New Dribbles-both Tyler
I don't remember my mother. At all. Not a whiff, not a glance, not a whisper. Which makes sense, after all, if what my father says is true. She died giving birth.
A lot of what happened those first four years is a blur. I remember thinking of it as some sort of game.
My first solid memory didn't happen until I was almost five. We--my father and I--were in some random town that I don't know the name of. It was late spring. My birthday was a few weeks away. We were eating TV dinners and dad had a glass of amber-colored alcohol on his tray. I remember broaching the subject carefully, because the alcohol made him angry.
"Hey, dad?"
A grunt.
I cleared my throat. "Um. Tommy, at school, says that kids get presents for their birthday."
"Does he?"
I felt encouraged. Maybe dad just didn't know. "Yeah. And I asked him if it was just some kids... and he said it was all kids."
"Uh-huh," his eyes didn't leave the television.
"So, uh... I was wondering... if maybe I could have presents on my birthday?"
I watched him, hopeful. The seconds stretched on and he didn't look at me or speak.
It was sudden. I was aware of the television's sudden jump in volume. I looked at it for just a second, and then...
And then he was furious. His hands on my shoulders, neck, arms. He was shaking me and yelling. I didn't even know what he said. I was so terrified that nothing penetrated the fear except pain. I think I screamed--a lot. And afterwards I know that I cried for hours, huddled on my pile of blankets in the corner.
The bruises, it turned out, worked to our advantage, since we were claiming that I was a leukemia patient. Nobody asked questions. Kids with leukemia got bruises all the time.
We raised $1200 at the school alone and skipped town just as someone was double-checking on my doctor.
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Tyler leaned against John: bak to chest, with John's arm around his shoulder and laying across his chest. The television was playing quietly around them.
"John?"
The screen flickered from the newscasters to a commercial for flu medicine and John changed the channel. "Yeah?"
Tyler picked up the hand on his chest and entwined their fingers. "I think I want to adopt."
The younger man looked away from the television and over at Ty. "Adopt what?"
The blond man gave the other's cheek a gentle shove. "A kid, of course."
"Now we're talking kid as in goat, yea?"
Tyler shifted against him to look at his lover. "No. I mean kid as in child, baby, infant. I want a son or daughter."
John grinned. "Well, you could do that," he pressed a couple kisses against the older boy's neck, "but then we couldn't just have fun whenever we wanted." His arm slid off of Tyler's shoulder and down around his waist, dipping his fingers under the shirt.
The blond boy laughed softly, pulling back a little as the redhead tried to catch his lips. "I'm serious, John."
John settled for nibbling his lover's ear. "Mm. All right, but we better wait till you're fully recovered. And we still don't know how the chemo is going to affect you. You can apply next year."
"It takes a while for those applications to go through. I think I should apply now."
"Tyler." John pulled back and looked at his lover. "I don't think you should adopt at all."
"What, you want to knock me up yourself?" he grinned teasingly.
His lover didn't smile. "No. I don't think it's fair to put a kid through that."
"Through what? Having someone that gives a shit about them?" He pulled away from John, turning to face him.
"You know that's not what I mean."
"Then what do you mean?"
"I mean that I don't think it's fair to adopt a kid when you're only going to live for another year!"
Both of the boys went silent and stared at each other while the television hummed quietly.
John watched the startlement change to hurt and then to anger on his lover's face.
"Tyler," he reached over, but Ty pulled back. "That came out all wrong."
"Get out."
"I didn't mean it. I--"
"Get out!"
John reached for Tyler again, but the blond stood up and out of reach. "Get. Out."
"Let me explain..."
"Get out or I'll throw you out!"
Frustration got the better of the Irishman. "Why? So that you can call Alabaster and have a go with him?" John saw the hurt on Tyler's face, but couldn't help himself as he pressed on. "Yer jus' some damn whore! What with Al and Sam an' Ryan an' Greg! It's a slight wonder ye got cancer instead o' AIDS!"
There was a pause. Tyler's face was miserable and hurt. He looked ill and on the verge of tears. John wanted to run to him, wrap him up in his arms, and apologize... but he didn't.
After a minute, Tyler's voice--barely a whisper--broke the silence between them. "Get out."
John stood, grabbed his coat, and left.
The blond boy collapsed onto the sofa, tears flowing down his cheeks, and he stared at his phone. Up until John's last outburst, he'd planned on calling Al, but now he couldn't.
He'd been handed his death sentence. He was dying. It hadn't been real until that moment. He was dying and he was alone and both were inevitable.
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Sorry for the depressing-ness of the second one. I have no idea where that came from, but it came out pretty good, I think (I used their names too much, but oh well).
Comments
first thought on the first dribble: ;_; poor little ty! seriously, i was reading that, and you know how my imagination tends to get all overactive, yeah. and i sat and read that (i printed it out because i'm not 'supposed' to be messing about online while at work lol) and i could see it. i mean really see that, and i burst into tears it was so sad. ;_;
first thought on the second one: "I'm gonna beat the FUCK outta that prick!" (it INSTANTLY hit me in "al mode" lol.) which, actually lead to an Al dribble starting to form that sort of, at the time i'm writing this, didn't get much past a few lines of dialogue and very little action. i do plan to be online tonight at some point, and plan to finish writing it. but yeah. anyways.... to continue with my thought from the second dribble! once the first thought subsided, and i re-read it, i was like "zomg! i just wanna HUG him!... but he might bite." didn't make me quite cry, but it made me angry and sad and i could totally pick up on the desperation and lonliness at the end. i don't think you overused the names too terribly much, if at all.
anything to do with beating children makes me cry and/or sob massively. as stated byefore, my immagination = overactive. so when i get an idea like that in there, it's like my visuals are working overtime, making it as gruesome and horrible as possible. plus, the subject matter was sad to begin with. i mean, there's ty, a kid, who can't really do much to defend himself and even if he did, it's his dad who, in his own twisted and fucked up way half-assed takes care of him, so what little he does, biting the hand that feeds would feel so wrong and betrayal-like y'know.
so glad you enjoy torturing me lol! (having been put into Al mode while at work, i spent the rest of my shift TALKING like him! even answering the phones! was so funny when i tried to explain why to my co-workers lol) yeah. wouldn't it be great if there was a hot undead guy running around killing people but is like one of the nicest (depending on which side of his friends list you're on lol) people you'd ever meet! that'd be so fuckin awsome.