A chair creaks under Colton's weight,
the sound sharp in the stuffy office. Somewhere above, a fluorescent light hums
and flickers, threatening to die. A pen scratches across paper, relentless, as
the city outside grumbles—a car alarm wails, then chokes into silence. Colton
slouches, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "So, what's it gonna be today, Mr.
S? You gonna ask how I'm 'processing my feelings' or just skip to the part
where you tell me to stay outta trouble?"
Mr. S sets down his coffee mug with a
soft clink, the sound swallowed by the heavy air. His voice is calm, but
there's a faint edge of amusement, like he's playing a game only he
understands. "Colton, I've been doing this long enough to know you don't process
shit. You just stew in it. But let's humor the system, yeah? How's school?
Still getting into fights?"
Colton snorts, the sound sharp and
bitter. His sneakers scuff the linoleum floor as he shifts. "School's a fucking
circus. You know that. Got jumped by Derek and his goons behind the gym last
week. Two on one. Still got a bruise the size of Texas on my ribs." His voice
hardens, like steel settling into place. "Didn't back down, though. Never do."
Mr. S's chair groans as he leans
forward, the wood protesting. His voice drops, almost like he's talking to
himself. "Never do…" Then louder, "And that's why your principal's got my
number on speed dial. You're a magnet for trouble, kid. Always have been. Ever
since I took your case after your dad passed."
Colton's breath catches, a sharp hiss.
His fingers drum on the armrest, a restless tap-tap-tap. "Yeah, well, trouble
finds me." His laugh is bitter, scraping the air. "Ain't like I go looking for
it. Besides, what else am I supposed to do? Let 'em walk all over me? Not my
style."
The room smells of stale cigarettes
and cheap pine air freshener, the kind that clings to your throat. Outside, a
dog barks, sharp and distant, cutting through the city's low hum. Mr. S sighs,
the sound heavy with patience. "I get it, Colton. I do. But you're almost 17
now. A few more days, and the state's not gonna care if you're getting your ass
kicked or not. You gotta start thinking about what's next. Your mom's killing
herself working two jobs to keep you and Bella fed. You wanna make her life
harder?"
Colton's voice drops, defensive.
"Don't bring her into this. Mom's… doing what she can. Always has." His words
soften, like he's swallowing glass. "Ain't her fault we're stuck in this
shithole, me and Bella sharing a room like we're camping in a closet."
Mr. S leans back, his chair creaking
again, slower this time. "Nobody's saying it's her fault. Or yours. But you're
not making it easier, either. Talk to me, Colton. What's going on in that head
of yours? You're turning seventeen in a few days. Big milestone. Any plans?"
Colton scoffs, the sound dripping with
disdain. "Plans? Yeah, maybe I'll throw a party at the dump. Invite the
roaches. Real fancy shit." His voice drops, quieter, rawer. "Birthdays ain't
exactly a celebration around here. Just another day Mom's gotta scrape by, and
Bella's stuck drawing me shitty cards 'cause we can't afford nothing else."
The pen stops scratching, leaving a
thick silence. Mr. S's chair shifts, a faint squeak as he leans forward again.
His voice is careful, like he's stepping around a minefield. "You ever think
about your dad on your birthday?"
Colton's breath hitches, a quick,
sharp sound. His voice turns bitter, jagged. "What's that got to do with
anything? You wanna dig up old wounds, Mr. S? Fine. Yeah, I think about him.
Hard not to when Mom gets that look in her eyes every year. Like she's seeing a
ghost." His voice cracks, just a little. "He was gone before I really knew him.
Just… poof. Dead at twenty-three. Car accident, they said. Drunk driver." He
mutters, the words venomous. "Fucking bullshit."
Mr. S's fingers tap lightly on the
desk, a steady rhythm. His voice stays measured, probing. "You don't believe it
was an accident."
