"I've never had any intentions about anything. That's why I am where I am today, which is neither here nor there, in a literal sense."
-Edward Gorey
~*oOo*~
Hello, my dears. As always, I hope you're doing well…been thinking about publishing this story for awhile (though it was accidentally deleted with a good deal of my other work T_T). Today just seemed like a good day to work on it because: One, I have the day off, and Two, it was Edward Gorey's birthday yesterday. I would have finished it then, but I wasn't feeling very well and spent the day doing absolutely nothing.
Hats off to this man and his chilling, whimsical stories...I'd compare him to a sort of darker Roald Dahl. In retrospect, maybe it's better not to try and compare him to anyone at all, because he just IS. Or rather was. *Salutes*
Please review, my dears.
She smiles wanly at some lame joke a parent gives in their awkward conclave and tips back a sip of the bright red, store-bought punch she drinks merely because she is bored. Resisting the urge to glance at her watch, she merely lowers her paper cup and her eyes wander through a jungle of colored strings dangling from various Me-Mobiles hanging around the classroom.
Upon finding a curious specimen, her eyes widen and the heavy-set woman immediately turns to her neighbor, prods her on the shoulder and asks:
"Why, who is that man?"
Windows normally dark at this hour at Wilson Pine Elementary are full of egg-yellow light, complete with several dark silhouettes moving about, the larger ones being pulled around by the smaller.
It's a scene that old Wilson Pines has seen too many times, with the same cheesy 'Welcome Parents' signs (although later on they had been modified to read 'Welcome Parents/Guardians as to seem more PC) hanging up in the halls, with the same art projects hanging up in the halls outside the classroom doors. For many teachers, it's a repeat of the same parents when their old students have younger siblings. Not much changes other than the children themselves, whom are typically average in average households ruled by average parents.
In the meetings themselves, they are very predictable for the most part. Cheap punch, small talk, your turn to talk with the teacher about your child, mostly standing around in polite silence while you wait your turn to pick up your son/daughter's grades so that they aren't mailed and thus pilfered from the mailbox.
But in Mr. Laurinaitis' third-grade class, the man across the room sitting next to two small, identical grinning children showing him their brown bag hand-puppets is a bit different than most at Wilson, and this is something a sharp-eyed mother noticed immediately, interest piqued.
"Why, who is that man?" She asks her neighbor, prodding her and jutting her eyes meaningfully in the man's direction. "Whose father is that?"
Her neighbor quickly glances up and then back down again, as if what she had seen hurt her eyes. "That's Alfred and what's-his-face's-Dad," she says quietly. "His name tag said Mr. Kirkland. I'm not sure what his first name is."
"Well, what's wrong with him?" The woman demands. "Where's their mother?"
She happened to be alone because her husband was at work, so what was the big fuss? Toris Laurinaitis was listening to a woman anxiously ask him what her son's chances for Harvard was—how in the world was he supposed to know?—but he overheard Mrs. Køhler and inwardly stiffened. He ought to go over there now and distract her; his colleague Elizaveta had warned him about her having suffering her last year.
"I heard from my boy that they don't have one." A lady murmurs. "Gilbert ought not to have asked, but he kept prodding and I think Matthew finally told him that their mother passed away."
"A single parent and he's crippled?" Mrs. Køhler exclaims, perhaps a little more loudly than necessary."With twin boys?"
Really. They could stand to be a little more considerate, Toris thinks sourly, gently extracting himself from the helicopter parent with some difficulty and a few muttered clichés. Alfred's shoulders are stiffening now, and his behavior's been so good recently—he would hate for the boy to throw a tantrum. "Mrs. Køhler,would you like to take a look at your son's science—"
"Lord have mercy on him." The Danish woman says sagely. "He must get some help, of course. But how do you hold a job with that sort of condition? He must be living on welfare."
"Louise," A man scolds, looking exceedingly embarrassed. "Not so loud..."
"Poor lambs." Could she just tune out every voice but her own? "Must be so hard, not having a mother and only having half a father. Mr. K must be so frustrated, bless his heart, not being able to do any—"
Matthew was still talking about his book in a bag project, but now his eagerness had given way to trouble. And Alfred's fists were shaking, this was not good, this was not good, Toris hastily picked up a cupcake from the table and pressed it into Louise's hands. "Here, ma'am, you look like you're wasting away."
Quite plump, the woman just giggled and obliged, eyes widening after her teeth sank into the cotton candy pink frosting, and she let out a hum of approval.
"These are delicious. Absolutely stunning! Who bought these and from where?"
"Actually, no one did," Toris said vaguely, a small smile on his face. "Mr. Kirkland generously offered to make them for us. He's quite the chef."
Mrs. Køhlerstopped in mid-chew, looking astounded. Automatically her head swiveled in the man's direction, but she nearly yelped when she saw him looking back at her, his uncanny eyes (He HAS to wear contacts or have some kind of medical condition, how else…?) boring into her, a very huge and indulging grin on his face. He merrily waved at her enthusiastically, as if they were two very close friends who happened to note each other on the opposite sides of a football stadium.
Very hesitantly, she waved back and looked away, face burning, her appetite quite diminished somehow as pink sugar oozed down her chin.
