Roger had long since come to the conclusion that English class reading was always a waste of time. He became an expert at skimming novels, and analyzing spark notes. He never dedicated too much time to the literature work. He broke down how the essays were meant to be written, he learned how to recite back to the teacher what they hoped to be teaching. He learned to hide that proud look whenever he was given praise. That was the look that ended up as bruises later.
Roger had his own books to read, his own things to learn. English was put on the back burner. Until this little story came along. This short, pointless little fable. Pointless, because it had to be, it was assigned, but it nonetheless caught Roger’s attention.
Perhaps it was the strange connections that caught his eye. The autumnal symbolism left him feeling warm inside, thinking of harvests, ravens, and scarecrows -- the fact that the entire story was meant to be a Halloween tale. Roger had to admit he was biased towards liking anything related to Halloween, childish as it was.
But it was more than that. The novel began in first person, which made Roger cringe at the first little line that told him so. The only novels he read nowadays were horror stories, and when he did bother to pick one up, it was closed the second the narrator printed the word “I.” It was horribly egotistical, he thought, to assume that the reader
wants to listen to the narrator drawl and babble on about their personal injustices. The skimmed depiction of the mournfully pitiful main protagonist initially caused his eyes to roll, but then they froze on a sentence.
“though he bent, he never broke; and though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away—jerk!—he was as erect, and carried his head as high as ever.”
A furrow of interest formed between his brows. Was this not the same technique he had learned-- damn it all, the stupid story was even affecting his thinking. He put the packet of reading down, and rubbed his eyes, setting his glasses aside. He hated feeling the bumps on his cheeks on his palms, and grimaced, sliding them up so that he would not have to be reminded of how utterly disgusting puberty was.
He was right though, he thought to himself with a pause and a glance back to the sentence that had somehow become underlined. This was exactly how he had learned to deal with Jack, so that he would come home with minimal physical wounds, and only a bit of (obviously faked.. obviously) tear-stains for them to laugh at. His eyes slid back to the paper in front of him, the words slightly legible from this distance. The blue underlining made him frown again, and Roger returned his glasses to their resting place as he bent over the words again.
Without his knowledge, he found himself reading a paragraph above the phrase that caught his attention, disregarding the comic book-esque capitalization of the antagonists name, his concern fell to a pit in his stomach that only seemed to arise when thinking of Jack. This Brom had mastered the same techniques of Roger’s most hated acquaintance. Humor, tricks, charm, and attraction, all the things that Roger understood, but Jack
used. Used like Brom’s posse used them to cause trouble without a second glance from the sheep that claimed to be people.
Roger scowled then. How realistic, he found himself musing, to judge the attractive, athletic boy’s mischief as
good-intentioned. That thought lead him to flip a page back, skimming backwards over the obsession with wealth this protagonist had, to find his descriptors again.
“one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.”
...Roger had skipped that. And just before it came,
“his clothes bagging and fluttering about him.” God, Roger hated that. Hated the clumsy look that had formed as he grew older.
“loosely hung together” Yes, yes that look. He hated that look. Backwards, his eyes found
“hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves.” Roger didn’t notice his own wrists dragging the fabric of his sleeves against the old desk, closer to his palms as the phrase continued to
“feet that might have served for shovels.” He did not have time to step back from these similarities, and by the time his eyes had reached the name of the subject of his interest, a profound sense of companionship unknowingly snuck into his chest.
Ichabod Crane.
His name was almost more unfortunate than Roger’s own. Crane (it felt right to dignify him with his decent surname -- as Roger often wished he had the reputation to be known only as Madden) himself was almost as unfortunate as Roger, but he was grown. He was a school teacher.
“Authoritative” the words told him.
“Elegant.” How could one be elegant with this kind of look? ...Could he manage that? Could he manage to be
liked? Would he..
Roger shook his head and read further, not noticing the strength of the grip that he held his wayward black hair in. The connections he found chilled him. To the fascination Crane had.. to the supernatural, like his father.. to horror, like himself. Roger found himself pitying the fool, sympathizing with him for his addiction to fearful stories. A panicked jolt in his chest reminded Roger of his father again, and he looked up at his own ceiling instinctively. ..Would he come down today?
