The Rose Epitaph

The glistening silver architecture that was illuminated by the blue artificial lights was the first thing that captured Dylan’s wide brown eyes. Airports were not much different- Dylan could gather- but the atmosphere of this particularly airport made it stand out from the one he had originally been standing in four or five hours ago. It could have been the sterilized metallic smell that entered his nose, or the loud conversations of New Yorkers departing and returning. Whatever it was, it made him feel small. Dylan Ashford hated feeling small.

He took a breath of polluted air and Lysol, and walked towards the exit- as his father instructed him to do, because god forbid his father actually came in to retrieve his son from the fucking metallic structure himself.. The son he hadn’t seen in six years. The son who had waited to see the face that resembled his so much for three fucking years, cried for that face for two, and gave up the last year. But Dylan wasn’t upset. No. Dylan had one year under his father’s rule before he could leave for college. It wouldn’t be so bad- and if his dad was still the same man he was six years ago, Dylan would hardly see him anyway.

Yes. Everything was going to be okay. He had the upper hand. If anything, it was a mild inconvenience that he would have to share the house with his father. Minor. Insignificant. And this was what Dylan allowed to dance around his head as he walked quite satisfied through the airport towards the clear exit doors.

He could see immediately the cars littering the road, picking up the millions of returning New Yorkers from their sweet vacations. When Dylan emerged, he felt the hot dusk sun hit his face, caressing his pale skin. The summers wind danced through his hair for a few moments before seeping into the humidity, leaving Dylan slightly at a lost for air. The smell of car exhaust and sweat found its way into his nose, tickling his senses with the unfamiliar scent, as car horns from yellow taxi cabs and gruff foreign accents provided music. His dark eyes scanned the array of cars for his fathers overly expensive black BMW that was sure to stand out from the cabs and the small, environment efficient cars.

Dylan began to wonder if his father had forgotten about him- which wouldn’t be much of a surprise to the seventeen-year-old, as he recalls the multitude of times his father or mother “accidentally” left him behind at the zoo or forgot to pick him up from school. Dylan forgave his parents for that, being they were merely fifteen when they had him, thrown out of their homes, and forced to raise him because abortion, apparently, wasn’t an option for them. Seventeen-year-olds shouldn’t have to remember to pick up their two-year-old from daycare. Twenty-year-olds shouldn’t have to remember to pack a change of clothes incase their four-year-old wet his pants at school.

“Dylan!”

The sound of his name snapped the boy from his reverie, and he looked for the owner of the slightly familiar voice. He clenched his jaw tightly when he laid his eyes on the man who was apparently his flesh and blood. The man dressed in a three-piece black business suit, yelling into a cell phone that was permanently attached to his ear and waving Dylan over. The blonde-haired boy let out a heavy breath and walked over to the insane puppet screaming obscenities at the poor soul at the other end of that phone. On his way, he dully noted that the black BMW was more dark blue.

“Dad?” Dylan meekly said when he found himself face to face with his father.

“Yeah, yeah one second,” he stuck his finger in Dylan’s face and returned to the conversation. Another breath, Dylan noticed that his dad’s hair was shorter and his face clean. He noticed that their bone structure was similar, and their lips curved into the same unique lines. They could have been mistaken for brothers if his father didn’t have few, hardly visible, wrinkles forming on his forehead. Lawyer frown marks, Dylan figured.

“Dad?” Dylan repeated, becoming increasingly inpatient. His father ignored him, and merely pointed to the navy blue BMW. Dylan followed his father’s silent order and got into the overly decked out car, his father following close behind.

Once in the driver’s seat, his father actually removed the phone from his ear for a mere two seconds. “Business.” Was all he offered his son before putting on the headset and aggressively pulling out of the heavy traffic area.

The car ride was silent- the radio was not allowed on since the “business” was apparently so important- save for the sound of the wind against the car, and the roaring engines of the other cars around them. Dylan liked the sweet artificial sounds, and his tense body allowed itself to relax in the leather seats. His watched the scenery zoom past his window; the tall brown buildings of Queens, New York morphing into long stretches of roads that curved and twisted like rollercoaster tracks. The sun was setting, and the twilight bounced off the clear window, as his father’s deep voice morphed into a million different personalities in a minute as he spoke to millions of different people. Dylan never moved his eyes from the darkened sky to look at his father- for he was sure if he analyzed the man long enough, he would find a puppet, a mask, in place.

“Do you want McDonalds or something?”

Dylan hardly heard him- the voice seemed so much softer- but turned his head slowly to meet brown eyes that mimicked his too much. “Sure.”

“Good. Big Mac? I remember you liked that.”

“….I like double cheeseburgers now.”

“Oh….isn’t that essentially the same shit?”

Dylan stared at him for a long time, contemplating explaining everything that was wrong with that sentence. “No.”

“Oh.”

They returned to their respective windows. The conversation was dry and uninviting- Dylan figured before he even landed in New York, that it would be useless to attempt a real conversation with the stranger sitting next to him; especially when they both knew that whatever bond that had before crumbled and died from lack of care. Why pretend they enjoyed each other’s company, when even before his father walked out that door and never looked back, they never had anything in common?

“We should be home in about an hour, depending on traffic.”

“Sounds good.”

