This is my first sudden fiction story which is a meager 534 words. Kindly tell me what you think. Thanks.

My Father, My Executioner

A dismal daybreak: The sky discolors from a tranquil blue violet to a dark, dark gray as the father cooks breakfast. He drags his feet plodding listlessly all over the kitchen.
Only a few hours before he had arrived from his unholy hours work. He immediately made his way to the backyard and sees his son’s uniform drenched in slimy fluid. His throat becomes sour-bitter as a result of the stomach-turning odor. He looks at his son’s jersey atop his two hands and then wrings them hard to dry.

That morning, his son barges out of his room. “They’re still wet,” he protests and hurls his shorts towards the table narrowly missing the meal that the father had prepared, his favorite fried rice with eggs save for the nauseating smell of longganissa. The father irons the uniform, sprays of hot water hit the sagging skin on his eyes. He forces a smile. The son, meanwhile, briskly strides to the bathroom to take a shower. When he comes out the father is sitting on the sofa, eyes half-shut, rocking back and forth balancing himself on his bloated body. “I am late,” the son exclaims and stuffs his bag with gear and walks hurriedly toward the car, socks on one hand, duffle in tow on the other, shoes half-worn.

Just last year the son was late for his basketball match. It cost the team the win. The dad remembers it as he urges the car forward. Never again, he tells himself. “I want to buy something,” the son declares. He takesout hotdog, fried rice and eggs while back in the car, the dad has a lonely meal of what he himself had prepared earlier for the son.

As they move along, the son slips his on his shoes in the car. The dad notices this. He barely could make ends meet and yet he had bought a signature shoe if only for his son. He had been in all his games, heroically waking up on the morning of each match to prod him on. One time he took a picture of his son playing. “Where’s your subject?” his son asks, his eyebrows meet in disdain and hands the picture back to the dad.

The car slows as it approaches the gymnasium. Along the path, the son gazes at a field where there are children running after a ball. One boy gets to it first and skips mercurially past two other kids before hammering it into the roof of a net.

The son breaks into tears into tears. “How many times have we talked about this?” the father grumbles. The son presses toward the window stubbornly refusing to get off the car. His hand wipes the glass damp. “It’s what we want isn’t it?” the dad says and thuds the steering wheel like a loud throb. “No dad,” the son cries “it’s what you want! I never wanted to play ball.” Suddenly the father grabs and claws his son’s arm.

Outside a football rolls passed the car’s trunk. The boy who had scored the goal chases it and picks it up. A mauling *BLEEP*, a faint scream and then the car sits still.