What the fuck is this. I read a writers prompt online and it went something like this: An adult wakes up in the past, in the body of his younger self. A time travel sort of thingy. So I took the happy prompt and turned it into an hysterical heap of angst. :S This is only the prologue so no time traveling just yet. If anyone likes this story I will continue to write, even if it's just one person. So, enjoy this angsty angst with a side of angst.
Cracks and crumbs
The only noises that could be heard were the sounds of his son's car pulling up and out of sight and the thick raindrops splattering against the dirty window.
Arthur Kirkland let out a straight out depressing sigh. Another miserable day of his miserable life was over.
The old man leaned back in his leather, and rather ugly, I might add, chair, as he recalled the events of today. His son, Alfred had dropped by to visit him. It had been very awkward, as neither of the two Kirklands- Jones, Arthur corrected himself, Alfred was called Jones now- knew how to behave around eachother.
It had been a few years since father and son had seen eachother, and things had been weird, even a little painful.
Alfred had changed, he was all bright smiles, loud voices and expensive cars now.
The old man winced slightly, Alfreds sharp voice still echoing in his ears.
"Hiya Artie, I thought it would be nice to check up on ya."
"A-Alfred?"
Arthur's fingers trembled while he brought the glass to his lips.
"It's been so long since we last spoke eachother!"
He downed the glass in one big gulp, alcohol burning his throat.
Because you never tried to contact me, the old man thought. Because you've tried to block me out of your life for more then 20 years.
He tried to pour himself another glass, bottle and glass clinking against eachother, alcohol spilling on his worn pants, on his itchy brown sweatervest.
"Bollocks!" He cursed, his dried out whisper merely a shadow of the sharp and sarcastic voice it had been long ago.
"You really haven't changed, have ya?"
It was true, Arthur thought to himself while he stumbled to the kitchen. Blotchy, bony hands clamping themselves on anything they could reach, trying to support his trembling frame.
The sink was dirty, chunks and crumbs of last night's dinner still stuck in the corners. Arthur cursed once again, he should really get a better maid. Then again, Miss Yekaterina was the only one who wanted to go as far as be near him, the satan-worshipper Arthur Kirkland. Yes, he thought to himself, he certainly had a reputation in the village. The sink water was cold, and his old fingers stiffened at the contact. Arthur tried to rub it on his sweater, and the fabric turned sticky, the knitted strings got stuck under his nails, but he just yanked his hand away, cursing. He didn't go out often, but he could see them staring through his window sometimes, their children. Grandchildren of the people he once held close to his heart, children with their round faces and big eyes that sparkled in excitement when they caught a glimpse of that weird lunatic called Arthur Kirkland.
His thoughts were roughly interrupted when he heard a loud crash coming from outside.
He ran to the door as fast as his old legs could carry him. He opened it with such force the door slammed against the wall, causing the glass to crack a little. "Get out of my backyard ya little brats!" He roared, with all the anger he could muster. One quick look around his backyard and he saw one of his flowerpots lying in shambles. He heard laughing from behind his rose bushes, even saw them rustling. "He's here. He's here! Get away! Quick!" A high pitched voice giggled. More rustling, two pair of feet running for their lives. "Get out of here!" Arthur roared, lunging towards the noise. "Ohmygodohmygod! Jul, he's going to get us!" "Kessesesese. Even a slug runs faster then that old fart! We aren't afraid of him, are we? That crazy old maniac!" Arthur felt his cheeks flush with anger, them again. "Carriedo, Beilschmidt! Get out of my backyard this instant!" A head poked out of the rose bushes, red eyes gleaming with venom. "What are you gone do about it, looooony?" A tongue stuck out from between thin lips, mocking him, taunting him.
"Weirdo!"
"Satan-worshipper!"
"Witch!"
Arthur proceeded to lunge forward to the head with the silvery hair, but stopped when a rock only missed his head by an inch. The rock crashed into the glass of the door, leaving an empty hole behind.
"You filthy little-"
"JULCHEN, HE'S COMING!"
"Don't come closer to us, you psychopath! I'm telling vati!"
He just stood there, watching their long braids disappear around the corner. Psychopath. He looked at his reflection in the broken window.
Wet hair that was almost completely grey now, thin and stuck to his head, thick eyebrows occupying most of his forehead. Pale, shallow skin, blotchy at some places, hollow cheeks. Piercing green eyes, so lifeless, so dull.
