Post by rat on Dec 20, 2010 14:41:54 GMT 10
Title: A Lasting Moment
Rating: PG-13
Card: 2
Bingo: teacher + awkward moment + love + being in charge + ribbon
Summary: We learn so much from our parents...
Note: This really has nothing to do with the holidays... although technically, the rules don’t mention writing about the holidays
A goblet on the floor. Red wine splattered on the walls. A handprint on her cheek and the curve of her belly.
They are my first teachers.
I hate my father, but I hate my mother more. I might bear it easier, the knowledge of what he is, were it not for his being in charge, but at least he knows how to be a man.
She doesn’t. Doesn’t know how to be a woman. Sometimes she looks very much like a little girl, with wide eyes and a ribbon in her hair—with a look of fright on her face.
I am too little to be remembered but not too little to remember what I see, or to notice the layer of unshed tears in her eyes, or to notice the curl of his lip.
In an awkward moment, silence stretches between them. It is the only thing that connects them. She is immune to his dignity. He is immune to her love.
Sometimes she looks like a little girl. She looks like an old woman as she extends her hand to him. Whispers his name. Some day, a girl might say my name with such yearning, whisper, “Vinson,” and tell me in my name that she understands why I had to hurt her.
I hate my mother and my father and their blind eyes. I hate him. I hate her for her weakness, that she loves him.
He looks at her. His mind speaks. I see it, the words roiling in his mind. For a moment he looks as though he might spit on her, almost does. The last thing he does is sneer down at her.
And even when he has turned and gone from the room, she does not remember me.
Rating: PG-13
Card: 2
Bingo: teacher + awkward moment + love + being in charge + ribbon
Summary: We learn so much from our parents...
Note: This really has nothing to do with the holidays... although technically, the rules don’t mention writing about the holidays
A goblet on the floor. Red wine splattered on the walls. A handprint on her cheek and the curve of her belly.
They are my first teachers.
I hate my father, but I hate my mother more. I might bear it easier, the knowledge of what he is, were it not for his being in charge, but at least he knows how to be a man.
She doesn’t. Doesn’t know how to be a woman. Sometimes she looks very much like a little girl, with wide eyes and a ribbon in her hair—with a look of fright on her face.
I am too little to be remembered but not too little to remember what I see, or to notice the layer of unshed tears in her eyes, or to notice the curl of his lip.
In an awkward moment, silence stretches between them. It is the only thing that connects them. She is immune to his dignity. He is immune to her love.
Sometimes she looks like a little girl. She looks like an old woman as she extends her hand to him. Whispers his name. Some day, a girl might say my name with such yearning, whisper, “Vinson,” and tell me in my name that she understands why I had to hurt her.
I hate my mother and my father and their blind eyes. I hate him. I hate her for her weakness, that she loves him.
He looks at her. His mind speaks. I see it, the words roiling in his mind. For a moment he looks as though he might spit on her, almost does. The last thing he does is sneer down at her.
And even when he has turned and gone from the room, she does not remember me.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!