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31_days2007-03-02 03:26 pm
sassafras28.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2007-03-02 03:26 pm
[March 2] [Original Fiction]: Breaking Fast
Title: Breaking Fast
Day/Theme: March 2: leave the lies ill-concealed and the wounds never healed and the games not worth winning
Series: Original Fiction
Character/Pairing: Original
Rating: PG-13 (Language)
One: December Fifteenth, 1982
They were drunk, the both of them. Sheila stumbled into the hard corner of the refrigerator and laughed at the hot swell of pain. Danny lit the burner with no skillet on top; Sheila twisted to chide him and watched as the fringed edge of an old dishtowel erupted in orange flames. They laughed a helpless bird’s trill as he rushed to douse it in the sink.
They peered into the white basin and the stink of burnt fabric; burnt acrylic rose up and stung their noses. Sheila fell snorting into his shoulder. “So, cereal then?” he slurred, twirling her around to face the refrigerator.
The table was set with two ceramic bowls, a sweating half gallon of milk, a half-full box of Cap’t Crunch and two brown longnecks. “Gah!” he said, scraping his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “It’s like eating barbed wire.”
“Delicious barbed wire,” Sheila dug industriously through the layers of crispy yellow cereal.
“You know there’s no prize in there, right?” Danny raised his eyebrows at her over the top of his beer. Sheila paused, one hand buried elbow deep in the box.
“I just wanted a fucking decoder ring,” she said, as if this were a perfectly reasonable request, akin to asking for extra napkins for the salt shaker.
“I’ll buy you one, little sister,” he said, and after they had finished their cereal, he did. Even though he had to search every party store on the block.
Two: April Twenty-Eighth, 1986
He was drunk; she could smell the sticky tang of it when he smiled at her. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she whispered, smoothing her sleep-tangled hair down around her ears.
“I came to see you, little sister. I haven’t been to your dorm yet,” he peered around her at the piles of laundry and her boyfriend John sprawled asleep on her bed, one bare arm thrown over his head.
“Hey, if you’ve got company-” Danny began, Sheila rolled her eyes and pulled him into the room, shutting the door as quietly as possible behind him.
“You have to be quiet,” she said, irritated.
“I came to see your dorm,” Danny told her again while she rifled in her duffel bag for something food-like.
“Pop-Tarts?” she offered, holding up a badly squished package.
“It’s a nice place,” he said, running his hands along the corners and edges of her desk. He looked at the crumpled Pop-Tarts and wrinkled his nose.
“I’ll heat them up on the hot-plate,” she plugged the plate into the wall, and carefully laid out the pop tarts, shuffling them around gently trying to keep all their pieces intact.
They sat on the edge of her bed, John snoring softly in the background, and watched the tarts heat up slowly. “Maybe I should…flip them, or something,” Sheila offered weakly. Danny draped his arm over her shoulders and laughed into her hair. He smelled like beer and smoke and so she almost didn’t notice when the tart’s strawberry filling started to turn crisp and black.
Three: June Second, 1992
She was drunk; she was holding her black high heels in her hands and laughing at the way they clinked together.
“Godammit, Danny,” Sheila said, at the table with a mug of coffee as thick and black as tar in front of her.
“Sorry Sheila,” Gwen said, casting her eyes down, she couldn’t keep her lips from creeping up into a slow semi-circle, though.
“Go to bed, kiddo,” Danny shoved her gently down the hallway, awkwardly secreting a clear glass bottle in his coat.
“You’re drunk,” Sheila said, unnecessarily, taking a long, bitter sip of her coffee.
“No I not,” Danny answered promptly, drawing himself up with sloppy dignity. He stumbled a little, against the kitchen counter.
“Oh you’re not?” Sheila snarled, “well, call the newspapers, because that’s got to be a fucking first! You can’t handle the simplest goddamn thing with out a beer in you. Why did you even bother coming here, telling me you’d help?”
“You stay up all night to bitch at me?” he sat down heavily in the chair opposite her. Shelia stared at him for a long, hard moment, her mouth compressing and thinning until it was just a suggestion in her face.