~*oOo*~
Breathe in, out. Why did adults have to do it, too? Alfred glares at the green chalkboard ahead of him, crossing his arms and scowling heavily. It was annoying enough that little kids sometimes pointed at them in public and said things like Mommy, lookit! But there was no getting around it; people would stare if Arthur Kirkland sat in his chair, even when they conspicuously made it a point to not stare. It made him feel defensive, angry, protective of his Daddy even if the idea were vaguely idiotic.
Maybe it was the eyes more than anything else that unsettled people. Sometimes, he almost wished Daddy would don shades or could wear contact lenses.
But with or without his eyes, they would also stare if they saw Daddy without his blankets and chair, though they'd probably be doing more crying and sprinting away and pulling out their phones to call the guard. No doubt it was better this way, but still. He ought to go over there and give Matthias' blabbermouth head Mom a what-for.
Matthew gives him a warning look, and a wordless conversation passes between them. Even if he lets his arms drop, Alfred still pouts, his larkspur eyes fierce.
"Come here, poppet," Daddy says kindly, patting him on the shoulder. "Never mind people like that. You're not ashamed of me, are you?"
"Course not!"
"Well, then, try to smile. You two have done nicely this year," Their father remarks cheerfully, and both twins let out audible sighs of relief. "Alfred, your conduct has gone up a letter grade! Very good. You should be proud of yourself. And Matthew, your math grade is an A now, smashing...didn't I tell you could do it if you tried? We'll have to have pancakes tomorrow for breakfast."
"The red velvet ones or the Fourth of July ones?" Alfred demands. "I want the Fourth of July ones!"
Matthew's face falls a little at that. "Um, I w-want..."
"I don't see why you can't have both," Mr. Kirkland notes mildly, effectively making both boys cheer. "Now, show me this puppet theater of yours you've been talking so much about."
"Yeah! Our class made it!"
"I think you might have mentioned that oh…give or take a thousand times, darling."
"Daaaad, don't call me 'darling' when we're in school!"
"Very well, my little gingerbread men…"
At that, both boys groan and race to the other side of the room, Mr. Kirkland pulling an electronic lever and following. The twins take his hands and soon tug him over to the little painted stage made of cardboard covered with tinfoil stars, both chattering. From his position by the window, the Lithuanian can't hide a small smile. Certainly makes a nice scene.
Matthew and Alfred Kirkland are eight year old twin boys. Normal, healthy ones, apple-cheeked and merry, even if Matthew can be a little timid and Alfred a little rambunctious. Despite their near mirror-likeness to each other, most of their classmates can tell them apart with ease, considering they never wear matching clothes and have somewhat different hair styles. They and their teacher learned from early on that neither twin tolerates being mistaken for the other very well, considering the fact that Alfred will normally throw a tantrum and Matthew starts crying.
The boys really don't stand out much from their other classmates, their likes and dislikes usually on par with many of the other children; Alfred likes baseball, used to like Happy Meals but doesn't anymore, wants to be a fireman or an astronaut or a superhero when he grows up. Matthew likes hockey, breakfast for dinner, and isn't sure what he wants to be just yet, though he'd like to travel.
Every morning, their father dutifully sees them off at school, hands the boys their lunchboxes and kisses them goodbye. Sometimes he'll wait inside the hall until Mr. Toris gently but unsubtly closes the door.
Mr. Kirkland is an interesting, fun man, a doting parent. They've talked before and while Arthur's eyes and smile might be, perhaps, a little...uncustomary, he really does seem very nice, very charming and very involved in his sons' schoolwork and lives. Despite the fact that he cannot seem to walk, he dresses very trimly always in bow ties and crisp shirts and suits and what have you, even if they usually look like they've been left in a vat of Easter egg colouring.
Speaking of bright color, one time when he'd called Arthur to pick up a sick Matthew from school, the man had come in such a hurry he'd forgotten that he had red paint all over his front. Not to worry, he had assured a bewildered Toris, he liked to do a little artwork on the sly when he wasn't busy working and the boys were at school. It was good to have a parent who enjoyed crafts.
For reasons Toris doesn't know (and he's far too polite to pry), Arthur Kirkland is wheelchair bound, always with a thick layer of blankets over his lap and a pair of gloves on his hands, even in the still fairly-warm Autumn weather. Perhaps the man feels as if he has something to hide; he's heard rumors from the office that Mr. Kirkland was in some sort of accident a few years ago, which had left him maimed and took the life of his wife. Such a pity. But if the sandy-haired man is sad, he certainly doesn't show it. He's almost always smiling, regardless of the circumstances.
And every day when the bell rings, rain or shine, Mr. Kirkland is waiting outside the school for his boys, always with another kiss and a request to hear about their day. Occasionally he'll scoop Matthew and Alfred into his lap and off the three go in the motorized chair humming dutifully along as they head home.
He can't help but feel some admiration for him. Plenty of his students are brought up in single parent households, but having come from one himself, he knows it isn't easy for parent or child. But at least his mother hadn't been paralyzed or disfigured by any means. But despite of this, the twins seem remarkably well-adjusted. This was refreshing, a means to remind him why he became a teacher (beside the fact that his drag-queen roommate more or less forced him into it).
Soon enough, parents begin slipping out the door and Toris sees them off, hand aching from so many shakes. Grading book reports hurts less. The Kirklands are among the last in the revue, Arthur positively beaming
"Well, I think we'll be off now, Mr. Laurinaitis," Arthur trills. Mr. Kirkland is one of the only parents who bothered to learn his last name and likely insisted on his children learning it too, considering Matthew and Alfred could say it just fine on the second day of school. "These two have to get ready for bed soon."
