Post by Robin on Jul 20, 2006 23:25:56 GMT -8
I terminated it. Behold the result of what happens when nature calls my mind.
This is in the same mold as most of my stuff, except it's from Chris's point of view. The original Chris, not girl Chris who's now boy Kit.
I sort of chickened out at the end and didn't do much...graphic...stuff. I'm always scared to write anything graphic. Except when it comes to guts.
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I don’t know why I never just went with my gut instinct on things that year. If I had done that, it would have saved me, not to mention the rest of Wyatt and co., a hell of a lot of trouble. But things didn’t really seem to go the way we wanted them to then. Sid, or maybe Kit, would have told me, if I had expressed this feeling to them, that a certain Roland Deschain of Gilead would have called it ‘ka.’ I would have called it bullshit, if I had known it was going on at the time, and done my damnedest to fight it. But I supposed the only thing that really matters is that it happened, and what’s in the past is in the past. Except if it was really in the past, I wouldn’t keep thinking about it, or replaying those events over and over. For Kit and Wyatt, the unforgettable events came about with the deaths of Marty and Carolyn, but for me, it came of the day Roni and I made love. It surprised me even later, because for most people it would have been the day that she told us all she was pregnant, or the day that she went and got an abortion. But for the group of us, for Wyatt and co., I think we all remember the cataclysmic events. Not Carolyn’s funeral or even the crash itself, but the escapade at the bar before and the thorough intoxication of every party involved; not Marty’s funeral or the announcement of death, but the delicate moments before his heart actually stopped beating, and for me, not Roni’s abortion but the feral moments before the fact and the tender moments afterwards. Feral days I’m a sex craze, I put it in with my animal ways. Third Eye Blind. Except if anybody had had animal ways that day it would have been Roni. There she had been, her brother in the hospital, and yet she had still been not only willing but perfectly delighted to get to know me biblically. I had almost hated her then, but I never could, really. After all, I had been the one who decided to take it upon himself to tell her about Sid’s accident. It wasn’t as though Marty or Wyatt or Kit was going to go tell her right there and then, but they would have, eventually, if I had not.
But I went, and that is all that matters.
I went to the Boyle house, and knocked on the door, and waited patiently while footsteps clattered down the stairs and Roni finally came to the door, all elegant dishevelment and chapped silkiness. I won’t pretend that she didn’t seem intoxicating; she was bawdy, but she managed to make that bawdiness debonair, if anybody could dig that. She didn’t smile when she opened the door, only looked me up and down and frowned.
“What’s got your panties in a bunch, kiddo?” I scowled at the name – I was older than Sid by a year and the difference between Roni and Sid was at least that much – and then she did smile. It was a toothy smile, full of teeth that weren’t exactly straight but shone bright as if she had had orthodontic work done. I didn’t quite trust it, but I was torn up enough by Sid’s injury that I didn’t really pay much attention to it.
“It’s no smiling matter,” I told her, and regretted it immediately afterwards; it sounded petulant and pouty, but she stopped smiling.
“If you’re going to tell me something, tell it to me. I don’t like to play with words.” The way she said the last part made it sound as though she was suggesting that she did like to play with some things, but I chose to ignore it, and instead glared at her. She was unimpressed.
“Sid got hurt,” I said. The lady remained unimpressed. I raised a hand to brush my hair out of my eyes, a hand that had been apparently trembling unbeknownst to me, and said, “He got his head cracked against the fountain and had a brain hemorrhage.” At that she raised her eyebrows.
“Well, is he okay?”
“If he was okay, I wouldn’t be coming to you, now would I? I’d let him tell you.” I don’t know if it was me finally caving in under the emotional pressure or her being especially irritating, but let me tell you friends and neighbors, Uncky Chris was shaking like a leaf.
“I meant if he was going to be okay, as in not going to die okay, Captain Obvious.” She was eying me as though I was a rabid animal she expected to bolt or rear up and bite her or black out or all three.
I opened my mouth to tell her that of course he was going to be okay, maybe tack on a sharp rebuff, but all that came out was a wordless squeak, and then I fell forwards into her arms almost without knowing that I did so. She stiffened for a moment, and then her hands were there, stroking my hair and back in the thoughtless way that mothers will stroke an infant to soothe it.
“Easy, Chris,” she said, and her voice was softened dramatically. “Easy.” I didn’t cry, but my breathing came in ragged gulps and my throat felt like it was lined with fishhooks. The weight of her, the soft glory of her breasts under the coarse fabric of her tee-shirt, was comforting; even the velvety brush of her arm against my face as she smoothed down my hair was comforting. She pulled me inside, one of her hands ceasing to brush my hair as she closed the door.