“The funeral is at nine a.m. tomorrow, and if you oversleep…so help me, I’ll…” she paused, and her silence dragged out, her mouth shutting fierce and cold again. “Drink this before you go to bed,” she said, and slid the mug of coffee into his outstretched hands.
Neither of them spoke as slowly, he drank it, and she watched.
Four February Nineteenth 2001
They were drunk, the both of them. The girl had heavy, trashy eye makeup that smudged and ran until she looked like a low rent girl-Zorro. The strap of her camisole was busted and her chest was threatening to flop out of her top. Sheila gave her a blue aphagan that John had gotten years ago from his grandmother, and she wrapped it sullenly around her shoulders as she sat at the table.
“You should drink that,” Sheila said, pointing to the cup of coffee that the girl was staring disconsolately into.
“I don’t drink coffee,” she said with soft, flat, disdain. Sheila rolled her eyes.
“Then get some water out of the tap.”
The girl looked at her as if the very idea was beneath contemplation.
“The glasses are in the cupboard on the right,” Sheila pointed out helpfully. The girl pursed her faded pink lips and took a long sip of the coffee. She smacked her mouth loudly in distaste.
“Look at you, little sister,” Danny said, wrapping his arms around Shelia’s waist as she stood watchfully over the skillet and the slowly cooking. “You’re just like a mom to us!”
“If you don’t keep your voice down, my actual children are going to wake up, and then you’ll have hell to pay,” she said, shrugging off his arms and feeling a familiar tightness in the back of her neck. A huge, sweeping anger rising impotently in her chest.
“You’re my favorite sister, you know that, don’t you?” he said, kissing her cheek lightly. For a half-crazy minute, she wanted to wrench that frying pan upwards, connect it with his skull with all the force she had. Knock the slow slur out of his voice, the glazed dullness out of his eyes. Just beat him and beat him until all her anger poured out of her, clear and fine as cold water. But she did none of these things and just watched herself from far away as she slid the eggs out of her frying pan and on to two plates.
“I don’t eat eggs,” said the girl at the table.
“Tough shit,” Sheila said and set the plate down in front of her. And then she gathered their hands together to say grace.
Day/Theme: March 2: leave the lies ill-concealed and the wounds never healed and the games not worth winning
Series: Original Fiction
Character/Pairing: Original
Rating: PG-13 (Language)
One: December Fifteenth, 1982
They were drunk, the both of them. Sheila stumbled into the hard corner of the refrigerator and laughed at the hot swell of pain. Danny lit the burner with no skillet on top; Sheila twisted to chide him and watched as the fringed edge of an old dishtowel erupted in orange flames. They laughed a helpless bird’s trill as he rushed to douse it in the sink.
They peered into the white basin and the stink of burnt fabric; burnt acrylic rose up and stung their noses. Sheila fell snorting into his shoulder. “So, cereal then?” he slurred, twirling her around to face the refrigerator.
The table was set with two ceramic bowls, a sweating half gallon of milk, a half-full box of Cap’t Crunch and two brown longnecks. “Gah!” he said, scraping his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “It’s like eating barbed wire.”
“Delicious barbed wire,” Sheila dug industriously through the layers of crispy yellow cereal.
“You know there’s no prize in there, right?” Danny raised his eyebrows at her over the top of his beer. Sheila paused, one hand buried elbow deep in the box.
“I just wanted a fucking decoder ring,” she said, as if this were a perfectly reasonable request, akin to asking for extra napkins for the salt shaker.
“I’ll buy you one, little sister,” he said, and after they had finished their cereal, he did. Even though he had to search every party store on the block.
Two: April Twenty-Eighth, 1986
He was drunk; she could smell the sticky tang of it when he smiled at her. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she whispered, smoothing her sleep-tangled hair down around her ears.
“I came to see you, little sister. I haven’t been to your dorm yet,” he peered around her at the piles of laundry and her boyfriend John sprawled asleep on her bed, one bare arm thrown over his head.
“Hey, if you’ve got company-” Danny began, Sheila rolled her eyes and pulled him into the room, shutting the door as quietly as possible behind him.