"Can I sit in the chair, Daddy?" Matthew asks hopefully.
"Can I hold the handles and ride from the back?" Alfred pipes up.
"Yes, Matthew, no, Alfred. Ah, ah, ah," Arthur chides reprovingly when Alfred's face falls. "You'll tip us over that way, darling, and THAT might be a bit of a mess. It's not like the grocery carts in the store."
"How...if you don't mind me asking sir, are you going to head back?" Toris asks nervously. There aren't any more cars in the lot. Do they have a ride?
The man blinks, still keeping his smirk. "Well, same way we always do."
"Are you quite certain you want to head off in the dark?" Toris asks anxiously. Oh, he knows he ought not to pry and it should be just fine, but a physically disabled man with two small boys out late at night? "You've mentioned before that it's not much of a distance, but in the evening..."
"Oh, come now, Toris," Arthur chirps pooh-poohedly. "No different than walking home during the day, I assure you."
"We'll be fine, Mr. Laurinaitis," Alfred assures his teacher, grinning when his father scoops him up into his lap. "Daddy won't let anything hurt us. We're totally safe."
"Al," Matthew mutters, looking at his feet.
"That's very true." Mr. Kirkland responds sweetly, picking up Matthew next. Toris notes that whatever the man's leg weakness is, his upper-body strength seems more than fine. "I might be in need of a chair, my good fellow, but I trust you I'm more than agile when it comes to my little ones' safety."
His already broad smile widens, and Toris wonders if Arthur Kirkland is trying to smile at all, or is deliberately being creepy. The grin actually looks a little painful, stretched across from ear to ear, like a seam about to rip. "Actually, should anyone try to harm my little gumdrops—"
"Daaaaaaddy…"
"—I think it'd be a most interesting sight. Hardly one fit for third graders, however. Or for third grade teachers, for that matter."
"Heh." Toris coughs and tries not to sputter. "W-well, clearly, let's hope such things never come to pass."
"Yes, absolutely!" Mr. Kirkland laughs. "Ha, ha, ha! Well, Mr. Laurinaitis, it's been lovely seeing you again, old sport. If you're ever in the neighborhood, stop by, won't you? We'd be more than pleased to have you for dinner."
The teacher blinks, for a foolish moment taking the statement in a completely different context than the one Mr. Kirkland probably intended. But by the time he's re-gathered his wits, the wheelchair is already humming its way down the ramp, heading off for the sidewalk where it will disappear into the night.
Matthew doesn't say much on their trip home, though Alfred's busy chattering about his science fair project. It's true that it's dark out, and normally he'd be nervous, but he's still pressed up against Daddy's side, so it's hard to be very scared. Well, for them, anyhow. If some prowler or mugger tried to jump the three, sufficient to say Matthew would be extremely frightened...
...for the mugger or prowler's sake.
If they knew the truth and still approached, he could only assume they had some kind of death wish. Shivering, he tucks some of Daddy's blankets over his lap and looks up at the stars as they pass some glowing streetlamps, Daddy and Alfred still in deep conversation.
No doubt come tomorrow, a lot of the same old questions will come up, the way they do every year after a parent teacher conference:
"How come your Dad's in a wheelchair? Did his legs get broke?"
"No," Matthew will say quickly, before Alfred's temper leads him into saying something they'll both regret. "But they'd hurt real bad if he tried. And he'd fall and get even more hurt, so he sits in a wheelchair."
"How come?"
"He just told you," Alfred will snap defensively. "Leave us alone."
"What's wrong with him? What's with his eyes? Why is he like that?"
"He just is. Go away."
And the questions will keep flying, because people are incredibly rude and nosy, and they'll get the teacher to firmly ask their fellow students to shut up. And they will, for awhile, and then when someone wants to get Alfred's goat, they'll tease his father and his little fists will start flying. And then he'll cry and be angry, and Matthew will have to find a way to soothe him before he accidentally says something to Daddy.
And that's something that can't happen. Shouldn't happen. Not after last time.
He presses his face against Daddy's ribs and feels a comforting hand start smoothing his head. Perhaps Alfred joins in, because the boy falls quiet and the hand occasionally wanders away from Matthew, probably to rub Alfred's neck. Daddy needs one hand to work the mechanical steering device on the right arm of the chair, and while he can easily touch both boys with separate hands whilst operating the control, he probably doesn't dare to until they get home. Not safe until then, even under the cover of darkness.
Matthew fidgets a little in the seat. Daddy doesn't actually NEED to sit in a wheelchair. Well, he does, but doesn't. It's hard to explain, because Daddy can and does walk just fine. Albeit a little differently than most folks. The wheelchair just simplifies matters, because it gives the man an excuse to wear blankets, which are the real coverage. There's only so much he can keep withdrawn in his body, and a lot of the appendages that can only be folded would look strange even under the bulkiest of clothing.
And beneath the waist...
One day, with a guilty conscience after his second-grade teacher had told them the story of The Little Liar That Couldn't, Matthew approached his father in the parlor, who looked the way he always did at home, when he was free to be himself and did not have to use the wheelchair.
Or the blankets.
Or the gloves.
