dressed in hooded cloaks, gray with purple lining, tied together with thin black strings along the chest.
Travis stared at the violet, triangular emblems, standing out brightly beneath their chins.
Heart racing, he took an unguided step backward, fumbling and colliding with his father, who stood behind him.
Kenneth held him by the shoulders and nudged him forward again. "On your feet, Travis." He said firmly.
"What-" He mumbled, almost leaning backward towards his father's solid chest again, his eyes flickering between the hooded figures, "What's-"
"I'd never dare doubt you, sir," one of the cloaked men cut him off, "but, you certain he's the one?" His eyes were narrowly visible in the darkness of his hood, peering down at Travis. "He hardly seems like he has any idea of what's happening."
The blonde's eyes were wide and undeniably at attention, his hands balled into fists at his side. His tan forehead was slick with sweat, a few strands of hair wet and sticking to his skin.
"If it's meant to be, then everything will unfold correctly," Kenneth promised, his eyes a little sharper than usual, "have you forgotten that he's already been prepared for this?" His hands reached up from behind Travis's back, his shadow looming over him like a black wolf closing in on a sheep. He clutched his son's shoulders in his palms and stepped forward with him, moving as a single unit rather than father and son.
Travis glanced to his left where, in the shadows, he could see what seemed to be a pile of sorts, stark white against the darkness of the room, a conglomeration of pieces, some long, some rounded, others in peculiar shapes and stained red or brown.
He squinted, trying to align his thoughts as he stared deeply into the pile, until his sight settled on one of the more spherical, white fragments, one that had two large, socket-like holes along the top of it, holes that almost resembled...
Travis sucked in a heaving breath and looked away, suddenly feeling very faint, afraid, and struggling in his father's grip. "I want to go home," he managed, barely audible, his eyes flickering up at the cloaked men and then back down at the floor.
Kenneth lifted him off of his feet very slightly, by his shoulders, pushing him further from the doorway, "We will go home," he said firmly, "very soon."
Travis clenched his jaw, breathing heavily and half-heartedly trying to rip himself away from his dad's hands.
"But first, I need you to complete the ceremony," his voice softened as he leaned down, close to Travis's ear from behind, "we need you to complete it."
The blonde's blood ran cold as he realized, at the same instant that there was a faint smell of alcohol on his father's breath — his father, who had, as far as Travis knew, never drank.
"Ceremony?" he mumbled quietly, feeling a nauseating sickness brew in his stomach. He closed his eyes against the image in front of him, imagining instead that he was still huddled alongside Sal on the bus, just the two of them, the warm pressure of his boyfriend's head upon his shoulder, the heat of his body beside his. He had, for once, felt loved.
Kenneth looked up at the cloaked man farthest from them, "Please begin the preparations."
Travis watched, beginning to shake, and suddenly wishing that his phone, full of enamored, sickeningly sweet text messages between himself and another boy, was not in his pocket.
His father turned him slightly, staring into his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice chilled Travis to his bones, "Together," he said, "We will build a better world."
The man turned his back from them, lowering his hood with a great rise and fall of his shoulders, his hands fiddling and toying with a hefty, large, leather-bound book that sat atop a tall pedestal.
And then, after a moment or two of torturous, wordless waiting, an orb of light bright and swirling and purple began to glow, lifting into the air, ahead of them all.
Travis cried out and squeezed his eyes shut, clasping his hand over his afflicted one and sucking in a breath through his gritted, pointed teeth as pain overtook him.
There was a wetness against his eyelids, dripping down his cheek. He clawed hopelessly at his pulsating, aching, scorching eye, crying out in horror and speaking incoherently as he felt himself blindly being dragged away by his underarms, either by Kenneth himself or by one of the hooded figures.
He scrambled, shuffling with his feet to find his footing, to no avail.
"Father?" He wept, peeking his uninsured eye open for a moment, searching for Kenneth, and instead seeing a flash of gray steel before him. He squeezed it shut again, flailing in the invisible grip of the men around him, "Please-"
Suddenly, he was being lifted, off of the ground and placed on his back. Below him was a cool, solid metal service, one that he somehow remembered both vividly and barely at all.
His back arched at the frozen feeling of the metal beneath him and he fought helplessly as his arms and legs were held down.
He was sweating, probably through his shirt. His face was burning up horrifically, and his eye felt much like a pincushion.
Travis tipped his head back against the metal and sobbed, really sobbed, going limp all at once and giving up. Crying and crying without even knowing who or what he was calling out for.
His birthday. Today was his birthday, of all days, and here he was, scared out of his poor mind, and in more pain than he could ever hope to bear.
