A/N: For those of you who don't know, Rene Tamaki Richard De Granitine is Tamaki's full name, the name he used before coming to Japan. And weather you wish to see this the man as a step-father, or you want this to be an AU is completely up to you--I really don't care, and both get the general message of the story through. Anyway...Enjoy!

Puppies

Light, clear water trickled through the rocky streambed, gurgling over the pebbles and reflecting the rippled willows that grew neatly along the grassy incline of the slope. Tamaki sat on the grass, tossing small stones and twigs and clumps of dirt into the deeper parts of the pool, watching the rings circle and expand, lapping lightly at either bank. He was thinking about the puppies—this years' puppies, not last years'. Last year's puppies, his parents had told him, had gone to Heaven. Antoinette's litter had gone to Heaven three days after their blind, whining birth.

Tamaki's father had said, "God took them to live with him."

He didn't exactly doubt his father. (After all, he was a religious man, teaching Sunday school and doing official tasks around the church like counting the collection money. He always gave the sermons on lazy Sundays, and read to them from the Bible each evening.) No, he didn't really doubt his father, for if anyone knew about God and why he took the puppies. It was he.

But that didn't keep Tamaki from wondering. Why, when there were hundreds and thousands of puppies in the world, did God have to take all four of his? Was God selfish?

That was the first time he had through about those puppies in a while—the past year. Those twelve months had bore many distractions. There was his first year at school, and the constant flurry of getting ready, buying paper, pencils and books. And the first few weeks had been interesting, learning the alphabet and numbers. Just as school began to bore him, Christmas had rolled around with its' glistening ice and smelly egg nog; the shopping, the green and yellow and red and blue lights, the Santa Clause who staggers when he walks and smells of alcohol, and the candlelit church on Christmas Even when he had had to go to the bathroom and his father had made him wait until the service was over. When things began to slow down again in June, his mother gave birth to twins. Tamaki had been surprised at how small they were, and how slowly they had grown in the following weeks.

Here it was, August again. The twins were three months old, finally getting bigger and heavier; school was out and Christmas seemed an eternity away, and everything was dull. Therefore, when he heard his father telling his mother that Antoinette was going to have another litter, he grasped the news and milked every drop of excitement from it. He busied himself in the kitchen, washing, shredding rags and blankets for the birth and a fancy box for the puppies' bed once they arrived.

As events ran their natural course, Antoinette slunk away and had the puppies during the night in a secluded corner of the barn. There was no need for rags or blankets, but the box came in handy. There were six in the litter (Marie Clare, Elizabeth, Boylen, Louis, Hofburg, and Don Ferdinand) all golden brown and silky, with soft and wet noses and tiny nails.

He liked the puppies, and he worried about them. What if God wanted them again, like last year?

"What are you doing, Rene?"

He didn't have to look; he already knew who it was behind him. He turned away, out of deference, and saw his father glaring down at him, dark and irregular splotches of sweat discoloring the armpits of his faded shirt and overalls, dirt smeared on his face and caked into his beard.

"Throwing stones," he answered quietly.

"At the fish?"

"Oh, no, sir. Just throwing stones."

"Do we remember who was the victim of stone throwing?" He smiled a patronizing smile.

"Saint Stephen," he answered.

"Very good." The smile faded. "Supper's ready."

-

He sat ramrod stiff in the old rocking chair, looking attentive as his father read to them from the ancient Bible that sat atop the piano when not in use and was bound in dark green leather, scuffed, with several pages torn. His mother sat next to his father on the dark green corduroy couch, hands folded in her lap, and isn't-this-wonderful-what-god-has-given-us smile painted upon her pretty and pale face.

"Suffer the little children to come unto me. And forbid them not; for such is the will of God." His father closed the book with a gentle slap that seemed to hang in the hot air and silence. No one spoke for several minutes. Then: "What chapter and book did we just read from, Rene?"

"Saint Mark, chapter ten," he replied dutifully.

'Fine," he said. Turning to his wife, whose smile had changed to a we've-done-what-a-good-Christian-family-should-do expression, he said, "Anne-Sophie, how about coffee for us and a glass of milk for Rene?"

"Right," said his mother, getting up and moving into the kitchen.

His father sat there, examining the inside cover of the worn book, scrutinizing the ink stains forever embedded in the title page where some long-dead grandparent spilled red wine.

"Father," he asked tentatively.

He looked up from the book, not smiling, not frowning.

"What about the puppies?"

"What about them?" he rebuffed.

"Will God take them again this year?"

The half-smile that had crept onto his face evaporated into the heavy air of the living room. "Perhaps," was all he said.

"He can't!!" Tamaki sobbed.

"Are you saying what God can and cannot do?"

"No, sir."

"God can do anything."

"Yes, sir." He fidgeted in his chair, pushing himself deeper into its hard, wooden frame. "But why would he want my puppies again? Why always mine?"