Or anything else Daddy has to use to hide what he actually was in public.
He'd been perched on his...feet, holding a book with one pair of arms, another pair dutifully working on knitting a sweater out of some translucent material, another pair folded at his waist where...the reasonably "normal-looking" flesh ended.
"Daddy, aren't we lying to people?"
"How so, child?"
The second grader shifted from one foot to the other. "Well...Mrs. Héderváry says we should always tell the truth. And...we're kind of not doing that," he said nervously, not daring to look his father in the eyes. The man was scarcely ever angry, but Matthew was a very cautious little boy by nature. "It's in all the books she reads to us," He added quickly, keen to add to his defense.
Arthur rolls his eyes and sets down his knitting and his book. "Lord, what are they teaching you in school these days?" His child eyed him uncertainly, wringing his hands. "Matthew, I'd like to ask you a question: If a man came to you one day while you stood upon a bridge, got down upon his knees, and begged you to tell him that the planet you and he live on is Mars or he'd jump, what would you do?"
Bewildered, Matthew blinked and thought carefully, with all his second grade logic.
"I can't tell him we live on Mars. We don't."
"He's delusional," Arthur says dismissively, waving one of many pale arms impatiently. "He doesn't care if it is or isn't in actuality the truth; he just wants someone to enforce his belief to make it true. True for him, anyway."
"Wouldn't that be lying?"
"Wouldn't it be noble to save a man's life?" The "man" asked. "It's really quite a big fall, my little daisy, and not one you can easily put yourself together again after taking it. In fact, you're likely to break like an egg from such a long, long way up."
Matthew bit his lip. "But if he goes home..." He wavered. "And he finds out the truth...because lotsa people know we don't live on Mars..."
"Say he doesn't find out. Say he only needs to hear a sweet lie from one person to forever cotton his ears to the truth that will destroy him. You tell him his white lie, and he can go home blissful and at peace to watch television, and you can go about your day thinking about how tremendously stupid some people are. Or," Arthur supplied, in honeyed tones, "You can obey your precious honor code, tell him the truth, and watch as the king's horses and the king's men try to scrape up this man with a spatula. What is the right thing to do, here?"
"T-tell the man that we live on M-Mars."
At that, Daddy beamed at him, patted him on the head. "You're a very bright boy, you know that?"
~*oOo*~
Before long, their home looms in the distance, familiar, safe. It's not the best-kept home, admittedly; some of the shingles are falling off and the paint job is incredibly uneven, looks like a pair of six year olds tried to have at it, but otherwise the house is not in blatant disrepair. There are lots of flowers growing outside, most of them pink and purple (much to the boys' dismay) though some are red, white, and blue. It's a cheerful rainbow mishmash, and the house has a sort of comforting feel to it rather than a frightening one, rather like that friend's house or car which is usually in messy, indifferent and unfussy chaos.
When the Kirklands first moved in, mothers had done a lot of tongue-clicking and said things like Bravo to brave Mr. Kirkland, and all that. I certainly couldn't raise two small boys on my own, could you? Certainly not in that condition, and other women would nod solemnly, even if no one knew what Mr. Kirkland's condition WAS, exactly. People brought a great deal of casseroles and dishes and there seemed to be a sort of unofficial rotation as to who would bring over dinner every day. But they needn't have bothered; Arthur Kirkland was a very capable cook, and his children were certainly very lucky as to have his food over the school food, which while not unduly horrible, has a strange sort of waxy skein to it, even in the pudding.
Mr. Kirkland is very fond of baking, and the house usually wafts full of pleasant scents every Friday, which is when Arthur likes to try making a new recipe. Cookbooks litter the kitchen shelves, and the family belongs to the library, so it's not unusual for the man to pick up a volume of outlandish desserts full of things like peppermint snow (Alfred was perplexed; where DOES one get that?), compressed persimmons, honey gelée, cranberry pudding, and anise hyssop. Admittedly the twins have no idea what most of these things are, but more often than not they taste magnificent, even if there were a few failures like the tomato cake or the fish and chips ice cream sandwich.
Tomorrow, it'll be baking time again. Alfred's thoughts flash back to last week, when Arthur had settled for a simple chocolate raspberry cheesecake and the twins had loitered around the kitchen until Arthur let them both have a taste.
"Tell me, loves, what do you think about it?"
"It's yummy!" Alfred exclaimed happily, sucking on his fingers. "Can I lick the bowl, please, please, please?"
"I want to lick the spoon!"
But with every bite on his second-favorite day of the week comes an ounce of bittersweetness, one that's difficult to swallow even with the honeyed tea Arthur always makes with the dessert.
Daddy never eats with them. Ever. Mealtimes mean just he and Mattie, and their father will usually join them at the table, never, ever with his own food and Alfred's relieved for that. Still, it's hard to enjoy something very sweet when every now and again the boys will look up to inhale and their father will be giving his masterpieces a wistful look.
It all looks pretty to him, that Alfred knows, and Daddy loves making things look nice, but it all looks like yuck to him.
And God, does he wish that Daddy could eat this, too. That it was enough.
~*oOo*~
A few months ago, there had been a guest over for dinner. His name was Mr. Bonnefoy and he'd been quiet, preferred to answer most of Daddy's bubbly questions about himself with grunts or shrugs as he stabbed each item on his plate like it had done him a deep and personal wrong. Daddy had told Matthew and Alfred that his name was Francis, they'd met over the Internet or something like that, and to be nice to him.
