Arnold Manger
July 28, 2015 2:56 PM
Your boy Arnold (the worst of me) by Arnold Manger
OOC: Some mature content. Reader discretion is advised.BIC:
Crash.
Down came the once majestic pillars from the corners of the beds, spirals that extended up but never quite touched the ceiling. Down came the doors off the oaky dressers, their handles still attached, metallic and functionless. Down came the bookshelves that had done no wrong, supporting and protecting written knowledge with quiet dignity and grace. Down came the art on the wall, images created by his own hand that now only served to taunt his insecurities. Down came it all.
Crash!
When the dust settled, Arnold stood alone among the wreckage. His hands stung bitterly, and when he looked down to inspect them, he discovered that his knuckles were bleeding from impact. Well, he mused sadly with a sigh, he had never really known how to throw a punch. He did not need to know; violence was never the answer; fighting was beneath him. Excuses, excuses. Maybe they were just afraid.
In truth, Arnold did not consider himself a violent person, or at least not prior to today. Nothing like this had ever happened before. But as he stood surrounded by the product of his rage, Arnold began to doubt all the things about himself that he thought he had known for certain. He had always considered himself an academic, but his actions were more indicative of a brute. He used to be a fairly sensitive artist, not unlike his mother, but if this outburst of vandalism was any indication, he was becoming...
Like his father. Arnold shuddered at the thought. Ross Manger was the whole reason he was even in this mess, or at least a good part of it. The whole situation was so entrenched in confusion an frustration, so tangled up sound itself that Arnold just didn't know anymore.
That was it, wasn't it? He didn't know. Because he was so intelligent, Arnold had grown accustomed to just knowing things, but there were so many facets of his life now that rendered him so unsure. His class work was so much harder this year; he didn't automatically know get things right anymore. He had to study, but he didn't know how. He didn't really know what he was doing in the clubs he joined--Science and Book Club--and especially in the one he had created. Arnold had only gotten involved to increase his chances at Head Boy, but he didn't even know if any of it would matter at all.
And that honestly was only the more superficial problems. Ji-Eun was driving him crazy; it seemed like every time he turned around, something felt different. Did she like him? Was he just wasting his time? He didn't know. And then there was his father, sending him lavish gifts weekly now to buy back the love of his sons that had been stripped by time and actions. What was Arnold suppose to do? Explore his shiny haul all the while welcoming his father back with open arms? Pretend the nights he heard his mother crying down the hall and the mornings she fixed breakfast with shaky, bruised hands never happened? He didn't know.
Arnold wiped off and bandaged his knuckles, deciding it was more important to clean himself up than to clean up his mess. From there, in an almost zombie-like trance, he moved automatically, his mind miles away, back in their broken Rhode Island home. He began repairing the furniture, his wand guiding the progress, but he thought about the little boy he used to be.
Some boys grew up to be their fathers, and Arnold was afraid.
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Arnold Manger
Your boy Arnold (the worst of me)
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