Foreword: I originally wrote this short story in 2022; this is a very heavily edited version of that story. The original follows the titular character, Oliver, through the night of his death after he is kicked out of his house by his father. The two texts have many fundamental differences, to the point that they hold very little in common. The original is nothing but the scaffolding of this new plot line. However, the bulk of these changes reside in Oliver’s parents, his view of them, and their characterization. In the original, Oliver’s father was a violent drunk for whom Oliver harbored a lot of contempt. His mother was dead and only briefly mentioned. This rewrite is almost an entirely new story, but it wouldn’t have existed without its predecessor. I wanted to give Oliver’s relationship with his parents more nuance, as well as more of a focus in the story. I paint the parents as more multidimensional rather than just plain evil to make the story seem more realistic. Additionally, I tried to paint Oliver as more of a jaded child, aging him down by almost ten years, rather than the angsty teen he was in the original. I hoped to explore a more character-driven plot line in this. The process of writing this story has been very impactful to me, and I find myself returning to it. Language is a living thing, and I think my repeated return to this story is exemplary of this .
Oliver was born in mid-January 2000, while his mother was infected with an episode of delirium. What prompted her episode was the first of the questions that were left unanswered in his upbringing, being returned with an;
“She was just an ill woman, sick in the body and soul.”
And so they were both sick upon his birth. But they ended up fine, and he was given a nameless name, one that was almost the same as many before him, only with an unwelcome addition sandwiched between his first and last, Steven. This was a name that would be considered far too common for his family. It was, as they called it:
“Too American.”
As if ‘Oliver’ wasn’t. As if they weren’t as American as anyone else at this point. It made them feel special, like they were “old money and exotic,” even though they were neither. His family, on his father’s side, was originally from Egypt, but not one person had been there in at least 50 years. They were also poor.
On the other hand, his mother was actually from there, born and raised, until she moved to the US for college, where she met his father and promptly dropped out. Then she went “crazy,” Oliver didn’t blame her. He did too, after having to live with his father. He would sometimes wonder if he resented her for her delirium, for making him flinch at the sound of her voice.
But he didn’t.
He couldn’t; she was his mom.
He still held onto the crochet plush she’d made of him, even though it looked nothing like him. It made him feel closer to her, a sign of affection he could never get.
And deep down, he feared the life he would have if it were just him and his father. His father was a large man, tall, with the stocky build of someone whose old muscle had melted into fat. He was bald, and had an exceptionally flat head. He would’ve looked scary if his lower face, below his cheekbones, didn’t look as if it had been compressed; instead of intimidating his face came off as comedic. He still had something of the look of a child in his eyes; Oliver’s mother would say that’s why she stuck around. But his father was still scary nonetheless, standing at six foot one and lying that he was six foot three. But Oliver was only 9, and stood at five feet flat, tall for his age, but his father still towered over him. He made Oliver feel very small like he was just a child. And he was just a child, but his father made him guilty for being one. He liked to have their “talks:” once a week at least, he would sit Oliver down, and they would go over his behavior. They weren’t scheduled, just behavior-based, but they weren’t avoidable either. There was always something to talk about. If there wasn’t in the present, they would go over his wrongs of the past. Sometimes, often, his mom would join in, agreeing with his father and screaming at him until his father shouted at her to stop. She would get teary-eyed then; maybe her bottom lip would quiver, and her hands would ball up into fists. But she wouldn’t stop talking, just switch to hissing out passive-aggressive jabs at his father. The start of these conversations didn’t matter. They all ended up merging at the same point.
“You have to be a better son,” his father would say, “ you can’t keep doing this.” Oliver never knew what he was talking about, but he always started crying at this point, overwhelmed with a guilt he couldn’t find a reason for.
“You never listen to us; I feel like I’m talking to a wall!” His mom shrieked. Her voice hurt his ears, even though it wasn’t particularly loud, just uncomfortable. He cringed as she continued, but her voice was too painful to listen to.
“It doesn’t matter. Stop talking, he’s too far gone to listen to you.” His father would spit out while snapping in front of his face.
Oliver flinched.
There was an indescribable fear that came along with his existence in his house, a feeling of dread so indescribable that he couldn’t find the words. He could feel himself sinking into the same patterns his parents followed. Even at his young age, there was this overwhelming sense that the end was near.
