Just For You
Timmy hung his head despondently as he dragged his feet across the red clay dirt. His arms, hung over his shoulders, lifeless, with no certain movement. He wore a torn and thin yellow stained shirt, a hallmark of countless washings and excessive sweat. Wrapped around his back is the invisible bag from where it should be hanging. His red eyes, sore from the pain of the unceasing crying, made it hard for him to see where he was heading. “It’s the perfect punishment”, thought Timmy. The unforgiving sun released its rays upon Timmy, trying its best to cheer him up but to no avail. All it brought was more sweat seeping into his shabby shirt. The mixture of sweat and tears filled his cheeks, making a rancid salty concoction.
Upon stepping into the barely furnished living room, he surveyed his familiar surroundings. Immediately catching his attention was a figure at the right corner. It was his dad. He was holding the latest New Straight Times up to his eye level. His whole head and part of his body was shielded from sight. Nothing in the living room mattered at that moment. His eyes and attention was solely focused on that being that he calls his dad. As he took off his shoes and stepped into the rattan mat, his dad acknowledged his presence with a flip of the newspaper.
Timmy, knowing that the cat will soon be out of the bag, took the initiative to start a conversation. With a meek voice, he uttered the faintest of greetings. “Good afternoon, dad”. It was all he could muster. His dad, sporting a thick pair of tinted glasses and a strong jaw line, peeked out from behind the newspaper to give him a slight and bordering imaginary nod. With one sweeping movement, Timmy brought his hand from the bag to hold up a piece of paper, placed it on the table in front of him, and ran back to his room down the hall.
There, he slumped on his bed, burying his head in shame. The emotions of all the events of the day came back so vividly. The red circled number at the top right hand corner set his mind racing. What will dad think of me? How will I compare with my siblings? Will my dad shed the same tears as I have? It was as if a dam broke. He wailed and cried with all his heart. He had no reservations on the racket he was making. His heart ached, knowing how sad his dad will be. He thumped his chest unceasingly to bring the pain to a stop. But what it only achieved was to increase it to a higher agony. After what seemed to be infinite minutes, he stopped moving and curled up into a ball. Slowly, weariness took over him and he fell into a dreamless, restless sleep.
Night fell. There he lay on his bed thinking of the card he saw. Slowly, he got up and walked right down the corridor. He was met by a door. On the other side, was his precious son. Yes, he felt all the disappointment in the world. He felt that he had failed in becoming a father. It was not for the fact that his son scored appallingly for his last math test but that his son could not come to him for comfort but instead see him as a dictator who passes out judgment based on something as trivial as a number in red. He wished that Timmy was able to share his failings as much as his successes with him. He leaned his forehead against the door, one hand on the doorknob and the other palm on the door. His chin, quivering from the impending flow of tears. All he wanted was for his son to lead a successful life through proper education which he never had the opportunity. He did not mean to bring his son such pressure to perform. To only be able to comfort him and encourage him in all aspects of his life would be his privilege. Looking past the disappointment, he just wanted to be there to give support to his fragile son.
Sensing something or someone hovering outside, Timmy brought himself up to check the corridor. There, his eyes met his dad’s for the first time that day.
