Oh my gosh! Hello there :)! I haven't been on this site in faaaaaarrrr too long! I've missed writing here a lot! I'm going to keep this short and sweet, but for any of you that liked my first ever story, Behind The Curtain (which I wrote when I was like 14 so I've improved haha!) this new story of mine is like the rebirth of it!

I sooo hope you enjoy this, and although it'll be a little slow at first, you can expect quite a bit of drama and romance, cos I'm a sucker for both! :)

Arcane Lives

“I’ll see you around….” he said, buttoning his jeans up and kicking some sand over my bare legs. My vision was a blur of orange thanks to the glow of the dying fire at my feet, but I could make out the outline of him as he turned and began to walk away. I let out a cry of mumbles in protest, not even I could understand what I said, but knew what I wanted. “You’re drunk, call your wife, go home,” he said, not stopping for a second.

I blinked and fell backwards into the soft sand, staring up at the stars for a few seconds before I turned my head to look at the now distant figure.

Little did I know, this night would be nothing but a memory, denied by us both.

**********************************

The vibrations of my phone as its alarm screamed through my silent bedroom didn’t wake me, it just demanded I got out of bed. I had already been awake for at least an hour, staring up at the ceiling, a cocktail of excitement and nerves stewing inside me. I stretched over and hit snooze. I may have been wide awake mentally, but my body was glued to the mattress and not quite ready to move.

“What time is it?” a groggy voice asked, and as I looked over my shoulder, my ex-model wife was rubbing her makeup-less eyes. Her silk-like black hair was spread out over the fluffy black and white pillows we shared and she had stretched one of my shirts over her small, rounded belly. I didn’t reply, just looked at her, preparing for the sad eyes.

Before she had a chance to use them on me, the white wooden door that separated our tranquil, messy bedroom from the rest of the world appeared to have something on the other side of it. There were a few feeble knocks, drawing my attention straight to it. “Shall I let him in or-” I started, but as I looked back over, my ever-so-helpful wife had decided to go straight back to sleep, or at least, pretend to.

As the knocks got more frequent and impatient, I dragged myself from the bed and glanced around the floor. It was a sea of clothes, clean clothes, dirty clothes, my clothes, her clothes, new clothes, old clothes…all sorts of clothes. I picked up some underwear I had remember taking off around 6 hours ago and pulled them on. Not bothering with any more attire, I took a step, almost crushing my glasses beneath my size 10 feet. Saving them from a potentially bloody death, I pushed them onto my face and turned the lock on my door.

On the other side, as expected, was a small version of myself, wearing an all-in-one sleep suit covered in little Spidermans. His light brown locks were curling up in all angles, even more so when he began to scratch, looking up at me.

“Tybee, if you have fleas I’m going to have to give you back to the petstore,” I said, frowning as I cocked my head to one side, never breaking eye-contact with the little boy. He scowled, his hand freezing in motion, still hidden under short locks of brown. “I mean, your mommy and I just didn’t agree to take in a little flea,” I continued, watching his rounded face get angrier with each word.

As I stepped over him, I shut the door behind me, leaving my wife to sleep and my son to stare at his half-naked, overly-annoying father. “Daddy! Me’s not a flea!” he said, spoken like a true baby. Which he was not, he was four and struggling to grasp the English language. I blamed his mother for trying to teach him Spanish and English at once. “Me’s a dog! Woof!” he announced, growling and pouncing up against my leg, biting into my kneecap.

Flinching, I separated the pre-schooler grabbing his miniture ankle and dangling him upside down. “Well, dogs with fleas belong outside,” I explained as I headed for the stairway with him. He squealed as I dramatically bounced down each stair, still carrying him by the feet, making him shake around. “Or maybe I should give you a big, cold, flea bath!”

Squirming in protest, the little boy tried his very best to escape my grip and run for dear life, but there was no use as before he could I was already at the bottom of the stairs, swinging him like a pendulum whilst explaining my plans of torture. Being drawn to the laughter was the animals in the house. The three dogs began circling us and jumping up at my screaming child, trying to join in on our fun. However, it was short lived, as my wife cleared her throat from behind me, forcing me to half drop the four-year-old onto the wooden floor below as I spun around.

“Next time you get up at the crack of dawn, take your cellphone with you,” she muttered, “Come on Tyler, back to bed, daddy’s busy.”

I watched as my son lay down on the floor, pouting. My wife held an outstretched hand to the child, but he was having none of it. Both of them knew what today was, and neither were going to make it easy for me. “No! Breakfast!” he screamed, in a completely different tone from before, he was no longer happy and giggling, but instead, frustrated and demanding.

Impatient and cranky, my wife continued down the stairs, slammed my cellphone into my hand as its alarm went off for the 3rd time and grabbed our son by the arm, dragging him up to his feet. “Try and keep it down…and feed the dogs before you go,” she snapped, forcing the now distraught child toward the stairs as he cried out for me. “And I’m going out with the girls today, so don’t bother calling later,” she added her final hit of pissy-mood at me before she trailed herself and my son up the staircase, being followed by the two rats she called her dogs.

My own dog had stayed loyal at my feet, looking up at me with her usual dumb expression. I had learned to bite my tongue when my wife acted like this, and sometimes it was like even my dog judged that. “Hey girl, don’t get married,” I whispered, stroking her golden ears and pressing my nose against hers. I closed my eyes as she licked my chin, both of us listening to the crying little boy upstairs.