“What has your panties in a bunch, huh?” she said, and I felt her hand return to my head. I made some sound, said some word like ‘Sid,’ and she made a disgusted noise. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had a thing for my brother,” she said, half-joking.
“Not him,” I said, and I was relieved that my voice wasn’t tearful. Choked, maybe, pained, maybe, but not tearful. My cheek had been pressed against her collarbone before, but I had straightened and we stood eye-to-eye. I couldn’t help noticing how her breath caressed my cheek, warm, and found myself wondering what toothpaste she used.
“Not him, huh?” Her voice was laughter, and not the grudging kind that she was prone to when she was around me usually. And then, abruptly, her lips were pressed against mine; soft, like her breasts, and with a maddening tightness to them that had me surging forwards before breaking away, gasping.
“You’re Sid’s sister,” I said, struggling to keep my voice from trembling or cracking like it wanted to.
“Yeah,” she said, blinking at me as if in astonishment at my ignorance. “Did you just now figure it out, Sherlock?”
“N-n-n-no, it’s just…damn it, Roni, it’s like you want him to have a heart attack.” Alternating tracks of hot and cold raced down my spine; alternating images flashed in my head, Sid with a dribble of blood out his ear, Roni with the sleeves of her yellow tee-shirt hacked off to show off her shoulders, Sid with a dribble of blood out his ear, Roni with the sleeves of her yellow tee-shirt hacked off to show off her shoulders, Sid with a dribble of blood out his ear, Roni with the sleeves of her yellow tee-shirt hacked off to show off her shoulders.
I backed away, reluctantly, but then she was there again, laughing softly in my ear, pushing me slowly and insidiously up the stairs and to her room. I muttered something about Sid, and she practically hissed angrily.
“I’m cheering you up, pretty boy,” she said in my ear, her voice nearly a snarl, and she ran her lips over my eyelids in a way that was too delicate to match the growl of her voice. “You’re too pretty to look so depressed.”
And then she was pushing me down on the bed, fumbling with the buttons of my jeans, and I was doing the same to her pants, the reluctance fading and growing paler. And then our clothes were gone, and miraculously, blissfully, we made love.
It was not until later that I realized that Roni was not on the birth control pill. If she had been, we wouldn’t have had to bear half as much of her griping about cramps.
This is in the same mold as most of my stuff, except it's from Chris's point of view. The original Chris, not girl Chris who's now boy Kit.
I sort of chickened out at the end and didn't do much...graphic...stuff. I'm always scared to write anything graphic. Except when it comes to guts.
-----------
I don’t know why I never just went with my gut instinct on things that year. If I had done that, it would have saved me, not to mention the rest of Wyatt and co., a hell of a lot of trouble. But things didn’t really seem to go the way we wanted them to then. Sid, or maybe Kit, would have told me, if I had expressed this feeling to them, that a certain Roland Deschain of Gilead would have called it ‘ka.’ I would have called it bullshit, if I had known it was going on at the time, and done my damnedest to fight it. But I supposed the only thing that really matters is that it happened, and what’s in the past is in the past. Except if it was really in the past, I wouldn’t keep thinking about it, or replaying those events over and over. For Kit and Wyatt, the unforgettable events came about with the deaths of Marty and Carolyn, but for me, it came of the day Roni and I made love. It surprised me even later, because for most people it would have been the day that she told us all she was pregnant, or the day that she went and got an abortion. But for the group of us, for Wyatt and co., I think we all remember the cataclysmic events. Not Carolyn’s funeral or even the crash itself, but the escapade at the bar before and the thorough intoxication of every party involved; not Marty’s funeral or the announcement of death, but the delicate moments before his heart actually stopped beating, and for me, not Roni’s abortion but the feral moments before the fact and the tender moments afterwards. Feral days I’m a sex craze, I put it in with my animal ways. Third Eye Blind. Except if anybody had had animal ways that day it would have been Roni. There she had been, her brother in the hospital, and yet she had still been not only willing but perfectly delighted to get to know me biblically. I had almost hated her then, but I never could, really. After all, I had been the one who decided to take it upon himself to tell her about Sid’s accident. It wasn’t as though Marty or Wyatt or Kit was going to go tell her right there and then, but they would have, eventually, if I had not.
But I went, and that is all that matters.
I went to the Boyle house, and knocked on the door, and waited patiently while footsteps clattered down the stairs and Roni finally came to the door, all elegant dishevelment and chapped silkiness. I won’t pretend that she didn’t seem intoxicating; she was bawdy, but she managed to make that bawdiness debonair, if anybody could dig that. She didn’t smile when she opened the door, only looked me up and down and frowned.
