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The Altered View Monday Can Bring
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Author's Note: okay, I wrote this about two years ago over two days when I was ill, but never posted it, not because I didn't want to (although it's probably safer for all those who are still sane in this world that I don't – joking!), but because my computer crashed and lost the file. What I had forgotten, however, was that I had this on disk, albeit in a more incomplete form – ie: only part of chapter one instead of the whole thing. Which means that I will have to try and remember what all those seventeen or so chapters contained and rewrite it all. Oh well.
Another Author's Note: Also note the fact that this will most likely mainly – and maybe completely - circulate around Claire and John, with only smaller interludes about the others. Why? Because of all five of the characters, John and Claire intrigued me the most, I guess. Anyway, please read and review! Send any feedback to nova_mist@yahoo.com Thanks!
Disclaimer: Me no own Breakfast Club, John Hughes does. Any characters and characterisations of people that were in The Breakfast Club but were never developed (i.e: the parents) – and anything else - you don't recognise and the plot line belongs to me. The characters you do recognise belong to John Hughes, and I am simply shamelessly using them for my own devices and evil plans. *cackles*
Please ignore the shitty state of my writing of late. I have writer's block that I just can't seem to shift, and by writing this, I hope to free it up. If that's actually possible!
Also, please tell me whether or not everyone is OOC here or not. I think they all are, but, eh.
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The Altered View Monday Can Bring
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March 26th, 1984
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Chapter One
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John Bender sat in the passenger seat of his father's car, scowling. It was a great rarity that John's father drove him to school. His mother drove John to school sometimes, but never his father. It made John incredibly uncomfortable, being in such a small, enclosed space with his father. In the back of his mind, John wondered why on earth his father was driving him to school in the first place: normally John Snr. just kept as far away from his son as possible…unless he wanted to beat the crap out of him, that is. Like he did last night. His father had thrown a punch at him that he hadn't managed to dodge in time, which earned him a nasty bruise on the right side of his face, which he had managed to hide under his longish hair. There were bruises all up his left arm and on his left hand were four deep cuts caused by the jagged edge of his father's broken beer bottle…
John shivered involuntarily at his thoughts.
"You cold, Johnny?"
It took John a moment to register the fact that his father was speaking to him. He whipped his head around in surprise to find his father looking at him, while at the same time keeping one eye on the road.
"Pardon?" John asked.
John Snr glared at his son, exasperated. "What are you, deaf?" he snapped. "I asked you if you were cold." He repeated before looking back at the road.
John blinked. "Ah, a bit." John replied, glancing briefly at the pouring rain out of the window behind his father.
"Well, this rust bucket does have a heater, you know." His father said testily.
"You don't mind if I turn it on?" John asked, dumbstruck.
His father looked at him sharply. "Well of course I don't!" he snapped at his son, before once again turning both eyes back to the road ahead.
"Gee, Dad, I didn't know you cared." John snapped back, leaning forward and turning the heater on.
"Well, we can't have you getting sick 'cause you're cold, can we? Do you know how expensive some of those fucking antibiotics are?" John Snr snarled, never taking his eyes off the road.
John was silent. Well, of course he doesn't actually care about you! He snarled at himself. You're nothing but a burden, remember? A waste of time and money. He reminded himself bitterly. To his disgust, there were hot tears pricking behind his eyes.
"Well, we're here." His father's voice cut through John's miserable thoughts. "Oi, Johnny! You awake in there?!" he waved a hand in front of his son's face. "We're here! Out you get." His father snapped.
John turned to face his father, who was slowly turning red from impatience. John Snr opened his mouth to say something harsh, when he suddenly noticed the silvery sheen of unshed tears that were apparent over his son's dark eyes. "You aren't…" he paused, and then continued hesitantly. "Umm…crying...are you, Johnny?" his father asked, uncomfortable.
Anger flared in John's eyes, and he angrily blinked his tears away. "Nah, Dad, I ain't crying." John snapped, his voice cracking slightly. "That would be a sign of emotion right? Of weakness. Can't have that!" he snapped, reaching over to try and open the car door, yet fumbling on the handle, breathing hard.
John Snr sat there, not sure of what to do. He slowly leaned over his son, and opened the door for him. He did not fail to notice the fact that his son stiffened as soon as he leaned over him. He looked up at his son, and, for the first time in many years, truly saw John. He looked his son in the eyes, and to his horror, saw traces of fear in the eyes of his only child.
John Snr leaned back over to his side, and his son stared at him. He opened his mouth to say something to John, but John had already slid out of the car and slammed the car door behind him. John Bender Snr watched silently as he watched his child storm angrily across the parking lot, shoving his way through a gang of ninth grade girls as he went.
And, in his mind, a thought occurred to John Snr: What the fuck have I done to my kid?
With that thought still echoing in his head, John Bender Snr hit the gas and sped out of the high school parking lot as fast as the wheels of his four-wheel-drive would take him.
What he didn't see was the way John looked at the retreating vehicle, wishing to God that he had been born someone else.
He turned and, shoving his way through another gang of ninth-graders, walked slowly across the parking lot.