Note: I don't own 'em.
Note 2: The story at the end was the story my gran used to tell me and my brother when we were little. As far as I know she mad eit up herself, so if you want to use it for anything, just ask okay? I'll say yes, I'd just like to know where abouts it's going.
Tears Of A Clown, 1/1,
by Alice R. (aka Alicamel)
Sometimes.
Sometimes he wonders. Wonders if he started screaming, right now, in the middle of the exam room, would anyone pay attention.
Crazy.
Sometimes he wonders. If he didn't turn up one day, what would they say? If he didn't show up the next day. Or the next. How long before someone came to his room, where he lay, before they knocked, not knowing he would never answer it again.
Foolish.
Sometimes he dreams. Sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes it's not worth it. Days like dreams, always smiling, always laughing, being laughed at. The clown of the ER. And then home, to his apartment, wipe off the mask, take off the costume. Back to reality.
Sometimes he stays awake all night, just to see the sunrise. Because his mom always told him that sunrise was when the angels came out of hiding to fly back to heaven. Because they would always watch the sunrise, together, from the roof of their apartment building, until one evening she took a walk off the roof and ended up as far from the sun as you can get.
Sometimes he leans over the edge. Peers at the ground, trying to guess the distance. But he was never any good at estimating meters. So he walks back down the stairs. Puts on his clown costume and enters the big top ring once more. Once, he tried to fly down, by the route of too much vodka and a sharp knife.
He takes the El to work. Sits by a window and watches the scenery. Or he sits facing inwards and watches the people. Dreamers at this hour. Or people like him. Early shift, up with the sun. They seem along way off. Like ghosts, floating on candy floss clouds.
When he was eight, his older sister took him to a fair. She never had before and would never again. She let him ride the rides and play the games, while she only watched. She didn't ride anything except the carousel. She rode it again and again and when he tried to get her to get off and buy him some candy floss, she pushed him away. She rode it until she was dizzy, then stumbled off and threw up in the bushes.
The next day he found her in the bathtub, the water cooling and stained red.
He always rides the carousel now, whenever the fair is in town. If they knew, they'd laugh, call him `childish,' but it was expected in a way. And he expects it of himself. He rides it till he feels sick and throws up in the bushes. Then he goes home, runs a hot bath, and lies in it. Goes to bed with tears of disappointment on his face.
He's a few minutes late to work and the Chief is there, as always, yelling and scolding, like a parent. Not his of course. His mother never scolded and his father . . . well. The Chief was better than his father. And in the lounge he looks at the other lockers, the family pictures, the happy holidays. Haleh's, covered in smiling children, even Abby with a picture of her mom and dad and brother.
His is bare of photos, like his apartment. He has some, but they're old, and there's never one where everyone's smiling. The only recent ones are of his other sister, little Laura, who always looks like she's in another world, mainly because she is.
After everything with his mom, and then his older sister, he imagines a more sensible person would have spoken up. Call out. A cry for help.
He never did. Laura was strange, she always was. And he knew, even then, he had to protect her. Keep them from locking he away, where he knew she would wither and die. Now, he's trained. He knows the names, the classification that lumps her with another 0.2 percent of the population. Knows it's best for her to be somewhere where people are there 24/7, to watch her, take care of her, make sure she doesn't . . .
Sometimes, he visits her, but she doesn't always recognise him. Sometimes she thinks he's their father, which hurts, but he can't blame her. He looks a lot like him.
When a run of GSW came in, he was passed to triage. The less critical patients. Stitching and sowing small wounds back together, never getting near the big ones, trusting them to others. One young girl cried the whole time, until her father appeared around the corner. And he stood back then, watched the tearful reunion of father and daughter.
His father never touched him. Ever. Never pulled him onto his lap to read him a story, because his mother always made them up for him, but quietly, whispered and hasty. Never hugged him when he scored a home run, because he never played little league and was never any good at sports despite his fathers sporting glories. Never so much as batted him on the arm in congratulations, because his father never saw much in him to congratulate.
He broke Dave's ribs a few times, but somehow, Dave doesn't think that counts.
As he gets the El back home, he looks out the window and thinks. Tells himself one of the many stories she made up to keep them quiet at bedtime, to keep *him* quiet, to keep his unseen presence away from them, to protect them.
The tale of the young boy whose teacher told her class to bring in the shiniest thing they could find, and that the person that brought in the shiniest object would win a prize. But his mother told the little boy that she had nothing to give him, and whose father scolded him for imagining he had anything worth while to give to him. And when he went to class he looked at everyone else's pretty things, shinny make-up mirrors, or pieces of glass. Watched how the teacher oohed and ahhed over everything they showed her.
And when the teacher asked the little boy what he had, he began crying. Told her that he had nothing to give her, because his parents couldn't , or wouldn't give him anything to bring in. And as the tears tracked down his face, the teacher turned to the class and told them that the little boy had won, because his tears were shinier than any of the mirrors, or glass, or diamond rings they had shown her.