“You have to be quiet,” she said, irritated.
“I came to see your dorm,” Danny told her again while she rifled in her duffel bag for something food-like.
“Pop-Tarts?” she offered, holding up a badly squished package.
“It’s a nice place,” he said, running his hands along the corners and edges of her desk. He looked at the crumpled Pop-Tarts and wrinkled his nose.
“I’ll heat them up on the hot-plate,” she plugged the plate into the wall, and carefully laid out the pop tarts, shuffling them around gently trying to keep all their pieces intact.
They sat on the edge of her bed, John snoring softly in the background, and watched the tarts heat up slowly. “Maybe I should…flip them, or something,” Sheila offered weakly. Danny draped his arm over her shoulders and laughed into her hair. He smelled like beer and smoke and so she almost didn’t notice when the tart’s strawberry filling started to turn crisp and black.
Three: June Second, 1992
She was drunk; she was holding her black high heels in her hands and laughing at the way they clinked together.
“Godammit, Danny,” Sheila said, at the table with a mug of coffee as thick and black as tar in front of her.
“Sorry Sheila,” Gwen said, casting her eyes down, she couldn’t keep her lips from creeping up into a slow semi-circle, though.
“Go to bed, kiddo,” Danny shoved her gently down the hallway, awkwardly secreting a clear glass bottle in his coat.
“You’re drunk,” Sheila said, unnecessarily, taking a long, bitter sip of her coffee.
“No I not,” Danny answered promptly, drawing himself up with sloppy dignity. He stumbled a little, against the kitchen counter.
“Oh you’re not?” Sheila snarled, “well, call the newspapers, because that’s got to be a fucking first! You can’t handle the simplest goddamn thing with out a beer in you. Why did you even bother coming here, telling me you’d help?”
“You stay up all night to bitch at me?” he sat down heavily in the chair opposite her. Shelia stared at him for a long, hard moment, her mouth compressing and thinning until it was just a suggestion in her face.
“The funeral is at nine a.m. tomorrow, and if you oversleep…so help me, I’ll…” she paused, and her silence dragged out, her mouth shutting fierce and cold again. “Drink this before you go to bed,” she said, and slid the mug of coffee into his outstretched hands.
Neither of them spoke as slowly, he drank it, and she watched.
Four February Nineteenth 2001
They were drunk, the both of them. The girl had heavy, trashy eye makeup that smudged and ran until she looked like a low rent girl-Zorro. The strap of her camisole was busted and her chest was threatening to flop out of her top. Sheila gave her a blue aphagan that John had gotten years ago from his grandmother, and she wrapped it sullenly around her shoulders as she sat at the table.
“You should drink that,” Sheila said, pointing to the cup of coffee that the girl was staring disconsolately into.
“I don’t drink coffee,” she said with soft, flat, disdain. Sheila rolled her eyes.
“Then get some water out of the tap.”
The girl looked at her as if the very idea was beneath contemplation.
“The glasses are in the cupboard on the right,” Sheila pointed out helpfully. The girl pursed her faded pink lips and took a long sip of the coffee. She smacked her mouth loudly in distaste.
“Look at you, little sister,” Danny said, wrapping his arms around Shelia’s waist as she stood watchfully over the skillet and the slowly cooking. “You’re just like a mom to us!”
“If you don’t keep your voice down, my actual children are going to wake up, and then you’ll have hell to pay,” she said, shrugging off his arms and feeling a familiar tightness in the back of her neck. A huge, sweeping anger rising impotently in her chest.
“You’re my favorite sister, you know that, don’t you?” he said, kissing her cheek lightly. For a half-crazy minute, she wanted to wrench that frying pan upwards, connect it with his skull with all the force she had. Knock the slow slur out of his voice, the glazed dullness out of his eyes. Just beat him and beat him until all her anger poured out of her, clear and fine as cold water. But she did none of these things and just watched herself from far away as she slid the eggs out of her frying pan and on to two plates.
“I don’t eat eggs,” said the girl at the table.
“Tough shit,” Sheila said and set the plate down in front of her. And then she gathered their hands together to say grace.