Roger dropped the papers onto his desk, braving the darkened hallways of his home. It was nearly dinner time, but it seemed that his father was not ready for that today. Roger sighed and switched on the lights as he ventured into the kitchen and began to choose from the multitudes of preserved options he had. His father kept their house stocked like the apocalypse was nigh.
Another sigh, and Roger chose a variety of canned soups. They weren’t so bad. And to his father, it seemed as the apocalypse was already here, so Roger really couldn’t blame him. Instinctively, he felt a slight bit of guilt at the small amount of their cash he had snuck away to buy himself fresh produce, but he shook that away with a roll of his shoulders and determination to grab a pot.
It was stupid of him to get wrapped up in his image, Roger berated himself as he let the canned soup heat. He had to remember who he was doing all of this for. He had to remember that his goal was to help his father, not to..
Roger turned to the fridge and examined the spinach he had bought. His goal was not to focus on fear itself, but on its causes. His horror novels were a waste of time as well, unless he could put some reason to the terror they induced. ..It would be good of him to share the leafy greens with his father, he figured, and with a nod he turned back to the soup.
Because really, he did this to help his father. To be able to create a panacea for him, something better than having to drag him to unreliable therapists every week, and watch him struggle with his demons. No.. Roger wanted to
cure his father. It had to be possible.
He began placing the spinach in the boiling broth, letting the leaves wilt and shrink as he stirred. He knew he would be the one to find a way to end pointless fear, to take control over anxiety. He knew this because he could feel the cold determination of duty in his chest whenever he thought of his father. He would the the one to master terror, so that he could be the one to save his father from it.
Roger turned the stove off, and portioned out his father’s share, creeping with the steaming bowl to the stairs. “..Dad? Dinner is ready. Will you come down?” Roger waited for a few seconds, hoping for a reply. “Dad?”
None came, and he sighed once again. The walk up the staircase felt more tiring each trip he made up it. If this was anything like his usual cycle, his father shouldn’t yet be dealing with the worst of the storm, but still, Roger dreaded their conversation. He stood outside his father’s door and knocked lightly with one knuckle. “Dad? I brought your dinner.”
No response. “I’m coming in, Dad,” Roger warned, turning the handle and slowly opening the door. Roger was met with a pair of manic, angry eyes coming from the trembling figure sitting in a chair by the window. It wasn’t really a useful place to be sitting, as the blinds had been shut tight. His father almost relaxed at the sight of him.
“Roger.. I didn’t believe it was you. I was certain..”
“It’s me, Dad,” Roger assured him. “I made soup.” His father’s response was minimal, but relief flickered through Roger when he saw that this morning’s meal appeared to have been eaten. He placed the bowl on the end table where the empty plate sat.
“It smells funny,” his father started, his voice sharp.
Roger hated that tone.
“What have you done to it?”
“Nothing,” Roger answered, as gently as he could manage. “It’s just soup.”
“You’ve poisoned it.”
“I wouldn’t do that, Father.”
“
My son wouldn’t do that, but you’re clearly not him!”
Roger couldn’t help but recoil mentally. He hated this part too. “It’s me, Dad. I promise.”
“Cloning has gone a long way, but you can’t fool me!” His father looked at the soup, and then Roger with disgust, before peeking out the window. “
My boy is too smart for you. He’s gonna--”
“I have homework to do, Father,” Roger interrupted the man, internally wondering why he found himself losing his patience so quickly tonight. He turned back towards the door, dirty plate in hand, trying to ignore the words of his father glorifying and demeaning the person in front of him at once. It wasn’t his fault. “I love you.”
If there was a response to that, Roger didn’t hear it. Within seconds he was back in his room, his own soup resting untouched beside his work. He didn’t feel much like eating, or doing.. anything, really. Anything besides curling up on his bed. After a second of glancing at his folders of homework, he gave up and did just that, trying hard to ignore the ache he felt inside.
Yet the thick packet of papers seemed to call to him. The underlining he had begun drew his attention, even if he couldn’t see it from his place. He pushed himself upwards, reaching for the packet on the desk, and collapsed back onto the bed with The Legend of Sleepy Hollow in his hands.
He read it through within the night, and fell asleep feeling sick to his stomach. It wasn’t the ending he was hoping for.