And they were, as much as they could be to their father's supper.
Francis hadn't been a very cheerful man, was unshaven and had a sort of dazed, bitter and world-weary look to himself, had smoked at the table even though the smell made everyone wrinkle their noses. Later that night Arthur had sent his boys to bed, tucking them in tightly and advising that they stay in their room that night.
They heard Arthur guiding Francis into his room, and they had heard little more after that, though they had lay awake, hearts jumping at the slightest sound until midnight. In the morning, Francis was gone and Daddy was even happier than usual, his stomach slightly extended. Neither boy asked where'd he gone or if he'd be coming back. They knew the answer.
Daddy does this because he needs to eat. Doesn't everyone?
"Daddy, I don't think you should do this anymore. Here…" Alfred tried to offer his bacon to his Daddy but the man had only shook his head.
"You know I can't eat that, darling. It'll only make me sick. I can't digest it."
"But—"
"Alfred, my sweet, do you know where hamburgers come from?"
"Hamburg," Alfred said proudly, puffing out his chest. "It's a place in Germany."
The man tutted, untying the apron he and Matthew had richly covered in macaroni and buttons; a Father's Day present. "Oh, my poor, sweet child. Would you like to know the real answer?"
Befuddled, Alfred slowly nodded and Arthur told him: "Cows. Hamburgers are made from cows."
"Like milk does?"
"Not quite. Would you like to see how it's done?" Arthur grinned in such a way that you could see all his teeth. "The meat processing plant offers some special tours to certain visitors. I'm sure I can arrange something."
And boy, did he.
As it was, the two could only handle about three minutes; Matthew started wailing when the dumb, gentle creatures were being torn into bloody sections, red splattering the glass of the viewing chamber where morose visitors watched, sickened. The moos thundered, groans and cries of agony, revolving grinders slicing through the creatures while they were still alive. More than one person in their little group let out retching noises, and Matthew fled from the room, hands over his mouth. Daddy was the only one who looked undisturbed by the spectacle—rather, he leaned forward as if watching a very interesting and provocative nature documentary.
Alfred had only held onto his father's hand, green-white and stricken. His breath had come as shallow gasps as the cows continued to be mashed into a pulpy, bloody paste, eyes popping out of sockets and rolling away on the assembly line which continued crisply and neatly with the other cows waiting for slaughter—
And Alfred fled. Arthur maneuvered his chair outside, where two shivery young boys were waiting, eyes huge with horror.
"Well, that was a learning experience!" Daddy said merrily. "Would you two like to stop at McDonald's before we head home?"
At that, Matthew visibly turned red, and the boy abruptly threw his breakfast up all over his shoes. Alfred burst into tears.
"Don't cry, Alfred." Alfred continued to wail, and Arthur bent to kiss away tears, licking his lips. "I don't do such things to people. I send them to sleep, happy, peaceful sleep, and they never feel a thing. Besides," he purred, nuzzling his distraught child like a playful kitten. "You know me. I only ever eat bad people. Francis was not a nice man. So I made him go away."
Hiccupping, Alfred rubs at his eyes and asked hopefully, "Like a h-hero?"
"That's right." A lie sweeter than anything Arthur Kirkland ever cooked. A kiss behind the bewildered-looking child's ear. "That's one of the many reasons why I could never eat you or Matthew. You are good. You are good and I love you."
"B-but," the little boy protested, clinging onto his father's lavender sweater vest. "Mattie and I c-can eat other things...c-can't..."
Another kiss, this one probably meant to silence him. "I do what I have to to live, dear one. If you feed a jungle cat a salad, it'll die. If I stopped doing what I did, if all the spiders turned their faces to the wall and stopped weaving their webs, all the insects in the world would multiply until there were swarms everywhere. Like locusts, they'd devour everything in sight and the humans would starve, or be stung or bitten to death. And the spiders would die, little one. Do you want that?"
"No!" Alfred shrieked, so loudly Arthur nearly toppled over. "Never! I want you to stay! Stay, please! PLEASE!"
The next day at school, Alfred traded his BLT sandwich for a gooey, mushy PBJ. And when a classmate discovered a spider in the bookshelf and knocked it to the ground so that he could squish it, Alfred tackled him and kicked him-hard-in the shins.
With a grunt of relief, Arthur pulls himself out of his chair, pulling out his stiff other arms from behind his back, another pair slowly sliding out from within his torso. Anyone who can stand to watch long enough without running and screaming would be fascinated, but Matthew and Alfred have seen this far too often to care very much. Even watching the onyx-colored, teardrop-shaped portion of Daddy's body slowly expand and swell with its bright red, hourglass-shaped crest and many thick, shining and fuzzy legs sliding free from it isn't very interesting, sort on on-par with a card trick you've seen a parent do many times or watching a microwave heat your food. Mildly interesting, but nothing to make a fuss about.
The spider hangs up the two report cards on the refrigerator with a smiley face magnet, turns to his boys and asks briskly: "Are you two ready for bed?"