“What’s got your panties in a bunch, kiddo?” I scowled at the name – I was older than Sid by a year and the difference between Roni and Sid was at least that much – and then she did smile. It was a toothy smile, full of teeth that weren’t exactly straight but shone bright as if she had had orthodontic work done. I didn’t quite trust it, but I was torn up enough by Sid’s injury that I didn’t really pay much attention to it.
“It’s no smiling matter,” I told her, and regretted it immediately afterwards; it sounded petulant and pouty, but she stopped smiling.
“If you’re going to tell me something, tell it to me. I don’t like to play with words.” The way she said the last part made it sound as though she was suggesting that she did like to play with some things, but I chose to ignore it, and instead glared at her. She was unimpressed.
“Sid got hurt,” I said. The lady remained unimpressed. I raised a hand to brush my hair out of my eyes, a hand that had been apparently trembling unbeknownst to me, and said, “He got his head cracked against the fountain and had a brain hemorrhage.” At that she raised her eyebrows.
“Well, is he okay?”
“If he was okay, I wouldn’t be coming to you, now would I? I’d let him tell you.” I don’t know if it was me finally caving in under the emotional pressure or her being especially irritating, but let me tell you friends and neighbors, Uncky Chris was shaking like a leaf.
“I meant if he was going to be okay, as in not going to die okay, Captain Obvious.” She was eying me as though I was a rabid animal she expected to bolt or rear up and bite her or black out or all three.
I opened my mouth to tell her that of course he was going to be okay, maybe tack on a sharp rebuff, but all that came out was a wordless squeak, and then I fell forwards into her arms almost without knowing that I did so. She stiffened for a moment, and then her hands were there, stroking my hair and back in the thoughtless way that mothers will stroke an infant to soothe it.
“Easy, Chris,” she said, and her voice was softened dramatically. “Easy.” I didn’t cry, but my breathing came in ragged gulps and my throat felt like it was lined with fishhooks. The weight of her, the soft glory of her breasts under the coarse fabric of her tee-shirt, was comforting; even the velvety brush of her arm against my face as she smoothed down my hair was comforting. She pulled me inside, one of her hands ceasing to brush my hair as she closed the door.
“What has your panties in a bunch, huh?” she said, and I felt her hand return to my head. I made some sound, said some word like ‘Sid,’ and she made a disgusted noise. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had a thing for my brother,” she said, half-joking.
“Not him,” I said, and I was relieved that my voice wasn’t tearful. Choked, maybe, pained, maybe, but not tearful. My cheek had been pressed against her collarbone before, but I had straightened and we stood eye-to-eye. I couldn’t help noticing how her breath caressed my cheek, warm, and found myself wondering what toothpaste she used.
“Not him, huh?” Her voice was laughter, and not the grudging kind that she was prone to when she was around me usually. And then, abruptly, her lips were pressed against mine; soft, like her breasts, and with a maddening tightness to them that had me surging forwards before breaking away, gasping.
“You’re Sid’s sister,” I said, struggling to keep my voice from trembling or cracking like it wanted to.
“Yeah,” she said, blinking at me as if in astonishment at my ignorance. “Did you just now figure it out, Sherlock?”
“N-n-n-no, it’s just…damn it, Roni, it’s like you want him to have a heart attack.” Alternating tracks of hot and cold raced down my spine; alternating images flashed in my head, Sid with a dribble of blood out his ear, Roni with the sleeves of her yellow tee-shirt hacked off to show off her shoulders, Sid with a dribble of blood out his ear, Roni with the sleeves of her yellow tee-shirt hacked off to show off her shoulders, Sid with a dribble of blood out his ear, Roni with the sleeves of her yellow tee-shirt hacked off to show off her shoulders.
I backed away, reluctantly, but then she was there again, laughing softly in my ear, pushing me slowly and insidiously up the stairs and to her room. I muttered something about Sid, and she practically hissed angrily.
“I’m cheering you up, pretty boy,” she said in my ear, her voice nearly a snarl, and she ran her lips over my eyelids in a way that was too delicate to match the growl of her voice. “You’re too pretty to look so depressed.”
And then she was pushing me down on the bed, fumbling with the buttons of my jeans, and I was doing the same to her pants, the reluctance fading and growing paler. And then our clothes were gone, and miraculously, blissfully, we made love.
It was not until later that I realized that Roni was not on the birth control pill. If she had been, we wouldn’t have had to bear half as much of her griping about cramps.
