Damian was always sick ever since he turned 13, garnering symptom after symptom. The doctors never knew what he had, they only knew that it stemmed from his heart. Damian was now 17, a drop-out since he had too many absences from school, so he eventually stopped attending. At first, his Father would give him some home-schooled lessons, granted he always seemed condescending when he gave them, but over time he stopped.
                    The routine was always the same whenever Damian was sick: his Father would make him some Cuban chicken noodle soup, the broth a volcanic orange with steam still wafting off the noodles. Damian glanced at the clock, anticipating his father would walk in 10 seconds later.
                     Damian’s Father walked into the room, the soup on a tray as he placed it on his son’s lap with ease, used to this cursed routine.
                     “You know the drill, eat and drink the soup, don’t burn yourself,” the older man gruffly said.
                      “Of course, Father.”
                      “Remember that I’ll check your temperature after you finish eating.”
                      “Noted, Father.”
                       The younger one watched his Father’s hands as they turned on the lamp in his room, it being a crimson color. He avoided his Father’s gaze, always unable to meet his eyes, so he looked around the room. He briefly glanced at the family photo from his childhood, his mom smiling with her arm around both him and her husband. His heart felt heavy after seeing that. So he found himself staring at the wall, noticing the painting on the wall he had done when he first moved in; it was a bear lying down near a river, its fur a deep brown with red shadows on it. Damian only looked back at his Father when he heard him snap.   
                       “Apologies, Father,” he replied instinctively.
                       “I will be in my office, you know where to find me,” he said in a bored tone.
                        Damian watched his Father walk out of the room, eyeing the silver cross and the wedding band he always wore. He began to eat his soup, as it was perfectly warm now. He grabbed his fork and had some noodles and carrots first, and then picked up his spoon to drink some broth. He always ate in this melodic and perfectly planned out manner so he wouldn’t have to see his Father for a while. About an hour passed when Damian finished his soup, so he left the tray on his nightstand and winced as he got off the bed. He had been in physical therapy for months now, yet he still cramped up as he walked. It was ironic since his room was on the second floor, so he’d have to walk down stairs to grab his Father.
                         Damian made it out of his room slowly and clutched the railings his father had installed on the walls to make his way to the stairs. His legs felt like they were jelly, as if they had melted under his warm temperature. He had finally reached the stairs, clutching onto the railing for dear life as he slowly stepped down, but he slipped and fell two steps down.
                         He had hit his head hard as he banged down on the railing, falling down the stairs, his forehead bleeding. The last thing he remembered seeing was his Father holding a Bible as he stared down at him, his vision going fuzzy and dark. However, the last thing he thought of was his dear mother; he wished to join her on the other side, yet he knew he would burn with the blood on his hand