After a few minutes, she followed me into the kitchen where I was unsurprised to find the usual culprit, his chin on the countertop he sat at whilst he stared at his handheld game consol. “Don’t speak to me,” he snapped, not even glancing up from his game. I sighed, family member number three to make this day difficult. He was only eight years old and already acting like a snotty teenager. He stayed with us the last four days every month because of the custody battle I was too depressed to fight at the time, unfortunately this meant he hated me more than my ex-wife, his mother, did, because unlike her, he was shipped from Arizona to LA once a month whether he wanted to see me or not. There wasn’t much point in the tedious journey because in the short time we got together, he would sleep the entire day and stay awake all night, just so he could avoid myself and my current wife. He hated us all, and we couldn’t blame him.

I did as I was told, feeling guilty enough as it was, heading straight for the refrigerator and lifting out a can of my favourite energy juice. I watched him from behind, noticing how frustrated he was becoming as he tensed his shoulders and shut off his game. The kitchen was in silence for a few moments, the occasional noise coming from me slurping or the large dog padding around the tiled floor.

The 8-year-old spun around in his chair, “My mom says that those drinks make you die 10 years before you’re supposed to,” he said in his little ‘Mr-Know-It-All’ voice that made me cringe. ‘My mom says’ was the start of the few conversations we had…every single time. He was like a parrot, spitting out her words and her thoughts. It made me sick to my stomach.

“Should I stop drinking them?” I asked, trying not to take my frustration out on him. After all, it wasn’t his fault his mother was such a fucking snobby idiot.

“No, I guess that’s 10 years I won’t have to come here,” he smiled, turning around in his seat again. I clenched my free fist and grinded my teeth together. Being a calm father was more than difficult at times, seeing as three of my four children hated my guts, and I had made the mistake of having more, which meant now my pregnant and hormonal wife also hated my guts. My life had been nothing but stress for the past few months, so I was praying this little ‘trip’ would be like the holiday I needed. Though that was doubtful, drama had a habit of following me.

***

It was almost 10am. I had barely had the time I had intended to get a good look together as my four-year-old escaped from bed again and was running wild through the house with his older brother. Feeding him and keeping myself clean were not two things that went together, and by the time my doorbell finally rang, I had successfully had a bunch of Cheerios cemented to my once clean white shirt with the use of some chocolate syrup.

My eldest son done the honour of answering the door whilst I tried to wake my wife up for help. Unfortunatley she was far from concerned about me, and as I was getting the cold shoulder, I was forced to bring my suitcases out to the car with my younger son strapped onto my back.

“Y’know Tybee, this was a lot easier when you weren’t 200 pounds,” I mumbled, trying to get a rather large suitcase downstairs without breaking anything, including myself. At the bottom of the stairs stood a man, a couple of inches taller than me. He had tanned skin, growing black locks and a well trimmed beard to match. His eyes were shaped like almonds as he smiled softly at me, his arms folded over his chest, covered in a loose plaid shirt.

My son released himself when we reached the final few stairs and jumped straight into the strangers arms, pulling his hair and pressing their noses together, “Uncie Ike!” he squealed happily, tilting his head and widening his eyes as I squeezed past, not saying a word to any of them.

“Dray, could you help me bring the bags to the car?” I asked the older boy who stood unamused in the doorway. He had dressed himself and already left his own bag in the white Bentley that sat in my driveway, but he made no intention of helping me, and like my wife, simply ignored me.

After a few minutes of struggling, my stronger friend put my son down and lent a hand. “Sorry I’m late,” he simply mumbled. I wasn’t sure exactly what terms we were in, as the last time I seen him was at least 4, maybe 5 months ago. “You know how wives can be,” he joked.

His joke wasn’t funny though. I didn’t know ‘how wives can be’ . My wife and his wife were two very different people. His wife was soppy and obsessive. My wife…well she wasn’t. “It’s fine. Long time no see, Shinoda,” I simply responded, apparently the cold, snappy vibe from my house had rubbed off onto me as that was exactly how I spoke to the man who was once my best friend.

Our eyes met awkwardly for a second, but he seemed blank, just dumbly smiling, as if we had just met. “Let’s hit the road!” he beamed, jumping into the driving seat of the car, leaving me to say goodbye to my boy.

“Dray, are you coming to say goodbye to your brother?” I asked. Being a parent sucked, if anyone treated me how Draven did, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell them how hard to fuck themselves, but he was my son…and all I could do was try harder and harder to win him over. I was like a teenage girl with a crush on someone who hated her. I couldn’t give up.

The eight-year-old glared at me for a moment before nastily sneering, “He isn’t my brother. He’s your stupid kid,” and slamming the door of the expensive car as he got inside it.

My younger boy stood a few feet away, his eyes wide and glassy and his thumb in his mouth as he realised what was happening. “Daddy what about me?” he asked in a whimper, trying really hard to pronounce his words correctly.

I scooped him up into my arms and kissed his sticky cheek. “I’ll be right here, Tybee,” I whispered, nuzzling him, “Go tell your mom to find you some shoes! Quick!”

The child smiled nervously, he was getting used to this game, but I knew deep down there was still a hope in his heart that when he found his shoes I’d still be waiting.

I knew there was no chance, and it killed me every time. As I watched him climb the stairs on all fours, looking behind himself to make sure I was still there, I waited until he done a final look around and ran off before I made a move. After shutting the door silently I half jogged over to the car and jumped into the passenger seat.

“Europe tour…let’s go!”