Note 2: The story at the end was the story my gran used to tell me and my brother when we were little. As far as I know she mad eit up herself, so if you want to use it for anything, just ask okay? I'll say yes, I'd just like to know where abouts it's going.
Tears Of A Clown, 1/1,
by Alice R. (aka Alicamel)
Sometimes.
Sometimes he wonders. Wonders if he started screaming, right now, in the middle of the exam room, would anyone pay attention.
Crazy.
Sometimes he wonders. If he didn't turn up one day, what would they say? If he didn't show up the next day. Or the next. How long before someone came to his room, where he lay, before they knocked, not knowing he would never answer it again.
Foolish.
Sometimes he dreams. Sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes it's not worth it. Days like dreams, always smiling, always laughing, being laughed at. The clown of the ER. And then home, to his apartment, wipe off the mask, take off the costume. Back to reality.
Sometimes he stays awake all night, just to see the sunrise. Because his mom always told him that sunrise was when the angels came out of hiding to fly back to heaven. Because they would always watch the sunrise, together, from the roof of their apartment building, until one evening she took a walk off the roof and ended up as far from the sun as you can get.
Sometimes he leans over the edge. Peers at the ground, trying to guess the distance. But he was never any good at estimating meters. So he walks back down the stairs. Puts on his clown costume and enters the big top ring once more. Once, he tried to fly down, by the route of too much vodka and a sharp knife.
He takes the El to work. Sits by a window and watches the scenery. Or he sits facing inwards and watches the people. Dreamers at this hour. Or people like him. Early shift, up with the sun. They seem along way off. Like ghosts, floating on candy floss clouds.
When he was eight, his older sister took him to a fair. She never had before and would never again. She let him ride the rides and play the games, while she only watched. She didn't ride anything except the carousel. She rode it again and again and when he tried to get her to get off and buy him some candy floss, she pushed him away. She rode it until she was dizzy, then stumbled off and threw up in the bushes.
The next day he found her in the bathtub, the water cooling and stained red.
He always rides the carousel now, whenever the fair is in town. If they knew, they'd laugh, call him `childish,' but it was expected in a way. And he expects it of himself. He rides it till he feels sick and throws up in the bushes. Then he goes home, runs a hot bath, and lies in it. Goes to bed with tears of disappointment on his face.
He's a few minutes late to work and the Chief is there, as always, yelling and scolding, like a parent. Not his of course. His mother never scolded and his father . . . well. The Chief was better than his father. And in the lounge he looks at the other lockers, the family pictures, the happy holidays. Haleh's, covered in smiling children, even Abby with a picture of her mom and dad and brother.
His is bare of photos, like his apartment. He has some, but they're old, and there's never one where everyone's smiling. The only recent ones are of his other sister, little Laura, who always looks like she's in another world, mainly because she is.
After everything with his mom, and then his older sister, he imagines a more sensible person would have spoken up. Call out. A cry for help.
He never did. Laura was strange, she always was. And he knew, even then, he had to protect her. Keep them from locking he away, where he knew she would wither and die. Now, he's trained. He knows the names, the classification that lumps her with another 0.2 percent of the population. Knows it's best for her to be somewhere where people are there 24/7, to watch her, take care of her, make sure she doesn't . . .
Sometimes, he visits her, but she doesn't always recognise him. Sometimes she thinks he's their father, which hurts, but he can't blame her. He looks a lot like him.
When a run of GSW came in, he was passed to triage. The less critical patients. Stitching and sowing small wounds back together, never getting near the big ones, trusting them to others. One young girl cried the whole time, until her father appeared around the corner. And he stood back then, watched the tearful reunion of father and daughter.
His father never touched him. Ever. Never pulled him onto his lap to read him a story, because his mother always made them up for him, but quietly, whispered and hasty. Never hugged him when he scored a home run, because he never played little league and was never any good at sports despite his fathers sporting glories. Never so much as batted him on the arm in congratulations, because his father never saw much in him to congratulate.
He broke Dave's ribs a few times, but somehow, Dave doesn't think that counts.
As he gets the El back home, he looks out the window and thinks. Tells himself one of the many stories she made up to keep them quiet at bedtime, to keep *him* quiet, to keep his unseen presence away from them, to protect them.
The tale of the young boy whose teacher told her class to bring in the shiniest thing they could find, and that the person that brought in the shiniest object would win a prize. But his mother told the little boy that she had nothing to give him, and whose father scolded him for imagining he had anything worth while to give to him. And when he went to class he looked at everyone else's pretty things, shinny make-up mirrors, or pieces of glass. Watched how the teacher oohed and ahhed over everything they showed her.
And when the teacher asked the little boy what he had, he began crying. Told her that he had nothing to give her, because his parents couldn't , or wouldn't give him anything to bring in. And as the tears tracked down his face, the teacher turned to the class and told them that the little boy had won, because his tears were shinier than any of the mirrors, or glass, or diamond rings they had shown her.