Gone

The boy nearly bellowed the words again, louder this time. "Where the f- are the scissors, dad? I need them now, I'm running late! You can't find anything in this goddamn house!"

"No, that would be your room, son, try opening the cupboard above the sink, and then look straight ahead. You see I'm on the phone, and you're language is horrible." The teen wasn't satisfied. He then comes barreling down the stairs, his long, bony legs tangling so that he has to grab the rail. "Why can't you just tell them to hold on? Can you do that, dad? And help me look? The Lyft is coming right now! Scissors!" The boy's dad felt a moment of deep sadness, like his heart sinking. 

Like when you feel as if you have failed. He got off the phone and tried to talk to his son about his blindspot of entitlement, and his rudeness, but it was no use, front door slamming, he was already gone.