Actually, Alfred doesn't sleep in a bed. He hasn't asked, but he's fairly certain he and Mattie are the only kids at school that sleep in a silvery net—like a hammock—several feet above the ground. The strands are soft, but strong, and Alfred and his brother have never fallen through, though Arthur makes it a point to touch up or re-do the web every two days, just to be safe. Saves money and a shopping trip, Daddy explained. Sometimes Matthew wonders what it'd be like to sleep on an actual mattress, but isn't sure if he wants to give up sleeping on silk for the privilege.
It's weird. It's gross. It's fun to bounce on.
After a quick bath and a brush of teeth, the boys get changed into their pajamas (Gowns spun out of silk because Daddy won't buy the Spiderman jammies at the store, for whatever reason) Matthew and Alfred clamor up and Daddy joins them a heartbeat later, with the book they've been reading for a few nights now about a mouse named Desperaux. The web sways when Alfred starts bouncing on it, but it holds.
"Daddy?" Matthew asks when Arthur finishes a chapter, vetoes Alfred's plead that he cover another, and starts to wrap them up for the evening. Other children probably have blankets that have sport team insignias or the ninja turtles on them or something. But Alfred and Matthew more or less get new ones every night.
"Hmm?"
"Are we weird people?"
"I should hope not, my dear boy."
Matthew doesn't say anything for a minute, watches his father plump a pillow for each boy. On Pajama Day at school, Arthur got normal night clothes for the twins because each bewailed the idea of being seen in a dress. Cotton didn't feel as nice as Matthew expected it would, but it had been a change. "You love me and Alfred, right?"
"Of course, dearheart." The spider accentuates the fact with a kiss before tucking him in. "Goodnight, my sweet ones. I love you very much."
And Matthew knows that, believes it even though sometimes Daddy makes him a little nervous, what with his sharp fangs showing and his retractable claws and his eyes. And very thin stomach. Hadn't he eaten anyo—anything lately?
But he can't be afraid of Daddy, can't understand why anyone else would be, even if they saw what he really looks like underneath the covers.
OoOoOoOoO
Once in awhile, one of them wakes from a bad dream. Alfred is especially prone to night terrors, what with his peverse love of bloodcurdling movies and books, like Alvin Schwartz's Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark.
Sometimes, Alfred stirs from dreams involving creatures scratching at his chimney (not that they own a chimney or a fireplace), or wild-eyed demons or worst of all, the very realistic and recurring nightmare that men subdue his father and stuff him in a cage, leaving Alfred racing after an armored car that's steadily getting away from him—
And it's after nights like these that he wakes up in a cold sweat, and nerves sick with fear, instead of springing onto a bed, Alfred seizes a spun ladder by its pearl-like, sticky rungs and starts to climb, imagining shadowy monsters and creatures with claws waiting for him at the bottom so he has to outrun them all—
He might smack into a wall or two, even trip, but the only reason he doesn't die immediately is because he's very fast. He runs, runs, runs into his father's den, grabs another ladder and starts to climb up.
On the nights there's a dishrag on the door, he knows not to go in because there's another nightmare waiting for him and the only thing he can do is charge back to his bedroom and cling to Matthew. But most evenings, he can run in and seize the web before clamoring up, hands trembling.
"Daddy…"
And a pair of glowing blue eyes will flick open in the darkness, with a hot pink spiral in each, lurid and whimsical and mad to the casual observer, orbs of safety to the crying boy scrambling for him.
It's not two arms but six that find him, smooth his hair, caress him and hold him close.
"Shhh, poppet. Please go to sleep. Nothing will touch you."
And Alfred believes him, closes his eyes against Arthur's bare and scarred shoulder, feels Daddy wrap him up in silk a few moments later. A sharp prick at his neck makes him wince, makes him realize Daddy nipped him to make him go to sleep.
It's hard to mind much, though. He's getting sleepier by the second, and he never dreams when on Daddy's venom. The spider told him the truth.
He feels better before closing his eyes, rapid heartbeat slowing.
Besides, few things are as reassuring as the fact that your Dad will gladly eat any monster that comes after you, human or otherwise.
OoOoOoOoO
Occasionally, like any other child does in Elementary school, Matthew would complain of a slight some classmate caused him: His friend Miguel mistook him for Alfred and hit him dead-on with a dodge ball during gym class, some girl called he and his brother four-eyes, someone cut in front of him during a trip to the water fountain or to the cafeteria. Minor hurts (excepting the dodge ball incident, which had stung for a day or two) that were easily forgotten just as soon as Matthew spoke of them on his way home from school. Normally Alfred would interrupt and start griping on Matthew's behalf, which was always nice, and then Daddy would take his cue to start talking about something else.
But one day, while Alfred was out of school with the flu, an eighth-grader stole Matthew's lunch, and when the young boy had told the teacher, the older boy waited until after school to punch the young boy in the mouth, dislodging a tooth. Admittedly it had been a loose tooth and he'd been looking to get rid of it anyway, but it was still very upsetting. Mouth full of blood and tooth in his fist, Matthew had run out of school in tears, and had told Daddy everything.
The following day, the boy did not show up at school, and Matthew tried very hard not to think about it.
OoOoOoOoO
After closing the twins' door, Arthur faintly wonders what he's to do with himself. It's been a long while—longer than he'd like to admit—since he'd enjoyed a good meal.