“I have to run out right after- one of my clients is throwing a party and your step-mother and I must attend”

“Sure.”

“You don’t mind eating alone then?”

“Nope.”

Silence again. Strained silence. Dylan could feel a word or phrase against his father’s mouth- just pushing past those thin lips. But the cell phone rang, and his father returned to the “business” forgetting to get the McDonald’s.

Dylan’s father, Michael Ashford, was destined to be a lawyer like the rest of the Ashford family. An unsuccessful, poor as dirt, lawyer. Dylan didn’t know if being a lawyer was his father’s dream, but what he did know was that his father never wanted to be poor as dirt. However, knocking up his girlfriend of two months when he was fifteen had almost sealed his faith. Michael’s father wanted Dylan’s mother to abort “the bastard” as he was referred to, but she wouldn’t budge, and Michael had to stand by his girlfriend- either because of love, or because he knew he was having a boy. Thrown to the streets, Michael and his girlfriend were pretty much doomed, if Michael hadn’t been a conniving little bastard with the charm and charisma to match. Using his father’s name, he managed to get a small job answering phones at a Law Firm. Using his wit and daddy’s credit card information, he got a barely standing apartment in the worst neighborhood in Orem. Using his ability to make his girlfriend feel insignificant, he convinced her to drop out of school to raise Dylan, while he continued high school, later college, and later law school.

Dylan didn’t remember why his father left, really. His mother would say because they were holding Michael back from being the successful man he needed to be. And perhaps in all her insane ramblings, she had been right- because Michael Ashford left Utah a poor out of college lawyer and picked up his son a puppet for the powerful. Most of all, he was rich.

That much was evident when they pulled in front of the monstrosity that was Dylan’s new house. He called it a house because it wasn’t a home- it was a cold, white, brick mansion that stood on top of Todt Hill with the tall Romanesque pillars that framed the white door surrounded by fiberglass to add a classic feel. The lawn was too green for a city. Almost an artificial green and the flowers were cut and trimmed to utter perfectly, until they too looked plastic and uninviting. The windows were large and white curtains covered them from the inside, allowing only the orange light from inside to be seen. Dylan…hated it already.

He turned to his father, but the man was screaming into the headset once again, this time at Dylan’s step-mother Jennifer, telling the poor woman to hurry up.

“Dad?” Dylan called for him, but Michael only hushed him with a frantic hand and pointed to the door. Dylan got the hint. He exited the car, grabbing his suitcase, and slammed the door loud enough for the quiet neighborhood to hear. His dad hardly flinched.

Dylan walked up the cobblestone steps, just as the font door flew open. His step mother, whom he only knew from pictures, stood before him…though not looking at him. She was as he remembered from the picture, with long blond hair done in loose curls, and her eyes were blue and attractive though dead from years of a loveless marriage. She adored a simple black, off the shoulder, dress, and more diamonds to choke a horse with. Much like his father, his step-mother seemed to be growing a cell phone from her ear.

“Mikey!” She whined, “I’m coming, just one second!” She pulled the phone away and smiled at Dylan, “Hey sweetie, you must be Dylan!”

“Yes.”

“It’s great to finally meet you, I’m Jennifer!” She held out her hand. Dylan looked at her perfectly manicured hand for a long time- remembering the dirt and bacteria that would bury itself in his mother’s chipped and broken nails.

“Hi,” he shook her hand, never taking his eyes from her finger nails.

“And this,” she smiled, pointing to her flat stomach, “is your future little brother or sister.”

“Half-brother,” Dylan corrected, “….or half-sister.”

“Oh, we are all family here, little formalities like that don’t matter right?”

He shrugged, “Perhaps. Do you want a boy or a girl?”

She was about to answer, when the horn cut through their conversation like a razor blade- sending her words to the floor, to crumbling and die against the stone. Dylan turned and saw his father, his head out the window, shouting- and Dylan wondered if this was acceptable behavior for a rich lawyer.

“I’m sorry sweetie,” Jennifer sighed, “Your room is upstairs, first room on the right. There is an envelop on the door with some money in case you want to order something- we have some great Chinese around here, I suggest checking it out. If you need anything, our phone numbers are on the dining room table. It was great meeting you Dylan.” She spat it all out in one single breath as she was running down the stairs. She didn’t say goodbye. She got into the seat formally occupied by Dylan, and without a second thought, the pair drove away.

Dylan Ashford stood out there for a long time- thinking about his new stepmother. Thinking about how nice her hand felt against his. How her smile was warm and inviting despite the coldness in her eyes. He liked how she smelled; she smelled like pink roses and powder. She was cleaned, and beautiful, and she had every tooth in her mouth white with perfection. None were knocked out or rotten from lack of care. Dylan wanted her to come back; to hold him, run her perfectly manicured fingers through his bottled-blonde hair, and tell him this world was not as fucked up as he thought. He wanted her to kiss his forehead and put his mind at ease.

Then he felt guilty.

Then he felt sick for thinking such thoughts.

Then he got sick all over the front porch and laughed at the green and red vomit.

And he walked inside the house, closing the door and locking it, trapping himself in this new cold hell. Leaning his head against the white door, he stared at the corner, thinking…thinking how he got himself here.

And what was to become of him. This hopelessly displaced boy.