He wished he had gotten off the bus at the blue-haired boy's stop. Even though Travis would have refused, he'd still secretly wanted Sal to insist on him coming home with him. He wished he'd leaped down onto the pavement beside him and ran and ran and ran back to Addison Apartments — despite its gloom and suffocation — with Sal's hand clutched in his own, away from his father, away from his life, away from all of this.
His chest rose and fell as he openly wailed, choking on his tears and struggling for air as the pain in the side of his face grew and grew tenfold, consuming him.
It was then that, in the midst of the chaos, he could feel Kenneth's breath against his ear. He could feel the stiff, unnatural drag of a hand through his hair.
"It'll be over soon," his father said softly. If Travis had been any more foolish, he'd have thought that Kenneth, for once, sounded almost as if he pitied him, "It'll hurt much more if you try fighting it."
Maybe that was what had knocked Travis out, or maybe it was his utter exhaustion that numbed the firey, aching pain in his eye. Either way, his muscles untensed and his consciousness quickly faded, leaving him in a dark and empty silence.
He fell into an uneasy, fearful sleep.
When he awoke, after what must have been many hours, he was back home, in his bed, surprisingly still able to feel the firmness of his cell phone in his pocket.
Light peeked in through the window like a flashlight in his dim bedroom.
His vision was exceptionally cloudy as he stared up at the ceiling, thoughtless and much too tired to bother leaping to his feet.
He did not reach for his phone to call or text Sal, or to even check his messages.
His stomach folded and churned with nausea, his hands trembling slightly as he laid there, lips parted, mind foggy.
Last night, what had happened in the ministry? Travis remembered it vividly, the flashing light, the coolness of the metal beneath him, the pain. It didn't mean he understood. He wasn't sure he'd ever understand.
He closed his eyes, ignoring the dull ache in his face. Perhaps Kenneth would never love him. Travis silently wondered what had even crossed his father's mind when he decided he wanted a son in the first place. A son, for what purpose?
Travis thought about what sort of dad Henry Fisher must have been. Perhaps he played catch with Sal in the front yard when he was younger, or maybe he had taken him on fishing trips, or maybe he was just as dismissive of Sal as Kenneth was of him.
He smiled a little. Sal must have been a sweet little boy. A little rebellious, he'd imagine, but sweet nonetheless. He'd have liked to meet a tiny Sally Face, one that hadn't been stabbed in the back by God's oh-so-suitable "everything happens for a reason" mentality yet.
His smile faded, settling back into the stiffness of his face. Between the two of them, they usually discussed their mothers more so than their fathers, despite how terrifying Kenneth Phelps was as a parent.
Sal was reluctant to talk about Henry, it seemed. He rushed through mentions of his dad, often clearly leaving out large details about him and the kind of person he was. Travis didn't press. He knew what it was like to have a father who is less than ideal to live with.
Mustering up the strength to pull himself to his feet, he swung his shaking legs off of the side of the bed and stood, wobbling in place slightly. He didn't feel right, and his blurry vision did not correct itself after a few minutes of being awake, as it normally did.
He took a few unguided steps across the room, dizzy and hazy, until he found his feet planted in front of his mirror, face to face with himself.
He sucked in a harsh breath at the sight of his reflection, his hand instinctively raising to his skin upon seeing the state of his face.
The iris of his injured eye had lost all of its color, leaving him with a milky, blueish-white that nearly blended in with his sclera. His pupil was not visible. The veins running along his eyelid and the upper part of his cheek were clearly visible, purple and blue and green and branching over his eye like a messy spider web.
His shoulders tensed as he stared at himself. His skin was dull, not nearly as saturated with color as usual. He looked like he was sick, like he was dying, frail and bird-boned.
If he had the energy to cry, he would have shed tears. Instead, he folded in on himself and sat down on the dust-colored floor, ducking his head and suddenly coming to terms with how incredibly cold and lifeless he felt.
Travis shuddered and wrapped his frail arms around himself, sighing into the crook of his elbow and imagining that someone was holding him, the way that he needed to be held.
A few moments later, his door was knocked on and opened simultaneously, his tall father walking in, standing up straight, his socks just as grey as the ground beneath him, just as grey as his pale, sharp eyes.
Travis lifted his head, much too fatigued to right himself up to his feet, but competent enough to recognize that he should.
"Father," he said softly, "what happened to me?" His voice was shallow and weak, and his face sagged with drowsiness, "Why-" he shook his head slightly, brows furrowed, "Why do I feel so..."
He didn't finish his sentence. He couldn't find the words.
Kenneth stared for a moment and then kneeled down at his side, glancing at his own reflection for a moment in the full-length mirror propped
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