The Plane Romance - 10
Raam watched as Umbra went on his way and didn’t try to stop him. He wanted to drive Umbra back home but Umbra had never been on a bike before and didn’t feel it would be safe.
He took out his phone and looked to see the address shared by Lilith, twenty minutes ago, the drive would be around fifteen minutes.
Their whole interaction was bland and not worth writing about. They sat around at the table as Raam talked through how to write a complete paper. Which meant he sat in front of the computer typing away while Lilith told him what she wanted to be said.
Maybe it was because of the few moments of laughter that Raam avoided the bad.
Raam knew he was being used, but he didn’t argue, he went along with it. By the time they were done, Raam was exhausted.
“You mind if I crash on the couch?” He requested letting out a yawn.
“Go ahead, want me to grab you a pillow from upstairs?” She offered.
He declined and kicked off his shoes and was very soon out like a light.
Raam woke up after a few hours and found it to be around four am.
He sent her a text saying he had left after he put on his shoes and walked to his bike.
Raam was happy, he felt useful, that everything wasn’t in vain. This life he lived finally felt it had a purpose.
Maybe it was his time with Umbra, or maybe it was his time with Lilith, he did not know. He felt that right now he had a reason to wake up.
Raam moseyed into the house, to find Miciah passed out on the couch. She wasn’t having a peaceful rest as her face was contorted in worry and her blanket had been thrown off. In an act of sympathy and concern, he carefully walked over and placed the blanket over and repeated the words of his main characters for such a moment, “I’m right beside you.” In a hushed whisper, the words left his lips.
He calmly rubbed her back and waited for her face to ease before making his own way upstairs. He stood in front of his closed door for a while before walking to one of the many guest rooms in the house. He couldn’t yet find the will to return to the place where he had suffered so much pain.
Later that morning Miciah and Raam sat around the island eating breakfast when she broke the news to him, “Raam…”
He nodded, stuffing a chunk of eggs into his mouth.
“Your father…” Tears formed at the corners of her eyes as she tried to choke out the sentence.
At her seeing her face he moved around the island pulling her into his side while rubbing her back. She sobbed into his chest and Raam assumed the worst. The man he called a father was either dying or dead, but Raam couldn’t find it in himself to cry. If it was his mother he might have cheered, may she burn in hell.
‘Why aren’t the tears forming? Why can’t I cry for my own father! Damn it!’
“He has cancer.” The words finally left her before she returned to a crying mess in Raam’s embrace.
Even when hearing the fact he couldn’t cry. He wasn’t even sure he was sad.
Maybe it was instead a wake-up call, to what he didn’t know. He felt he needed to take something from this though. If he couldn’t take any sadness away from his own father’s death, he would instead take symbolism from it.
Maybe he should finally face the music.
Miciah had cried herself to sleep so Raam carried her to the guest room and tucked her in. It hurt him to see her like that, even more than hearing the news of his father. She has been with them both for longer than he can account for and seeing her in such a state hurt him.
Her cheeks were stained but he still couldn’t find a way to shed a tear.
He returned downstairs and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He looked for something harder but his father never kept anything like that.
He slowly walked down to the basement, the whiskey in hand, and set himself up in front of the punching bag.
He downed the glass and imaged his own face on the bag. All the pent up frustrations, all the unknowing, all the regrets.
“You’re weak!” He heard the bag shout.
What followed was a loud bang as Raam’s fist met where he imagined his face.
Another bang, as the beam that held the bag up shook.
“You can’t even cry over your own father! You f***er.”
Rapid punches filled with everything he stored inside of himself left, with each impact.
“Ahhhh!” He shouted and released a kick.
“You are nothing. Who would love you?”
Another kick, straight to the gut.
“You want to be someone? Prove it! Be worthy of it!”
The moves didn’t slow.
“Find it in yourself, that you are worth being loved.”
With one final impact, he hugged the bag. He couldn’t do it anymore.
“Before you can love someone else, or even have someone love you. You need to love yourself.”
The image of himself was blooded and bruised, but it still smiled. It was a smile he hadn’t seen in a long time.
He saw himself grow younger back before being scarred. He saw himself playing and talking with others, he saw himself happy and living life. Something he hadn’t done since.
A wake-up call. He needed to start living again.
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