Alii-Chan: Remus was a redhead when he was little, eh? I think so. Kind of like Ron. Picture Ron.
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Remus looked furtively down the hallway. His 8-year-old body trembled with excitement as he shut the door behind him and slid down it. His shaking hands groped under his bed for a moment and then lifted in triumph as it held the small bottle to his eager mouth. One giant swig. Then another. The amber liquid burned his throat and welled his eyes up with tears, but he didn't put it down.
He knew what was next.
That feeling in the pit of his stomach. The warmth flooded through him and consumed him entirely. It filled his senses, and he dropped the flask, only to rub at his amber eyes. It burned his nose, sent goosebumps up his arms and dried his mouth. Yet, this was routine.
Every weekend. Every chance he got, he never missed the opportunity, when daddy was 'asleep' on the couch to sneak into the locked cupboard under the utensil drawer. He knew he wasn't supposed to. He was 8, not 4. Remus knew what it was. The young boy pulled out another small flask and, giggling from the rush of the first, downed the second much faster than the last.
Dazed, disoriented slightly, a small fist ran through ginger hair as he felt the first of a headache. It didn't stop him from pulling out a third bottle and downing it as fast as the second.
One too many.
His small body huddled against the wall between his bed and the door. Tremors rocked through him like a veteran after ten years of aging his liver to ninety. Tears streaked down his freckled face as he heard the 'thmp, thmp' of feet on the carpet outside his door.
His father walked in, stumbled on air, and - blinking - looked for his son. Acting as if he had never seen the child before, he knelt down - almost fell against his son and pulled the ginger child into a tight hug.
The fourth flask fell out of his hand. They looked down at the same time, both thinking of the implications. Suddenly, the father took the boys shoulders and shook him roughly. The tears fell again as much from pain as the harsh drink.
"I-TOLD-YOU!" He yelled, hoarse and weary from a drunken sleep. "Never EVER touch the liqueur cupboard!" He let go of his son and ran a fist through his own greying ginger locks.
Standing up, shaking his head, the man returned to his couch to sleep. Remus sighed, relieved. His father wouldn't remember, never did. He fell back to the floor and pulled the fourth flask closer. He twisted the cap and raised it to his ruby lips.
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I wrote this as a demand piece in my last year of high school. It was supposed to be written in an hour. I had it done in about twenty minutes. My friends really liked it, and one suggested typing it up.
The prose was based around a quote.
"Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, but they have never failed to imitate them."
A quote by James Baldwin. We were instructed to write a narrative that reflects the meaning of this quote.