Myshuno! 2012 - piece 13
Dec. 9th, 2012 12:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dicreasy2Title: Family
Prompt: Christopher's thoughts on his parentage (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
katrisims)
Rating: U.
Spoiler rating: 5/10.
Summary: Christopher thinks about his father at two points in his life.
Notes: I'm not happy with this at all, mainly because I think Christopher's thoughts on the subject are very muddled and he flip flops back and forth on them, but I've been going round in circles trying to pin those down, and I'm sick of looking at this now. So, here you go. A not very good drabble for you all.
Word Count: 820.
There was a crack in the ceiling above Christopher’s bed. It was only a hairline crack, but Christopher was staring at it as if it contained the answers to the meaning of the multiverse. There was a snuffling sound from the other bed in the room, and Christopher turned his head to see his brother (half-brother? No, brother), throw his arms out as if pushing something or someone away, before settling back down again.
As he stared at David’s tousled curls, burnished by the light of the nightlight, he was struck with the urge to shake him awake and speak to him, but really, what could a four year old say? And it didn’t matter anyway. Papa was his father, just as sure as Mama was his mother, Bethany was his sister and David was his brother. He rolled over and pulled the blanket up to cover his face as he screwed shut his eyes and tried once more to sleep, the taunts of the boys from the park still ringing in his ears.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Christopher looked up from his pint as David sat down next to him. “If that is all you have, I will soon bankrupt you,” he replied.
“It is our sister’s wedding day. A day for celebration, and yet you have slunk off to a pub to drink. Why?”
Christopher threw him a withering look. “Why do you suppose? You saw what happened before the ceremony.”
David looked at him. “I saw a strange man arrive and try to ruin the proceedings. He was not successful.”
“He is my father.” Christopher took a long swig of his ale.
“That is not what you told him.”
“Yes. Well.”
“And I doubt that is what you believe.”
Christopher grimaced. “I no longer know what I believe.”
“And I do not believe that.”
Christopher looked down at the table. “You have no comprehension as to what it is like,” he said at last. “You have not had to endure the taunts or the knowledge, that no matter what you want to believe, you are a bastard. That the man whom you want to be your father, is not the man who sired you. I have tried to be sure. I have told myself time and time again, that blood does not matter, that,” he paused, “that Anthony Smith is my father, but having seen that man … I am no longer certain of anything.
“I have always known that I look very little the rest of the family, but I was unprepared about how much I look like him. Even. Even my eyes. I had always believed that I had Grandmamma’s eyes, but now I know they are his.”
David shook his head. “You have Grandmamma’s eyes. They are the exact same shade of green as Sarah Jane’s, and she could hardly have got them from him. And Papa is your father, just as sure as I am your brother, Sarah Jane is your sister, and Mickey and Zane are also your brothers. It was a shock that man appearing, there is no denying that, but, as you said to him, he is nothing to you. He is certainly not your family.”
Christopher took another drink. Family. When he thought about family, he pictured Bethany and him in the drawing or morning room, their mother and Anthony sitting on the settee while he drew and Bethany read, a young David sitting on the floor, trying to catch his attention. He pictured the Christmases when Alexandra, Anthony, Bethany, himself, David, Mickey and Zane gathered round Sarah Jane at the drawing room piano to sing carols, he and Mickey, despite being poor singers, singing as loudly as they could, causing Alexandra to wince and Anthony to struggle not to laugh. He thought of laughter and tears and the proud expressions on his parents’ faces as he collected his degree diploma and the way Anthony had clapped him on the back and pulled him into a hug, whilst the other fathers had only offered their sons their hands. He remembered the disappointment on Anthony’s face when he had upbraided him after he had dyed the science department’s anteater specimen cerulean for an art project. He had felt sick that day, knowing that he had disappointed his father so much. It dawned on him that he wouldn’t care if he disappointed the man who had turned up at the church. Why should he? He didn’t know him and had no desire to ever do so.
He drained his drink. “You are, of course, quite correct. Come on, why are we sitting in the pub at this time of day?” He got up and, arm round his brother’s shoulders, made his way from the bar. True, his mind was not at ease, but his brother’s words and his own revelation were enough of a balm for his troubled thoughts for now.
