Story Title: "What's Born of Hate"; I guess I can sum up this title with a quote:
FAMILY: Our families determine who we are; determine what we're not. All of our relationships with everybody we ever meet for the rest of our lives is based on the way we relate to our family! No wonder the world's so fucked up! -Augustus Hill (HBO's Oz)
...yeah.
Author: "Tiera-Tarie" aka "shadows" aka "ooshadygirloo"
Summary: Set before the events in the movie. Sonny Grotowski befriends a girl he met standing on his mother's grave.
Disclaimer: This story is entirely fictional and made for entertainment purposes only. I DO NOT own Monster's Ball, nor am I seeking monetary gain for writing this, it's just for enjoyment. The characters of Monster's Ball (Sonny, Hank, Buck, Laticia etc.) and anyone else you may recognize is not mine, either.
I created (original characters) Bonnie and Tabitha (aka "Bitty") and characters you do not know.
Author's Notes: You can still understand this story even if you've never seen the movie that it's based on. I ask readers to view this with an open-mind and leave intolerance at the door (but wipe your feet). This story tackles racism, various types of relationships, hate crimes, and the classic dysfuctional families in pseudo present day Georgia, USA (but it could be any town in America); it contains death, adult situations and mature language and content; sexual situations of various smutty-ness, violence, drug use... if these ain't your cup of tea, I advise you to turn back now. Rating: T/M
As my first attempt at writing after a long time, I've done my best, all I ask is that you REVIEW. Please? Concrit welcome!
R.I.P. Peter Boyle.
R.I.P. Heath Ledger. This story wouldn't have been possible if it weren't for his powerful performance in Monster's Ball.
Chapter 1 - In A Better Place
-o-o-o-o-
The sound of a car door clomping shut roused Buck Grotowski out of a hasty slumber, consequently, a foul breaking of wind followed this rude awakening. Buck swore, grouching about uncontrollable bowels under his breath as the worse of the odor wafted away on the next light breeze. He'd fallen asleep on the porch again. No wonder, nowadays he couldn't even piss standing up, it's just a matter of time when the Powers That Be would end his prolonged suffering and he'll be sleeping for good. Therein lies the sad truth of getting older and expendable.
"Hello?"
He blinked away the sleep in his eyes, wondering how long he'd been out.
"...Sir?"
Buck's hearing wasn't all that great as of late, but he sure as hell heard a voice... Sure enough, a man Buck didn't know was standing at the bottom of the steps leading up to the porch, looking to him expectantly.
"Whaddaya want, Boy?" Buck harrumphed, even though this man looked like he'd passed adolescence a few decades ago.
The man stiffened and raised his chin, trying to appear undisturbed by the insolence of the old fart, no pun intended. He cleared his throat, "Delivery, Sir."
Buck's dull blue eyes panned to the pair of oxygen tanks hefted underneath the other man's arms.
"They're early." Buck said, his voice a bit raspy.
"I know, Sir," the man replied apologetically, "but this ain—is not my usual route – I'm coverin' for your usual guy, you see – so some things had to be... changed."
Buck heaved a tired sigh…back in his day he'd light a stick or cigar without a care—no pansy-ass Surgeon General back then. When the government made disclaimers the lay of the land, he'd still light up and paid them no mind. 'Til the day emphysema started in on his lungs. Some would call that karma, but not Buck.
He jerked his head to the man with the tanks begrudgingly. "Take 'em in the house. Be quick about it; I'll know if you touch anything."
*
Bonnie watched all this transpire quietly from her spot by the van, a voyeur. Two strangers engaging one another just yards away. She pretended she was watching a silent movie. Lifting her camera to her face and peering through the viewfinder, she carefully focused on her specimen, adjusting her lens to zoom in on the geriatric fellow as his mouth moved inaudibly. Perfect shot.
The girl lowered her camera to find her father had gone into the house, and the old man had finally noticed her presence. She waved her hand meekly by way of a greeting, and was reciprocated by a retreating back as the man unceremoniously got up off his plastic patio chair and shuffled into the house, a walker aiding his escape. How rude, she thought.
Having had the grumpy old man leave at the sight of her, she resumed her curious assessment of the exterior of his home undisturbed: It was a warm morning in early spring. The white, two-story house sat on two acres of land; bright yellow dandelions peppered the unkempt lawn. At the far side of the property was a mean chain-link fence with barbwire coiling along its top rail, bordering where the neighbors' yard probably began and this one ended.
Something on the side of the house catches the girl's attention, an odd sort of sight that piqued her interest instantly. She looks back at the door, expecting her father to return any minute. Yet after five minutes pass and no one comes out, she takes the initiative and lurks towards the house. Bonnie reached her destination unseen, a wooden tool shed with a statue of the Virgin Mary out front. In the long shadows of this ordinary shed was something extraordinary: two tombstones erected side by side, jutting from the bright green blades of grass. The left stone's engravings had faded presumably due to time, the edges of the letters smooth and barely legible now, and the tombstone on the right had sharper letters. A contrast to the front yard, the gravesite had been mowed and cared for reverently.
