Part of a Chapter is what I guess this is.

The Pacific slowly bellowed the boys anticipation, drawing the paisley laced curtain in and out through the balcony door frame. Mid day whispered in the sounds of lifeguards, children and the occasional impatient gull; just loud enough to mask the conversation of his elders. The piping on the arm chair has begun to fray, quickly catching up in age to the settled upholstery and muted seafoam green and coral fabric that have supported countless visitors. Slowly turning a plastic bottle, he forced the condensate to drop to the bottom to the mindless rhythm of his heaving fingers sounding out his sentence.

William, or Bill as he was affectionately known, was the first in. He voiced his typical West coast greeting and goodbye, extending a hand knowing they would meet again later. Next came Matthew. He always wore his anxiety on his brow, though the attitude he exhumed was never anything but cavalier. Similarly, they exchanged a brief slew of words, then Matthew passed out of sight joining Bill, who in the door frame knew his wife would be growing impatient.
Slowly, a familiar haze began to creep into the boys mind, carried in the wake left by his uncles, he began to understand the situation. Rumor had it that he had gone nearly three weeks without his typical indulgences, a first as far back as he could remember. No matter, he thought to himself, the temptation proved too great. At least this conversation would occur under familiar circumstances: his mind sharp, his fathers sedated.

The firm, weathered right hand he knew well breached the curtains,
brushing aside their delicacy to make way for the newest theatre to commence. The rolled zip lock bag that rose out of the breast pocket of his unbuttoned denim shirt was proof enough, as was the agglomeration of pipe cradled in his left hand, the center piece stamped A106. The suite was empty now; the only witness who would be privy to this engagement would be a reprint of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. It hung there on the wall lopsided like the boys left brow expressing his impatience.

The stench of purple haze assaulted him from the center of the room where his father now stood. Silently, the elder gazed down at his toes, malformed by years of torture on concrete slabs, imprisoned behind steel domes. He tried to spread them, but their awkward movement only drew a wince of frustration on his leathered face. His eyes rose to meet his eldest son’s: it began.
He started slowly: “I believe your mother may have mentioned some of this to you when you first got here, but there is something that has been eating at me.”

She had. Several weeks ago the day after it had happened. Very little that transpired in the house on the canal escaped his knowledge. He had been sobbing for nearly two days uncontrollably because of his actions, and it was the emotion rather than the result which he couldn’t believe. Remorse? Regret? Guilt? These were all in the realm of “nonexistent” when it came to his father’s personality, but then again, the only thing predictable about his father was his unpredictability.

Gradually his mother filled in the backstory. There were 5 guys in the weld shop his father worked at. The subject in question was the one his father found most tolerable, so he would almost be considered a friend. Tim had two sons, both slightly younger than his younger brother. They rarely kept out of trouble. This event proved to be par for the course.

The elder of the two boys was out on their ATV with some friends. They were drinking, he was showboating, and in his stupor and arrogance he managed to throw himself from the vehicle, have it land on him and snap his neck. He died en route to the hospital. But why would any of this send his father in an inconsolable state of regret?

“Tim, at work...” he broke in, refocusing his son’s thoughts, “you know how he has two boys? I think I’ve mentioned them before.”

A single nod was returned in reply

“Well, a couple weeks ago, I was relentless in giving him shit, and I mostly do it because he’s the only one there who will put up with me. But anyways, that day I didn’t let up, all his welds, how he held his tools, how he went about setting up the parts, everything and then some. And then the next day he didn’t show up to work, and the foreman tells us that his don died that day and the cops were waiting for him at his house to tell him, after he had to put up with my derision all day...”

He never spoke in such a roundabout way. It was always concise. Laconic to the point that he would force everyone else to tell him anything and everything in one sentence or less.

He continued. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I cried. I cried a lot. I didn’t even know his son, never met the boy, but I couldn’t stop crying and it got me thinking. . .” He paused, as the executioner does before delivering the blade, “do you remember the day your friend died?”

Years had passed since then, but the memories were still as fresh as that deadly snowfall. It was March. The trees had begun to bud from the recent bout of warm weather. There was ice and snow everywhere. The corrugated valleys in the snow were almost a foot deep from the local’s vehicles. They were all surprised more so by the warm weather than by the quantity of snow.

There were no windows in the long hallway that led from the auditorium entrance past the music rooms to the library. It was always so bright, like most hallways in the building it was severely over lit. Just another criticism of how sterile and antiseptic the new addition to the highschool was. They were the only two in the long stretch of linoleum and beige wall tile. Her boots squealed out her pace, he tread silently on dry soles and in passing they exchanged glowing smiles, a wave, and a goodbye. Baseball practice had been canceled on account of the snow. He continued to the auditorium entrance and trudged through the unplowed parking lot to the blue Jeep he was so proud of because he was paying for it on his own. The drive home involved two turns, eight miles and about nine minutes if you caught the only light. The snow covered corn fields were pristine canvasses against which the descending sun painted its warmth.

~More to follow shortly.