Prompt: Christopher's thoughts on his parentage (
katrisims)Rating: U.
Spoiler rating: 5/10.
Summary: Christopher thinks about his father at two points in his life.
Notes: I'm not happy with this at all, mainly because I think Christopher's thoughts on the subject are very muddled and he flip flops back and forth on them, but I've been going round in circles trying to pin those down, and I'm sick of looking at this now. So, here you go. A not very good drabble for you all.
Word Count: 820.
There was a crack in the ceiling above Christopher’s bed. It was only a hairline crack, but Christopher was staring at it as if it contained the answers to the meaning of the multiverse. There was a snuffling sound from the other bed in the room, and Christopher turned his head to see his brother (half-brother? No, brother), throw his arms out as if pushing something or someone away, before settling back down again.
As he stared at David’s tousled curls, burnished by the light of the nightlight, he was struck with the urge to shake him awake and speak to him, but really, what could a four year old say? And it didn’t matter anyway. Papa was his father, just as sure as Mama was his mother, Bethany was his sister and David was his brother. He rolled over and pulled the blanket up to cover his face as he screwed shut his eyes and tried once more to sleep, the taunts of the boys from the park still ringing in his ears.
***
“Penny for your thoughts?” Christopher looked up from his pint as David sat down next to him. “If that is all you have, I will soon bankrupt you,” he replied.
“It is our sister’s wedding day. A day for celebration, and yet you have slunk off to a pub to drink. Why?”
Christopher threw him a withering look. “Why do you suppose? You saw what happened before the ceremony.”
David looked at him. “I saw a strange man arrive and try to ruin the proceedings. He was not successful.”
“He is my father.” Christopher took a long swig of his ale.
“That is not what you told him.”
“Yes. Well.”
“And I doubt that is what you believe.”
Christopher grimaced. “I no longer know what I believe.”
“And I do not believe that.”
Christopher looked down at the table. “You have no comprehension as to what it is like,” he said at last. “You have not had to endure the taunts or the knowledge, that no matter what you want to believe, you are a bastard. That the man whom you want to be your father, is not the man who sired you. I have tried to be sure. I have told myself time and time again, that blood does not matter, that,” he paused, “that Anthony Smith is my father, but having seen that man … I am no longer certain of anything.
“I have always known that I look very little the rest of the family, but I was unprepared about how much I look like him. Even. Even my eyes. I had always believed that I had Grandmamma’s eyes, but now I know they are his.”
David shook his head. “You have Grandmamma’s eyes. They are the exact same shade of green as Sarah Jane’s, and she could hardly have got them from him. And Papa is your father, just as sure as I am your brother, Sarah Jane is your sister, and Mickey and Zane are also your brothers. It was a shock that man appearing, there is no denying that, but, as you said to him, he is nothing to you. He is certainly not your family.”
Christopher took another drink. Family. When he thought about family, he pictured Bethany and him in the drawing or morning room, their mother and Anthony sitting on the settee while he drew and Bethany read, a young David sitting on the floor, trying to catch his attention. He pictured the Christmases when Alexandra, Anthony, Bethany, himself, David, Mickey and Zane gathered round Sarah Jane at the drawing room piano to sing carols, he and Mickey, despite being poor singers, singing as loudly as they could, causing Alexandra to wince and Anthony to struggle not to laugh. He thought of laughter and tears and the proud expressions on his parents’ faces as he collected his degree diploma and the way Anthony had clapped him on the back and pulled him into a hug, whilst the other fathers had only offered their sons their hands. He remembered the disappointment on Anthony’s face when he had upbraided him after he had dyed the science department’s anteater specimen cerulean for an art project. He had felt sick that day, knowing that he had disappointed his father so much. It dawned on him that he wouldn’t care if he disappointed the man who had turned up at the church. Why should he? He didn’t know him and had no desire to ever do so.
He drained his drink. “You are, of course, quite correct. Come on, why are we sitting in the pub at this time of day?” He got up and, arm round his brother’s shoulders, made his way from the bar. True, his mind was not at ease, but his brother’s words and his own revelation were enough of a balm for his troubled thoughts for now.