Squatting down, she prepares to capture the monuments; as she adjusts the camera to frame the respected epitaphs, her vision blurs, eyes stinging. Without even trying her eyes began to well with hot tears. She blinks a couple times and dismisses it as her sinuses acting up from the dewy grass and the next time see looks into the viewfinder it's as clear as the sky overhead.
An eerie sensation of a different sort turns the hairs up at the back of her neck, the feeling one gets when he or she knows someone's close or watching you. Chancing a glance back to the house behind her reveals a silhouette just inside a paned window of the pristine white house: a balding head bobs just within view. So, that old man from the porch was leering at her, yet somehow she knows his dubious stare wasn't the phantom presence giving her the goosebumps, and she whirls back to look down at the graves... It didn't occur to her that she was treading upon a very sacred place for any god fearing individual, and a stranger's back yard, and –
"That's my Grandma."
Bonnie nearly jumps out her skin at the voice, grabbing her chest to still her rapidly beating heart. Her eyes shoot up to find a boy – no, a man, a man that looked to be in his early 20s – standing several feet away. His worn cap is pulled tight over his eyes, his faded plaid shirt unbuttoned and a sweaty undershirt that she can only assume used to be white clings to his chest underneath. His weathered jeans have grass stains on the knees and he leaned precariously on the handle of a rake. Lastly, she scrutinizes his hard-pressed face and drooping eyes, and his initial indifference to her trespassing makes the pounding of her heart subside a little.
"I-I didn't mean to be rude," she motions to the graves. "I was... I'm sorry, 'bout your grandmother..?" The man didn't seem to mind her intrusion, he perches the rake on a lumpy, black trash bag filled with yard waste and steps over to the headstone on the right, she stays where she is, at the base between the two plots; she'd been careful not to step on the slight telltale grassy mounds there.
"H'mm..." He folds his arms over his chest and stares down at the plots, his jaw flexes. He looks beaten down, melancholy. "...my Ma." He nods down to the stone closest to him. Perusing the tombstone's epitaph, Bonnie discovers his mother's name was Eleanor Grotowski.
Placing her camera in the messenger bag around her shoulders, Bonnie shoves her hands into her short pockets. "I'm sorry for your losses."
"... Thanks."
Bonnie looked at her feet, "So, aren't you gonna kick me out? Or ask why a stranger's in your backyard, ogling tombstones?"
"I reckoned I'd give ya a break," he drawled in a thick, impeccably southern accent. "...since you've lost someone too."
Something flashed in Bonnie's eyes then. "H-How would you know that?"
"I jus' do." Sonny says simply, taking off the tough gloves he was wearing to pull weeds.
Bonnie doesn't reply, and they stand in contrite lament for a few moments.
"I... My name is Bonnie."
Breaking the ice, a keen smile twitches at the corner of his mouth at her impromptu introduction.
"Eugene." He offers quietly. "Er'yone calls me 'Sonny' though."
She smiles at that. "Nice to meet you, Sonny."
"Pleasure's all mine, Miss Bonnie."
"JADE!"
Bonnie jolts alert at her father's call. She steps away from the graves, turning to run back to the front of the house, looking back over her shoulder and offering her new acquaintance what she hoped to be an apologetic look.
"I gotta go!" she called unnecessarily, getting farther and farther away. "Bye!"
Sonny just tipped the brim of his cap with a finger in mock salute, and then went back to work.
*
Bonnie skidded around the corner to run smack dab into her father, who looked peeved at having to call her when he told her to stay put by the delivery van.
"What, you hard a'hearing, girl?" she didn't have anytime to catch her breath before he was pulling her towards the van. "Get yo' ass in there!"
"Daddy, I didn't do anything!" She pleaded, but didn't know why.
"I've been calling you fo' ten minutes, Jade." He snapped impatiently as they climbed into the van. "TEN minutes!"
"I was in the back yard."
"Fo' what?!"
"Uh --" she sputtered as he shifted the van in reverse and pressed the gas paddle. She flew forward, her hands shot out to brace the dashboard lest she would impale the windshield at the scary speed he was going. Bonnie said the first thing that came to mind as she recovered and buckled up her seatbelt. "I saw a bird back there and wanted to take a picture of it. You know… like what Mama used to do."
"Don't ev'va do that shit again, Jade. I didn't know where you were --"
"I was just --"
"Be quiet!" He shifted the gear into drive and they spun recklessly into the empty, dusty main road, heading east towards the hospital. "I said, 'don't do that shit again.' Ya hear me?"
"Yes, sir." She said weakly. The rest of the drive back he didn't talk to her, and she did not expect him to. He was upset about something else, she could tell, anger radiated off of him in waves as he silently fumed. As the van sped along the road she was left thinking one question: What could have gotten him all bothered at that white house?