His father was insulting him now;
“You must be sick in the head; I always knew it,” he genuinely might’ve. Oliver’s father was melodramatic and theatrical, but he was often right about people. But he always took things too seriously; he couldn’t sense the fear and awkwardness that oozed off everyone when they were around him. He just kept talking, “I’m really insulting you right now. If you were smart enough to understand how horrible the things I’m saying were, you would be shattered.” Oliver knew that he was being insulted; his father wasn’t very subtle, he just spelled it out.
“You must be sick in the head,” wasn’t something Oliver felt the need to read into, “you have no future,” wasn’t a devastating remark that needed to be pondered upon. Oliver didn’t even fully believe them, his father wasn’t the most honest man, and these insults were too petty to pay much mind to. Even if he was right, Oliver didn’t feel like he particularly cared. He didn’t really feel the need to be sad over it. So maybe his father was right; maybe he was sick in the head. But at the same time, he was still devastated; he was still sitting on the smaller couch in their messy living room, crying so hard that his head was hurting and scratching his arms until they were raw and bloody, and his parents screamed at him to stop. He didn’t know if he cared; it didn’t feel like he did, but he was acting like it.
His father lit a cigar, and looked at him expectantly, blowing the smoke in his face. His father had “quit” smoking years ago. Even so, whenever he was too stressed, he would run out of the house, stomp over to his broken-down old car, and buy a pack of two cheap cigars.
He would slowly smoke them over the course of a week.
“Don’t look at me like that; it’s breaking my heart.” And Oliver was once again overcome by guilt. He didn’t know exactly what about the way he was looking at him was heartbreaking, but he could feel it. He could feel his eyes breaking into his father’s, making him feel naked and vulnerable, even when he was the one in control. Oliver spoke his first words of the conversation, peeling apart his lips that were stuck together in a mix of tears, saliva, and snot.
“I don’t know how to stop.” This wasn’t the right thing to say, but Oliver always said it during these talks. And nonetheless, anything he would say would be the wrong thing to say, just as how his silence was wrong too. Still, he felt like he’d been wrong, faulty in his actions. Even in his own young age, he felt that he was the one harming his parents, pushing them to the breaking point.
“Why is this so hard for you!” His mom cut in, “What do we ask of you that makes you act like this?” She was accusatory in her tone, her voice was shrill. It felt like she was ripping him apart; tearing flesh from bone, fat from muscle.
Oliver didn’t reply.
“We give you so much,” she continued, “and what do we get? Nothing!” She was spiraling now, just saying things to be mean, to get a reaction out of him.
Picking a fight.
It would be better if he just said nothing at this point. She went on: “Why don’t you have any drive? Why can’t you just get it.” She spat out the words.
“This is all because we put you above us,” his father joined in, “we’re too good to you.” There was a glint in his eyes, even though he faked the appearance of a tender disappointment. And Oliver believed him. This wasn’t “good,” but this was as good as it would get for him..
“And now we have nothing. No respect, no power, no love, nothing.”
“Do you even have a clue what you will do in the future?”
“You’re always against us!”
“Yeah, just blame us for everything. I bet you feel so proud.”
“You’re only going to pull yourself together when you see how bad we can be.”
“Just go be an American bimbo; that’s your only option now..”
“You need to control these facial expressions.”
“Do you treat your friends as horribly as you treat us?”
“Don’t talk back. You haven’t even seen how bad this can get.”
The words blended into one, insults and threats melting into nothing but a dull roar behind Oliver’s eyes.
He could see himself talking back, but it was like seeing a stranger on TV, fighting back, playing a role. He hit them where it hurt, just like they did to him, at every moment he could, keeping it going during moments of dullness. He didn’t know why, but the silence that followed after everything calmed down was far worse than the fighting itself. There was no self-reflection in the fight; they were just throwing around words. They didn’t even mean most of them. At least, that’s what Oliver told himself. Still, he was pretty sure he was right.
And it was over.
His mother looked like she wanted to claw his skin off. There was a murderous rage in her eyes. But there were also tears, and she hugged him. Oliver melted into the hug, still crying, and breathed her in. But he didn’t hug her back.
She let go and moved away from him.
His father didn’t say anything. He got up and went to the balcony to smoke his cigar. He turned back to him right before shutting the sliding door;
“Bring me a beer. We’re done here.”
