Ttle: Voices Carry
Author: alee
Rating: PG -- some disturbing images
Spoiler: Forgiveness
Summary: my take on the Wesley situation
Disclaimer: They are not mine, please don't sue.
Feedback: I would love some; this is one possibility about Wesley's past, which I think was hinted at in earlier seasons of "Angel". Please let me know what you think -- K401alh@aol.com
Dedication: For Janice, who shares some of my ideas on this topic.
Voices carry.
I remember the first time I learned that lesson. I was seven, and it was the night before my mother's birthday. My father came into my room, ostensibly to tuck me in, and asked what I had bought "his wife" for her special day. It was always like that between us, always a conflict over my mother. To him, I was an interloper, a distraction that took her time and energy away from him. This was no exception. When I walked over to my dresser and opened the top drawer, reaching in to retrieve the small glass swan I intended as her gift and offering it up for his inspection, I knew that this night would end as had so many others. I was right. With calm deliberation he swept the bird from my hand, smashing it to tiny pieces against the wall. With a cold smile he yanked me over to the bed, slinging me roughly over his lap. I was a naughty boy, he said, I had gotten the wrong sort of gift for his wife. How dare I buy a lover's gift for her? Didn't I know that she belonged to him? Each question was punctuated by a blow, aimed at flesh still bruised from our last such encounter. It was fortunate that he was a physician, fortunate that I had not been undressed before anyone except him for the past two years, fortunate that my mother with her dreamy disposition didn't question the shrinking of my spirit, fortunate that the Wyndham-Price name silenced any suspicions and kept our nasty secret buried soundly under the rug. It was fortunate, because the repercussions for exposure were so much worse that this casual cruelty to which I had grown accustomed. That fact was made clear to me when he grasped me roughly by the arm, yanking me to my feet as his censure changed and he began to berate me for having no gift. The momentum of the movement wrenched my shoulder from its socket, and an involuntary scream erupted from my throat. For a moment we stood transfixed, our gazes locked in combat between disbelief, terror, and rage. I whimpered at the new expression in his eyes, so much more frightening than any I had seen before. A sudden knocking at the door, followed by my mother's voice raised in alarm, cemented the rage on the face of the man before me. I heard him reply that I had fallen, and that he thought my arm was broken, and then there was nothing but the sharp flood of agony throughout my body as he methodically bent my wrist back until the delicate bones snapped. I must have passed out, because I awoke some time later to find myself tucked snugly in bed, my throbbing wrist set in a splint. I turned my head slowly to the side, and saw my loving father seated in a nearby chair, keeping vigil. He rose and walked over to me, offering me a drink of some vile tasting liquid, and soon I felt languor stealing through my veins. As I drifted off, he leaned down to whisper in my ear. "Voices carry." It's all he said, but in that simple phrase was a world of terror.
I lie here now, gasping for breath as the world dims around me. The events of the last weeks roll over and over in my mind. Connor. Angel. The prophecy that sent fear snaking up my spine. My father. All I know of the relationship between a man and his son. Fred. Gunn. A Judas Kiss of betrayal. The feel of the knife slicing through my flesh. The knowledge that I accomplished what the prophecy could not. Fear. Sorrow. The sound of Angel's voice screaming, his pain buffeting me like a storm as the world goes black. My father was right.
Voices carry.
Author: alee
Rating: PG -- some disturbing images
Spoiler: Forgiveness
Summary: my take on the Wesley situation
Disclaimer: They are not mine, please don't sue.
Feedback: I would love some; this is one possibility about Wesley's past, which I think was hinted at in earlier seasons of "Angel". Please let me know what you think -- K401alh@aol.com
Dedication: For Janice, who shares some of my ideas on this topic.
Voices carry.
I remember the first time I learned that lesson. I was seven, and it was the night before my mother's birthday. My father came into my room, ostensibly to tuck me in, and asked what I had bought "his wife" for her special day. It was always like that between us, always a conflict over my mother. To him, I was an interloper, a distraction that took her time and energy away from him. This was no exception. When I walked over to my dresser and opened the top drawer, reaching in to retrieve the small glass swan I intended as her gift and offering it up for his inspection, I knew that this night would end as had so many others. I was right. With calm deliberation he swept the bird from my hand, smashing it to tiny pieces against the wall. With a cold smile he yanked me over to the bed, slinging me roughly over his lap. I was a naughty boy, he said, I had gotten the wrong sort of gift for his wife. How dare I buy a lover's gift for her? Didn't I know that she belonged to him? Each question was punctuated by a blow, aimed at flesh still bruised from our last such encounter. It was fortunate that he was a physician, fortunate that I had not been undressed before anyone except him for the past two years, fortunate that my mother with her dreamy disposition didn't question the shrinking of my spirit, fortunate that the Wyndham-Price name silenced any suspicions and kept our nasty secret buried soundly under the rug. It was fortunate, because the repercussions for exposure were so much worse that this casual cruelty to which I had grown accustomed. That fact was made clear to me when he grasped me roughly by the arm, yanking me to my feet as his censure changed and he began to berate me for having no gift. The momentum of the movement wrenched my shoulder from its socket, and an involuntary scream erupted from my throat. For a moment we stood transfixed, our gazes locked in combat between disbelief, terror, and rage. I whimpered at the new expression in his eyes, so much more frightening than any I had seen before. A sudden knocking at the door, followed by my mother's voice raised in alarm, cemented the rage on the face of the man before me. I heard him reply that I had fallen, and that he thought my arm was broken, and then there was nothing but the sharp flood of agony throughout my body as he methodically bent my wrist back until the delicate bones snapped. I must have passed out, because I awoke some time later to find myself tucked snugly in bed, my throbbing wrist set in a splint. I turned my head slowly to the side, and saw my loving father seated in a nearby chair, keeping vigil. He rose and walked over to me, offering me a drink of some vile tasting liquid, and soon I felt languor stealing through my veins. As I drifted off, he leaned down to whisper in my ear. "Voices carry." It's all he said, but in that simple phrase was a world of terror.
I lie here now, gasping for breath as the world dims around me. The events of the last weeks roll over and over in my mind. Connor. Angel. The prophecy that sent fear snaking up my spine. My father. All I know of the relationship between a man and his son. Fred. Gunn. A Judas Kiss of betrayal. The feel of the knife slicing through my flesh. The knowledge that I accomplished what the prophecy could not. Fear. Sorrow. The sound of Angel's voice screaming, his pain buffeting me like a storm as the world goes black. My father was right.
Voices carry.