He typically likes to hunt in the dark, as it's so difficult to get prey to come inside (and there's a shortage of salesmen in their neighborhood because of the unnerving number that have disappeared here) without putting up a struggle. Hard to catch someone alone, harder still to bite them and carry them off unseen. Just eating them in the middle of the road and leaving their remains out in the open was certainly ill-advised; the last thing the man wanted was for investigators to swarm in town pursuing cannibals.
It's been awhile since he's been able to lure someone into coming to his home via online (hear hear for the miracles of modern technology), and his options are unfortunately limited if he went out to chase a meal right now. Besides, that really wasn't how spiders worked in any case. Spiders waited patiently for the flies to come to their own web before pulling them into their parlors.
Thoughtful, he pauses by his own room, eyes wandering back to the children's door.
Ah, school. While he wasn't ashamed of his business in the slightest, these kinds of things left children funny thoughts in their heads concerning their own fathers, and Arthur didn't want that. Maybe tomorrow while the twins were away he would try to coax the mailman in with some baked goods and take it from there. Obviously things would get too suspicious if he kept incessantly targeting delivery people, but he really was starting to get hungry. Almost hungry enough to contemplate dreadful things.
But never. I would never.
Resigned, he heads into his room with a sigh, attempts to interest himself with a book but fails; his stomach is positively gnawing at itself and his throat feels like it's been whetted with sandstone. Closing his eyes, he lies down at the heart of his web, willing for it to be morning.
He's on the verge of drifting off when his eyes flash open, a sickening and familiar lurch sending him upright with a jolt of fear. Arthur is never frightened, never, and this is loathsome.
Almost as loathsome as the creature he detects in his house.
With a frightful snarl, he abruptly leaps off his web, not bothering to climb down—and is abruptly out the door.
The intruder is looking around with faint curiosity when Arthur corners him. Rather than looking horrified, the creature smiles, many of its teeth cragged, many fangs looking broken, as if they'd been clamped around rocks.
"What do you do here?"
"Mmm? Can you not spare a nicer greeting for one who you would call kin?" The stranger purrs, eyes bright and malignant. "A very interesting dwelling you have here. I content myself with a cave in which I constructed my nest, but I suppose others are less willing to get their feet wet..."
"Why have you come?" Arthur asks again, no hint of his usual pretentious sweetness. For a moment, the stranger merely looks annoyed, but then brightens considerably.
"It has been such a long time," he drawls, scuttling forwards, pausing only when Arthur bares his teeth at him. "Since I have smelled in the air the scent of one who is like myself. I can't even begin to tell you how many years it's been," He adds remorsefully, shaking his head and sending dark hair swaying from side to side. "Forty? Fifty? Most of us have withdrawn into the Earth to sleep. It's so pleasurable to be proven wrong...
"And, to answer your question, I came calling because I was curious. I detected your scent...as well as a hint of some positively exquisite little morsels...and I had to wonder if perhaps my dear new neighbor would be happy to share?"
"Begone with you. They are mine."
"Do you wish to make them suppler and fatter before you eat them?" The strangers asks curiously, and Arthur wonders what his head will look like underneath a pie shell. "Personally, I would rather eat them before they get hard. Children have a way of doing that, you realize, running around and getting their skin all rough and tough and their bodies become wiry. Such an unpleasant, nasty business. Better to enjoy a glass of fine port rather than a tankard of stale beer—"
"They are mine," Arthur interrupts, with a smile that is not a smile. "And I have no intention of eating them."
Taken aback, the scraggly-haired man gawps at him. "What?" He asked incredulously, with the hint of a hiss. "So that's what you believe you are doing? Nurturing little children rather than readying them to die?" He shakes his head in mock disapproval, though his eyes shine with condemnation. "You poor, poor fool. You realize it's not good to keep livestock as pets, right? Makes it so terribly bothersome to eat them when they taste the same as anyone else…."
"You make me sick," Arthur tells him sunnily. The spider returns his grin with equal fervor.
"Really?" He asks with an amused lilt in his tone. "Can you truthfully say you have never devoured a child before?"
Arthur says nothing. The stranger cackles.
"One day, you'll feel your stomach moan and your throat will be tight in want of blood," he advises, inching forward until the two are nearly nose-to-nose. "One day, you'll look down and realize your meal is the children you claimed to love. And then you'll either go mad or must acknowledge yourself a hypocrite."
Arthur bows his head. "I suppose there's some truth in that."
"Excellent!" The creature chimes. "Then we are in agreement, I believe. Now, I believe there are two of them…shall I take one, and you the other?"
Arthur says nothing, but he bows his head, makes no attempt to stop his fellow as it heads past him, towards the stairs. But in a flash Arthur is on him, fangs gleaming white-yellow and terrible as they bury themselves into the intruder's neck and rip, rip with all his might.
He covers the writhing spider's mouth squalling mouth, breathing ragged as he continues to bite, the acrid taste of his own kind's blood filling his mouth as the flailing monster frantically tries to fight him off, but the spider is weakened by a more severe hunger than Arthur's, and so Arthur buries his fangs in the crook of the intruder's neck, and abruptly rips its head off.
Goodness. That would leave a mess to clean up, wouldn't it?
Eyes narrowed, Arthur feels the body twitching underneath him before it finally drops to the floor, still. A shame he couldn't eat him. Shame he couldn't have made him hurt more. A vicious growl escaped him, adrenaline still resounding inside like thunder. He trod on the corpse-too dirty and disgusting, would never make a nice treat for Matthew or Alfred-before he went to gather a garbage bag, a mop and a bucket.