"I've had quite enough of this, Rene. Now be quite."

"But why mine?" he persisted.

His father stood suddenly, crossed to the chair and slapped his delicate baby face. A thin trickle of blood slipped from the corner of his mouth, running fluidly and mixed with spit. Tamaki wiped it away with the palm of his hand.

"You must not doubt God's motives!" his father insisted. "You are far too young to doubt." The saliva glistened on his lips. He grabbed Tamaki by the arm and dragged him to his feet. "Now, you get up those stairs and into bed."

He didn't argue. On the staircase, he wiped away the reforming line of blood. He walked slowly up the steps, allowing his other hand to run along to smooth wooden railing.

"Here's the milk," he heard his mother saying below.

"We won't be needing it," his father answered curtly.

In his room, he lay in the semi-darkness that came when the full moon shone through his window, its orange-yellow-white light glinting from a row of religious plaques that lined the wall. In his parents' room, his mother was cooing to the twins, changing their diapers "God's precious little angles," he heard her say. His father was tickling them and he could hear the 'angels' chuckling—a deep gurgle that rippled from their fat throats.

Neither his father nor his mother came to say goodnight. He was being punished.

-

Tamaki was sitting in the barn, petting one of the golden puppies, postponing an errand his mother had sent him on ten minutes earlier. The rich smell of dry, soft hay filled the building. Straw covered the floor and crackled underfoot. In the far end of the barn, the cows were lowing to each other—only two of them, whose legs had been cut by barbed wire and who were being made convalesce. The puppies yipped and nosed the air beneath his chin.

"Where's Rene?" his father's voice boomed from somewhere in the yard between the house and the barn.

He was about to answer when he heard his mother call from the house: "I sent him to the Francois' for a recipe of Isabelle's. He'll be gone another twenty minutes."

"That's plenty of time," his father answered. The crunch of his heavy shows on the cinder path echoed in military rhythm.

Tamaki knew that something was wrong; something was happening that he was not supposed to see. Quickly, he put the puppy—Marie Clare—back in the brown and red box and sprawled behind a pile of straw to watch.

His fathered entered, drew a bucket of water from the wall tap, and placed it in front of the puppies. Antoinette snarled and raised her hackles. The man snatched her collar and shut her in a stall with a high door from which her anguished barks boomed with a ridiculously loud echo that seemed more appropriate for am African veldt and not on a French farm. Tamaki almost laughed, but remembered his father and suppressed the humor.

His father turned again to the box of puppies. Carefully, he lifted one by the scruff of the neck, petted it twice, and thrust its head under the water in the bucket. There was a violent thrashing from within the bucket, and reflective, sparkling droplets of water sprayed into the air. His father grimaced and shoved the entire body under the smother pool. In time, the thrashing ceased. Tamaki found that his fingers were digging into the concrete floor, hurting him.

Why? Why-why-why?

His father lifted the limp body from the bucket. Something pink and bloody hung from the animal's mouth. He couldn't tell whether it was the tongue or whether the precious thing had spewed its entrails into the water in a last attempt to escape the heavy, horrible death of suffocation.

Soon, six puppies were dead. Soon, six silent and wet furballs were dropped into a burlap sack. The top was twisted, then knotted, shut. He let Antoinette out of the stall. The dog followed him out of the barn, whimpering softly, growling and baring her teeth whenever he turned to look at her.

Tamaki lay very still for a long time, thinking of nothing but the execution and trying desperately to understand. Had God sent his father? Was it God who told him to kill the puppies—to take them away from him? If it was, he didn't see how he could ever again stand before that gold and white alter, accepting communion. He stood and walked toward the house, blood dripping from his finger nails from where he had gripped the cement so hard it cut his skin.

"Did you get the recipe?" asked his mother as Tamaki slammed the kitchen door.

"Madam François couldn't find it. She'll send it over tomorrow." He lied so easily that he surprised even himself. "Did God take my puppies?" he blurted suddenly.

His mother looked confused. "Yes," was all she could say.

"I'll get even with God! He can't do that! He can't!!" he ran out of the kitchen toward the staircase.

His mother watched him go, but didn't make any attempt to stop him.

Tamaki Grantenue walked slowly up the stairs, letting his hand run along the smooth, polished wood railing.

-

At noon, when Monsieur Grantenue came in from the field, he heard a loud crash and the tinkling sounds of china, shattering of glass and screaming. He rushed into the living room to see his wife lying at the foot of the stairs. A novelty table was overturned, statuettes and picture frames broken and cracked.

"Anne!! Anne-Sophie! Are you hurt?" He bent quickly to her side.

She looked up at him out of tearful eyes that were far away in distant mists. "My Good God—our little angles! The bathtub!—Our precious angles!"

-fin-

A/N: Feel free to review with questions, comments and polite flames (bring it on, bitches! XD)