Disclaimer: Aida is... well, it's probably part Elton John and Tim Rice's, part Verdi's, but it's not mine. I'm just writing for fun.

My father was a calm man. Things that made him feel what other men call anger led him to exude a sense of calculated self-control. Even when tired, even when confronted by my mother when she grew angry and hurt and yelped and cried, he controlled the situation. He informed of the future with such calm certainty there was no doubt that his word would be enacted.

It was under such conditions that he led me from my room one night, his hand tight around my arm. His free hand held the lantern aloft. "I am going to cure you of this… malady," he informed me, "I am going to make you whole once more; I am going to save us the humiliation of a degenerate child."

I was so lost trying to follow his words that I stopped crying. "Father…?" Then I asked a stupid question: "When is Mama coming home?" I knew what everyone meant when they said she had 'gone away', they meant she was gone in the never-coming-home way, but a part my childish need ignored this tiny fact.

"Your mother is dead, Radames." Keys scraped, and my father swung open a heavy door. "So there will be no one to ease your transition to manhood. Which given current conditions will likely prove difficult," he murmured. Then he hurled me down the steps, into the darkness.

"No!"

I scrambled out of the dirt and climbed the stairs rapidly, using my hands to push myself upright every few steps. My knees were stinging, raw, nothing helped by the addition of dirt. They wouldn't hold my weight, but that didn't matter; the space of light between the door and the jamb was rapidly diminishing.

I reached the door just in time to hear the lock fall into place. "No!" I pounded with my fists. The wood did not give. "Father!" He didn't answer but that his footsteps grew more distant. I pounded again, as hard as I could. Blood began to slam against my flesh with equal ardor, and after a few minutes I stopped hitting the door.

He wasn't coming back.

"Father…"

I didn't call to him after that. Instead I cursed him with the strongest terms I knew. I put my finger in my mouth and bit down at the joint. I would not cry. I refused him that satisfaction.

For a long time I sat by the door. It was solid, and at least I could feel with some certainty where I was rather than wandering blindly through rows and rows of barrels—it was the wine cellar, my prison. He locked me in a place that is dark and cold, a place I had never before seen. So, lost, I held close to that I knew as if it might fend off the growing dark. This was where my father had last been, and this was where he would come again to free me.

But after a while I was sitting still with nothing but aching knees and a cold rear. I got up. What would happen if my knees became infected? Would I lose my legs? I'd heard stories of that happening to men in the army. Still, at least those men had their chance to be in the army, rather than catching rot in their fathers' wine cellars.

The first thing I did, after the shock wore off, was take inventory of my pains. My arms and legs throbbed where they had hit the stairs, but everything was in working order. My head hadn't been hurt—I tucked it as I fell, and the memory filled me with pride. It decreased the pain of being considered a degenerate. Other than a few scrapes and bruises, I was fine.

I left the door. It wasn't so dark, really, after a while. There were dim shapes. I picked my way towards them. When smooth wood met the palm of my hand, I searched the barrel for some kind of opening. I found none. I began to pound instead, slamming the same place again and again. When my hand was tired I shift the barrel and kicked at the same place with my foot.

A crack!

Barely a trickle of wine emerged, but it was enough. I pressed my lips to the barrel and sucked off the dribble of alcohol. It was my first taste of wine, and the alcohol burned in my throat and tasted of ashes, but I didn't care. I guzzled until I had to pull away to gasp for air. Then I returned to suckling at the wine barrel.

It might have been a pleasure to drink myself into a stupor. Already the alcohol made me warm and dulled the noises of the dark cellar. But the crack was near the top of the barrel. Rather than turn the barrel, I wriggled a finger into the hole, pulled it out and rubbed alcohol over the tears in my skin. It burned. My teeth clenched over a hiss as I coated the broken places again and again, until my eyes stung with tears.

Then I began to hit the barrel again.

I awoke the following morning to a nudge in the ribs. My father stood over me, holding his lantern aloft and frowning. I scrambled to my feet.

He plucked at my shirt, and I blushed with shame at the large purple stain. Father shook his head. Before he turned and walked away, this time leaving the door open, he left me with words that rendered me immobile:

"You disappoint me."

to be contiued!

...reviews are awesome. Please review?