It was true, Arthur Kirkland, 65, hadn't changed a single bit since everything happened, 20 years ago.
Alfred had bloomed, was rich and married to a beautiful woman, Amelia Jones. Arthur was still Arthur, Arthur the psychopatch, lunatic, weirdo. Arthur who was puked out by society. He needed alcohol.
He stepped into his house, ignoring the gaping hole in the door, and almost tripped over the rock. Picking it up with trembling hands, unfolding the piece of candy wrapper wrapped around it. The colourfull paper read one word, written in the neat handwriting of a 10 year old girl: Murderer. Arthur gulped, he suddenly felt sick. Very, very sick. He opened the fridge without thinking, grabbing the first bottle within his reach. He downed the entire thing in one big gulp, alcohol trickling over his chin and burning his throat. Tears began to form in the corner of his eyes, but anger got there first. The bottle collided against the wall with a crash, sending glass everywhere. "They are WRONG!" He screamed, to no one in particular. "They are wrong, wrong, WRONG!" They were just children. How dare they. They didn't now him, they had only heard the rumours their parents heard from their parents. He stared at the candy wrapper, wondering how such a colourful thing could trigger so many nasty emotions. Before he knew it, he was on his knees on the dirty tiles, shoulders shaking. They didn't know anything, didn't know how much he wanted to change it all, how much he wanted to make everything better. The tiles on the floor were wavering, the alcohol was getting to his head. He remembered something Alfred had said, just before he left. Heck, he could even see Alfred now, standing in front of him, bright blue eyes and a slightly forced smile.
"Take care of yourself dad, please."
"I'm fine."
Alfred had hugged him. His sweet not so little Alfie had hugged him, like everything was okay and they were family and- Alfred started to fade. Arthur tried to reach him. "No please sweetheart", he croaked, "Don't leave, daddy wil fix everything, don't go." His hands grabbed onto nothing, and Arthur fell forward on the cold floor. "Please, Alfie. I promise I will make everything better. For the four of us. I will make it better." he begged, staring up at the memory of his son. Alfred was gone. The room started spinning, and Arthur shook his head, trying to get rid of the dizzyness. He swore he could hear footsteps, echoing around the house. Colorfoul specks began to blur his vision. The ceiling began to twist and to turn. Loud scratching noises could be heard from above. Lights were flickering. He should really stay of the alcohol. Arthur felt dizzy.
"You really haven't changed, have ya?"
"Psychopath!"
"A-Alfred?"
More colours, more noises.
"Maniac!"
"Lunatic"
"Take are of yourself, dad."
"A-alfred?"
A loud cry from upstairs, from a child in need.
Hysterical sobs, from an adult.
More tapping, more scratchng.
Screaming, yelling.
"I'm fine."
"Hiya, dad"
"Please don't leave."
"Devil-worshipper!"
"I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU SO MUCH!"
"Darling, please stop don't be like this!"
"LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE!"
"Darling, please."
"A-alfred?"
"I will make everything better!"
"PsYChoPaTh"
His vision began to zone in and out. Black, white, black, white.
"MURDERER!"
"Darling-Please, listen to me! Darling, Francis please!"
There he was. As pale as a ghost, hollow cheeks, big blue eyes,standing right in front of Arthur. Arthur stared. "F-Francis?" Francis caught sight of him, eyes widening in fair. Arthur lifted himself of the cold floor, slightly swaying. Francis didn't move. The cries from upstairs continued, and Arthur saw tears trickling over Francis' slightly stubbly chin. "D-Don't be afraid of me, poppet." Arthur stammered, unsure what to do. Francis reacted to the sound of his voice, wincing and taking a step back. Arthur tried to grab his arm. "No don't-" Francis suddenly ran. Arthur felt his heart break. "No please, come back. I'm sorry!" He darted after the mob of pale blonde hair, but the room spun and his head hurt and he fell to the ground. "Please, I will make everything better." He closed his eyes, trying to be forgotten, to disappear into the earth, to make everyone forget he ever lived. Flashes and colours danced before his eyes, and the noise became unbearable. He felt a familiar, slender hand close around his, dragging him into darkness.
The two children are Antonia Carriedo and Julchen Beilschmidt, granddaughters of Antonio and Gilbert. They are further not that important for the story.
First sentence for the next chapter: Arthur was flying.
Thank you for reading.