When triumph and fury alike stopped battling for domination of him, he glanced at himself in the mirror above the sink, saw that dried dark violet blood still covered his mouth, as if he'd eaten an entire blackberry pie. This is what I am. What he would always be.
What tried to be a good parent to two orphan boys. This is a mistake. Even he could see that. Sometimes. When things like this would occur and he realized just how much danger he put the two in. How vulnerable they left him, how much they limited his freedom and restricted his movements.
Splashing water on his face, he rubbed it deeply and closed his eyes. He was lonely. They were frail, powerless after their parents had been killed. They needed someone. And he should have left them on some doorstop someplace where two parents asked God to give them pretty baby children, or some other trite nonsense.
Arthur had never felt guilt before, not before eight years ago when he had come to investigate the house near his forest which had stank of corpses. There he had found the man and his wife killed, the house stripped of its valuables, two pining babies who hadn't been fed or bathed or tended to for what had to be nearly twenty-four hours.
The babes would have been a fine snack, and he would have silenced their screams. Or he could have performed one truly nice deed in his life-besides ridding some pathetic thing of its useless life and the burden it presented to the world-and delivered them somewhere where they could be tended to. By human beings. Not by somewhat-sympathetic spiders who stole them out of their crib and took them back to a deserted house in the middle of nowhere.
Why?
Arthur bites his lip, bereft of all his usual glee. Pity? Pity compelled one to leave humans in human care. This was simply just...what he wanted. He was selfish. Arthur was good at being selfish; a good thing too, else he would have died. The idea of any human calling Matthew and Alfred their own children made his more animalistic nature flare up, and again came the defensive craving to bite, rip, and kill-
"Daddy?"
Startling-had he really not heard Alfred's noisy footsteps on the stairs?-and he almost turns, remembers what's on his face, and scrubs it, hoping that the twins merely think he's being tidy rather than cleaning up the obvious signs of violence. It's a long pause before he turns, gargling liberally. Best not show his teeth unless they're still stained.
"You two shouldn't be out of bed." Really, he'll have to start binding them to the web soon enough.
"I couldn't sleep," Matthew almost whispers, and Arthur notices how tightly he's gripping to Alfred's hand. "Had a bad dream. And Al...Al thought he heard sounds. And you didn't...didn't tell us anything, so we thought you might be in trouble."
"Are you okay?" Alfred asks uncertainly, giving his father a strange look.
"Yes, boys. Everything's fine. That was just the telly."
Neither of the boys look very convinced, so Arthur kneels (in his natural form, he's actually a bit tall) and Alfred and Matthew come in for a hug. "Now, now. Everything's just fine."
"Daddy, your tummy's rumbling." Matthew notes, and Arthur steps back with a blush.
"It's fine."
"Are you sure?" Alfred asks, rolling up his sleeve. "Cause, y'know...Mattie and I were talking and...if ya gotta eat, Daddy, you can have some of my blood."
Aghast, Arthur stares at the boy in abject horror, but Alfred doesn't seem to understand. "N-not all of it, though! Um, I need some for school tomorrow. But maybe you'll feel better if you do, Daddy."
"Me too," Matthew offers softly, hesitantly raising his neck. "We trust you, Daddy."
Good God.
Sorrow steals over him. "Oh, my sweet little...don't speak nonsense, you two. I'm not really hungry." I'm ravenous. "And regardless of the circumstances, I'll never be hungry enough to take what's yours." God willing. "Actually, I'm more tired than anything else right now..."
"In that case, let's go to bed," Alfred says bossily, rolling down his sleeves in obvious relief. "I'm tired, too."
Smiling wanly, Arthur simultaneously scoops up the two children with two pairs of arms and deposits them on his back, heads for his room and hears neither boy object when he slowly climbs up to his bedding and curls into a ball, feels the boys press up beside him. Before long, their breathing is deep, easy.
For a long while, the spider watches them, the way he did after he'd broken into the Jones' house and stole upstairs to the forgotten nursery where two small children cried. A couple of hours later he'd left the place with two boys enclosed in a makeshift sling before fleeing for the forest.
So brutally unfair and they likely didn't even realize it yet. Maybe they would be the ones to kill him someday. Spiders were often devoured by their young, and he thinks he could stand a demise at their hands.
One day, you'll feel your stomach moan and your throat will be tight in want of blood.
Never. I can bear this.
One day, you'll look down and realize your meal is the children you claimed to love.
So either insanity, guilt, or loneliness awaits him in the future. Not particularly promising.
Still, he can't help but hope otherwise as he tugs a blanket over the three of them, rests his chin at folded hands and closes his eyes.
Arthur, you selfish ass, you suck. The blood out of people. Seriously.
Wow. This story stinks. :p Sorry, Mr. Gorey. I tried. Strangely enough, 2P Arthur sort of turned into 1P Arthur towards the end...I'm not sure if I'm experienced enough with writing 2P to keep it consistent. I'll have to try again. Francis was 2P, despite his very brief role in this story.
I get that you guys might be tired of the whole bleh-bleh-I-vant-to-suck-your-blood-but-you-are-rather-awesome-so-I-don't-think-I-will-stuff. Still, I wanted to give it a try! I'm interested in part-human characters lately.
Thank you for reading!