Colton's chair scrapes as he leans
forward, his voice rising, angry. "You read the file, right? You tell me. Guy's
driving home from work, middle of the day, and some asshole plows into him? No
witnesses, no real investigation. Just 'wrong place, wrong time.'" He scoffs,
the sound harsh. "Sounds like a cover-up to me. Mom won't talk about it. Says
it's too hard. But I know she thinks something's off too."
Mr. S's voice softens, thoughtful,
like he's weighing every word. "You've got a sharp mind, Colton. Always have.
But you gotta be careful where you point it. Sometimes the truth's messier than
you want it to be."
"Messy's my life, man." Colton's laugh
is dark, hollow. "Been that way since I was seven. Dad's gone, Mom's barely
holding it together, and I'm out here getting my face smashed in for existing."
His voice drops, raw and quiet. "You ever lose someone, Mr. S? Someone who
mattered?"
The fluorescent light buzzes faintly,
filling the pause. Mr. S's voice, when he speaks, is low, almost reverent, like
he's carrying a weight too heavy for the room. "Yeah, kid. I've lost people.
More than you'd believe. And I've watched others lose everything. It's… a heavy
thing. But you? You're still here. Still fighting. That's something."
Colton's laugh is bitter, but it
softens at the edges. "Fighting's all I got. Kevin's the only one who's got my
back, and even he thinks I'm a lost cause half the time." He pauses, his voice
barely above a whisper. "I just… I don't know, man. Sometimes I feel like
there's something bigger out there. Like I'm supposed to be… more. You ever
feel that?"
Mr. S's chair creaks as he shifts, the
sound deliberate. His voice carries a strange intensity, like he's holding back
a secret. "More than you know, Colton. More than you know." He clears his
throat, the sound abrupt. "Look, your birthday's coming up. Seventeen's a big
deal. Maybe it's a chance to turn things around. Start fresh."
Colton snorts, his sneakers scuffing
the floor again. "Yeah, sure. I'll just wake up on Saturday, magically not a
screw-up anymore. Maybe I'll get a cake with 'Prometheus' written on it in big,
sparkly letters." His laugh is dark, edged with pain. "That's what Dad used to
call me, you know. His little Prometheus. Said I'd light up the world someday.
Guess he didn't know I'd just be setting fires instead."
Mr. S's voice drops, almost to
himself, like he's tasting the word. "Prometheus, huh? That's… quite a name.
You know what it means?"
Colton shrugs, the motion rustling his
jacket. "Some Greek myth shit. Guy who stole fire for humans, got chained to a
rock for it. Real uplifting story."
Mr. S's fingers stop tapping, and his
voice turns intense, almost urgent. "Uplifting… or a warning. You're not wrong,
though. Prometheus was a protector. A rebel. Took on the gods themselves to
give humanity a chance. That's a hell of a legacy to carry."
Colton snorts, but it's quieter now,
less certain. "Yeah, well, I ain't exactly stealing fire from gods, am I?
Unless you count the time I accidentally set off the fire alarm in chem class."
His voice softens, heavy with doubt. "Dad believed in me, though. That's what
Mom says. Said I was gonna be something special. Kinda hard to believe when
you're eating ramen for the third night in a row."
The clock on the wall ticks loudly,
each second a hammer strike. Mr. S leans back, his chair groaning under the
shift. His voice is firm, almost commanding. "You're tougher than you think,
Colton. And maybe… just maybe… your dad wasn't wrong." He pauses, the silence
thick. "Time's up for today. You stay out of trouble until your birthday, yeah?
I'll check in with you next week."
Colton stands, his chair scraping the
floor. His voice is flat, but there's a crack in it, a flicker of something
softer. "Yeah, sure. No promises." He pauses at the door, his hand on the knob,
the metal cold under his palm. "Thanks, Mr. S. For, you know… not giving up on
me."
Mr. S's voice is soft, almost too
soft, like a vow. "Never will, kid. Never will."
The door creaks open, then slams shut,
the sound echoing down the hallway. Colton's footsteps fade, swallowed by the
city's pulse—car horns, distant sirens, the grind of a world that doesn't care.
But as he walks away, a faint hum lingers in his chest, like a spark waiting to
catch fire.