We proudly present Shannen Meg Castillo Pacis, one of our student’s work, Behind The Scars, that won 2nd Place as her entry in Short Story Writing for the Regional Student Convention 2022.
“Dad,” Milo’s groggy voice pierced through the depths of night. A harsh rapping on the front door followed. “Please… let me in,” Milo begged. His body resembled a puppet with no strings, slumped against the front door, longing for his master to support his feeble legs.
Dad fumbled with the lock from the inside. He threw the door open and watched as his son fell backward into his pitch-black foyer, with nothing but the porch light illuminating Milo’s drunken face. To Dad, Milo was still a kid. To others, he was a 20-year-old college dropout with no job.
As Dad threw his inebriated son over his shoulder, a foul-smelling, mushy substance trailed down Dad’s back. Dad winced at the feeling of vomit, and as he let out a heavy sigh, he let Milo down on the couch. Dad stood over his once-innocent child. Milo’s greenish-yellow lump of sick popped out against the deep vermillion leather sofa. The expression on Dad’s face showed nothing less than disappointment and worry.
Dad took off his vomit-soaked shirt and threw it in the laundry. The number of times he had to do this was more than he’d like, but his son coming home in this state was not something foreign to him.
As Dad grabbed a towel and started wiping the line of throw-up from the front door to the living room, the house was silent for a beat. Soon enough, the silence was broken by slurred speech. “Daaad… I hate you.” Milo’s tongue seemed to fight with his brain, the words being loud yet unsure.
“Okay. Son, I love you,” Dad replied. He heard this all the time. His son’s behavior was no surprise to him.
“Not only do I hate you, but all my friends do,” Milo bellowed belligerently. “You never let me stay out. You never let me have fun.” Milo slowly sat up, swaying with his hand pressed to his forehead. “You’re a bad father.”
“But you stayed out late anyway. I told you not to.” Shaking, Dad tried not to raise his voice. He continued wiping the sick on the floor, trying not to make eye contact with his son.
“I came home, didn’t I?”
“It’s 3 in the morning. On a Saturday. You went out on Wednesday, Milo.”
“It’s not like you were a good kid either.” Milo eyed his Dad’s bare back, which was a deep red in color, covered by bumps and extreme swelling. “Your scars say it all.”
Dad turned around to look his son in the eye. He bit his tongue and held his breath, trying not to show any sign of vulnerability. “You think I got these scars because I was a ‘bad kid?'” He made air quotes with his fingers, revealing more burns along his forearms. “I got these because I saved your life, Milo.”
Milo wasn’t phased. He stared at his Dad in disgust.
Dad’s voice broke, “Milo, believe me. When you were a child, you accidentally set the house on fire. I saved you!”
“Stop lying!” Milo’s voice boomed throughout the living room. His jaw trembled, “I didn’t start the fire Mom died in.”
Realizing what he just said, Dad stood up and put his arm over his son. He looked into his eyes. He really was still just a kid, but he has to grow up eventually. He needs to learn his lesson. “Milo, I don’t blame you for what happened. I know it’s been hard on both of us ever since, but we need to help each other out. I sacrificed my life for you. I had to pay all the bills, get a new home for us, fund your education, and even your vices. Please, listen to me.”
Milo’s jaw hung low. “Why didn’t you save her too?”
Dad knew this question would arise, but he could never be prepared for it. “I couldn’t, son.” In this moment, he realized his son and he were not so different. “Milo, before it’s too late, you need to save yourself too.” Dad turned his gaze to a picture of his late wife hanging above the fireplace. Milo had her deep brown eyes, and though it had been almost 10 years, he saw nothing but her in them. He glanced at his son, whose eyes glinted with hope as he watched his Dad pick up the Bible Mom used to read to them every night before bed.
“Remember the stories Mom used to read to us?” Dad asked Milo. “I remember this one, let me find it. Ah, Luke.” His voice lilted as he flipped the pages. “…for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found. The Prodigal Son.”
“Is that an attack at me?” Milo asked, half-joking. He smiled a little, remembering the times when his mother would read to him. Milo slowly realized he didn’t only miss his mom, but the bond he and his dad shared.
“No. Well, yes. It’s for the both of us. I think we’ve both been lost lately.” The sides of Dad’s mouth began to curl downwards. “I don’t think Mom would be proud of how we’re living right now. I know Mom was always our guiding light, and it feels like we’re alone now, but we aren’t. Like Mom always said, ‘We have Jesus in our hearts.’ I know she’s safe in Heaven, Milo.”
“Dad?” Milo said, his voice small. “I want to be better. Not only for Mom, but for us. I think a great way to start would be going back to church, right?”
“You’re right. That’s what Mom would’ve said.”
Milo stood up, stumbling a little before finding his balance, and embraced his dad. “I love you, Dad. I’m sorry.”
“I love you too, son.” Dad winced a little at the way Milo was touching his scars, but for the first time since the accident, Milo’s touch was out of pure love. That’s what made his scars worth it.
