A Moment with the Moon- An Angela's Ashes Short Story.

Disclaimer: I do not own 'Angela's Ashes'. I believe that privelege is belonging to one Frank Mc Court.

This is just a school assignment I had to do for second term of Year 12- with a word limit of 1000 (though max is actually something like 1100/1200 as we have a 10over, 10 under rule.) and we had to fill a 'gap' or 'silence' in the book, using the perspective of someone other than Frank McCourt. I thought immediately- FANFICTION much? I do, however have no intention to continue this any further. It is therefore a 'one-shot'.

Anyway, here's my assignment/fic- A Moment With the Moon. (By the way, the rating's not for the hell of it either, as you'll discover.)

I look out the window from the bed, trying desperately to ignore the grunting and occasional moans emitting from the man above me. Trying to ignore the rough hands pressing me down, down into the mattress, trying to focus on the spring pushing into the muscle just to the right of my spine-

"God Angela!"

-Rather than the pressing and pushing of him, my own cousin-

"Oh God!"

-and he lets out an almighty groan, and he rolls off me to the side and is he asleep? Dear God I hope so.

I lay there a minute, forcing back the tears of anger pricking and stinging at my eyes. I can't start crying at the unfairness of the world- if I start I'll never stop, and if I've got nothing else I've got my pride. I know perfectly well this whole situation might have been avoided if I'd but resisted Malachy's advances at the dance-hall that night.

Awkwardly I sit; shivering at the cold as the blanket he'd thrown atop us to keep off the chill air as he went about his sordid business slides off my bare shoulders.

"That's the rent for this week." I whisper bitterly, picking up the nightgown I'd gotten from the St Vincent De Paul society all those years ago, now patched and worn. It'll be of no use soon, save for cleaning rags.

I throw it over my head, moving over to the window. It's not large, nor is it terribly clean, but through it I can just make out the moon, a thin sliver of light against the blackness of the night sky and I can't help but think of the children.

They are the one good thing to have come out of my hurried (and ultimately disastrous) marriage, my children. My precious, precious children.

I close my eyes, and I see them; all of them, including my poor Margaret, my Eugene and Oliver. In a way I suppose they were the lucky ones. They never lived to see how far we've fallen. God, I'm whoring myself to that lecher of a cousin of mine just to have a place to sleep!

I saw the hurt and disgust, but more hurt than anything on Frankie's face when I came up here, even though that bastard Laman beat the poor child. I think he has some idea of what happens up here. He's a smart lad, though I don't think he knows why I allow it. But what else am I to do? I have to keep a roof over our heads somehow, and this is the only way for me to do it.

God, if only there was another way- But no, I'm becoming maudlin.

This is how it is, and there's nothing I can do but accept it. If I don't, I'm like to go mad.

I move away from the window. I need a few puffs of a Woodbine and a hot tea. I reach into my purse, using the moonlight to see as I quickly and quietly rummage through the worn leather to find the familiar package. Ah, there it is!

Woodbines in hand, matches stashed inside the carton I carefully pad over to the door in the floor, lifting the heavy wood as quietly as a church-mouse and I sit on the edge of the hole, tentatively feeling with my feet for the chair balanced on the table. God I hope Laman doesn't hear that bloody chair creak again. It was not pretty the last time he heard it, and I was sore for days… On second thoughts, I think I'll skip the tea and just have my fag; I can't afford him to wake up and find me gone.

I stand up and replace the door just as carefully as I'd lifted it, glancing warily at the humped form sprawled across the lumpy mattress as I do.
Quietly I move back over to the window, and softly, carefully I push open the dirtied window so as the smoke won't wake him. It makes a tiny noise, barely audible and I whip my head to him, and I'm ashamed to say a spark of fear wakes in my chest.

Thank god, he didn't seem to have heard that, for he only shifts in his sleep, mumbling the usual sleepy nonsense as he settles back into the bed, clutching the blanket closer around him.

I strike a match, the familiar quiet flickering of the flame comforting me slightly as I raise the small glow to the whiteness of my Woodbine, taking my first puff with relish.

Again, I find my gaze drawn back to the moon, the pale light obscured for a brief second by the cloud of smoke I breathe out, puffing upwards in a light breeze. 'Tis a beautiful thing, the moon. Brave too, the small light standing proud and alone in the endless sea of darkness, with not even the stars beside it.

Ah to be so brave. As proud as I am, I must say that I probably wouldn't have kept going without my children, my stars beside me. I would likely have given up long ago. But then- if I hadn't had Frankie in the first place… But if wishes were pots and pans, there'd be no need for tinkers. Wishing and moping about what 'might-have-been' is not going to get me out of this hell-hole. Besides, even with all our troubles, I would never give up my children. There's not a power in heaven or hell that could make me renounce my children and just walk away without a care the way Malachy did.

I flick my wrist absently, sending ashes flying off into the night before I take another puff.

Malachy… Once I loved him. Or at least- I thought I did. But that was before I found out his true colours. He's a weak man. If he'd just managed to bring home his pay, rather than wasting it on drink we wouldn't have done this all so hard. Though I think that perhaps that was his way of coping with the life we led.

But God above, if he couldn't manage to soldier through, if not for me, for his own children he's a weak-minded coward.

I stare at the moon several minutes more, puffing at my fag absently. All too soon it's finished, and I stub it out on the windowsill, yet another mark on the frame to join the others. I close the window tightly, careful not to make a noise and reluctantly I return to the bed, moving under the covers.

"Hmm, Angela…" he murmurs, moving closer and wrapping his arms around me, still asleep.

I stare out the dirty, slightly misted window, staring up at my silent companion- the moon.

So. Did I do ok? lol. Feel free to review if you like.

Smile! :D

Ireina