All The Best Cowboys Have Daddy Problems: Ch1 Pt ii Stetson woke up sweating, convulsing uncontrollably, pale as the snow he dreamed of. It had been the same nightmare each sleep since the accident. He tried all the “therapist’s” techniques, but they were as much use to him as a burger to the clinically obese. “Deep breaths” Stetson willed, eyes glued to the ceiling, gently lit up by the warmth of the December sunrise. As usual, it didn’t work. He lay there, immobilised for a good ten minutes before his spasming muscles relaxed. #life had changed drastically since the fateful night thirteen years ago. Social services had given his father guardianship of Stetson, much to the protest of the adamant four year-old. After the sensation of relaxation washed over him for a good five minutes, Stetson rolled out of bed haphazardly. Dark patches under his eyes betrayed the drowsiness that cascaded Stetson’s senses. Hunched over, the trek to the shower began, slowly at first, but rapidly Stetson picked up speed as the chill air bit into his exposed arm. It was never too cold for shorts and a t-shirt. Or so he believed. Traversing the hallway in almost record timing, for a teenager, Stetson’s balled fist knocked on the switch to activate the power shower. Twenty minutes later, Stetson emerged from his domain and wandered downstairs. A rich smell of bacon and eggs greeted his curious nostrils as a brilliant burst of sunshine filtered through the half-heartedly opened blinds, which surrounded the glass patio-style kitchen/dining area. A blast of heat struck Stetson square in the face, a complete contrast to the rest of the large, detached house. The constant frigid temperature was one of the few common ideas Stetson shared with his guardian. “Morning Stetson!” The cheery, deep voice of Jon, Stetson’s father called. “Sleep okay? Sounded as if you were sleeping like a log.” Stetson mumbled a reply, his mouth already half full of thick, fat-less rashers of bacon before either he, or his plate found their designated targets at the table. A steaming hot mug of strong coffee was ready and waiting by Stetson's placemat. He took a long draught before sighing to himself, forcing his heavy eyelids to stay awake. "Hypersomnia" Stetson thought to himself, shaking his head. "You remembering about seeing ... Erm what's-his-face tonight? Have a good session anyway, I'm stuck in the surgery 'till late." Jon said casually, trying to mask the concerning his voice, but failing. Pretending to ignore the comment, Stetson shovelled down the remaining eggs left on his plate into his mouth, and left a trail of crumbs on the beech laminate flooring as he began to briskly walk into the hall. The morning sun radiated through the frosted glass front door. Stetson walked towards the light, slinging a satchel full of his schoolwork over his left shoulder. Snow lay thick on the ground. Although the sunlight caused a slight increase in temperature, the sub-zero air exhaled in great clouds as Stetson closed the door behind him with a silent clunk. Stetson trudged through the ankle-thick snow. A harsh wind lashed out at him, Stetson responded by closing his thick hoodie, and bundled a woolen, multicoloured scarf around his revealed neck. “Stetson!” a voice exclaimed, with the body attached appearing soon after. A youth, swaggered over towards the bundle of clothes that was Stetson himself. Dark grey eyes peered out in an inquisitive manner. He embraced Stetson in an awkward, yet kind enough hug. Squirming in an attempt to be released from the viperous grasp, Stetson squeaked a greeting, releasing the final breath of air which inhabited his lungs. After an awkward several moments of embrace, both figures trundled onwards down the street. An easy conversation struck up between the two, covering unlikely topics of conversation for two youths: classical poetry and the turning points of gothicism; the difference between modern and impressionist artwork; the advancement of genetic modification and the consequences it may pose on modern society; and the existence of Higgs Boson. They parted ways at the street of Stetson's academy. Although a slightly better off than most people, Stetson’s dad’s choice of school was ambiguous. It was an oppressive building, relatively new, but built for a fraction of the current number of students. However, in a feeble attempt to modernise the place, a glass fronted foyer protruded into the grassland facing the public road. ***