This is a short series of mine I've been working on for a bit, and I'm hoping to get finished (writing at least, publishing is another timeline) before I'm off to school.
This story centers around Lars' mother, Martha, and her life before Lars. Ships include: Martha/Vidalia and Martha with Lars' dad, Dante.
Warnings will be posted for each individual chapter, as each chapter has a different content, and might be a little triggering to some.
Chapter warning: Contains alcohol and teen drinking, and references to drugs and smoking. Basic hippie stuff.
Hope you enjoy this series!
"How hard is it to lose a magazine you JUST bought?", Lars muttered to himself as he stormed around the attic. It made for a great private living space, but as for keeping things in sight, it was the pits. He was pretty sure a raccoon lived in here too. Maybe it was kleptomaniacal and stowing all his possessions.
After rooting around under his bed a third time, Lars stood up, giving a growl of frustration, swore, and kicked a stack of boxes he'd not bothered to push out of the way once he'd moved in. As they suddenly swayed with impending catastrophe, Lars regretted his action and was left to watch the boxes, jam packed with his parents' things topple to the floor.
Swearing again, Lars began to hastily cram the fallen items back in the box, clicking his tongue as he saw old photos of himself and his parents, remembering how dorky he was. There were some old records, a few pieces of clothing, tape cassettes, something that smelled like whatever Lars could buy off the street corner for twenty dollars, and a large bundled stack of photos and a book.
Lars saw the first photo on top and raised an eyebrow. A young girl, probably no more than a young teenager, was posed on the arm of a chair, grinning confidently, wearing an oversized hand me down jacket and jeans with holes in the knee. A well dressed, thin young man sat in the chair, smiling politely at the camera.
It took Lars a moment to recognize the girl in the picture. It certainly took even longer to believe it, but the red hair gave it away.
...Mom?
Martie Dubois saw no real reward to sticking to the rules at home. Bedtime was 9? She'd stretch it to 10:30. No feet on the sofa? She'd place a pillow on the couch cushions before resting her ankles on them.
'Young lady you need a haircut.' She spat and kicked until her father relented and let her hair grow near her hips and her bangs fringed over her eyes.
Her mother, a nurse's aid, would hem and haw over how smoking cigarettes was a filthy habit, that no good respectable person should ever do it. Martie got her first pack smuggled to her before seventh grade. She didn't really smoke that regularly though, only when she was alone and bored.
She liked wearing things at inopportune times. Jeans during church, long skirts while gardening. Nobody would question her logic, aside from weird looks.
She's a wild child, that Martie, neighbors would chuckle, and while her parents might have had some embarrassment, she took it as a compliment.
And she almost always got away with it, for being the youngest child in her family.
Lars cracked a small smirk looking at the photo in his hand, "Sheesh ma. You were kind of a little weirdo, weren't ya?", he spoke under his breath, not expecting anyone to answer back. Both his parents were still at work, his dad at his dumb office job, and his mom at the fabric shop she'd opened some years ago.
Looking at the collection of polaroids in his lap, the journal on his knee, Lars' brow furrowed, wondering why he never saw any of this stuff earlier. Taking another look at the photo of his mom, he took attention to the young man in the photo, noticing his features, the tall thin frame with hair almost redder than his mother's.
Flipping the polaroid over, Lars blinked in confusion as he saw the writing on the back.
"Me and Laramie. Best Big Brother Ever!"
Nobody could really direct Martie anywhere or anyhow. Her parents sure could have tried, but it wouldn't have done a thing. Martie listened to nobody.
Nobody except for her brother.
He'd been six when his family welcomed his little sister, and the bond was almost instantaneous. He'd innocently try to share his plastic soldiers and knights with her to play, he'd direct her to places to crawl, and when she was able to start crawling briskly, he was already pulling her by the arms, trying to help her walk.
She eventually was able to wait at the bus stop for him with her mother when he came home from school, and was quick to rush over to him, gaily cheering his name, and hugging him as much as her little body allowed. He didn't even mind it if he was in front of his friends. Nobody had as great of a three year old sister as he did.
He'd sneak oatmeal sandwich cookies from the cupboard to share with her in front of the TV. She couldn't understand his space and cowboy shows until he explained them to her. And then she was absolutely marveled by them. Her first Halloween where she could go to the door by herself, she'd insisted on being Wonder Woman, so she could match her brother's Superman.
On her first day of actual school, she'd tripped and fallen into a puddle getting off the bus, and he had carried her to his own middle school a quarter mile away so then she wouldn't have been seen crying and dirty in front of her new classmates. She'd spent the whole day there, amongst all the 11 and 12 year olds, and the two got in enormous trouble, but Martie had been so cute, she got off the hook faster than the blink of an eye.
Laramie was okay with that. It's what big brothers did.
And he was glad that Martie thought he was the best big brother in the world.
Lars bit his lip, rubbing his thumb over the photo, right over where 'Laramie's' face was, smiling cheerfully at the camera.
So there's where that stupid name came from. Weird.
He did have to wonder though. Why didn't he ever know he had an uncle? Especially one with his namesake?
Deciding he needed more context, he cracked open the little diary in hope for answers. Already seeing the namesake listed on the first page, Lars began to read.
"I went to my first actual party today. It ended pretty bad, but Laramie made it better..."
"How does this look?", Martie stepped out of her room, stretching her arms wide to show off her outfit that she'd picked herself, decided on a beaded cardigan and jeans.
"Your hair!", her brother laughed, "It's too neat! What's with the flowers?"
"It's the thing nowadays!", she insisted, and taking the flowers out and holding them between her teeth for a moment, she combed her fingers through her hair again, then held onto her adornments, "Better?"
"Almost," he grinned wickedly, and suddenly scrubbed his own hands into her hair playfully, and she shrieked with a giggle, telling him to stop before it got too tangled.
"There!", he finished, showing her to the mirror, "Now you look like a wild flower bush!"
"Good!", she punctuated, and slipped on her shoes, "Don't wait up for me!", she teased.
"Don't worry, once you get home, I'll have cleaned out your whole room and filled it with porn mags," he teased, waving her off.
Martie leaped onto her bike, speeding down the street eagerly. Checking the address on her hand again, she navigated down the streets, turning corners until she finally reached the house that was hosting the party.
She'd taken care not to bring anything up about it to her parents, knowing they'd blow a gasket if they knew no parents were going to be there. But that's just how she wanted her first real party to be.
Parking her bike out front, she went inside, and was led to the basement by a classmate. Everything was loud and hazy, just as she expected, and just as she hoped. Rock music blasted over speakers, and it smelled like someone had already busted out the weed.
"Your parents are going to be out of the house all weekend, right?", she'd asked the host girl, wanting to make certain there was no chance some party pooper adult would rat her out.
An 'I think so' was enough to suffice, and Martie was quick to hop in the smoking circle, and light up.
After an hour, two joints later, Martie was sufficiently relaxed, and eager to join in on every and any party activity there was offered.
So long as she could keep her clothes on.
It was maybe after two hours of excited dancing and wailing along to the music that someone had busted out a whole four cases of beer.
"Who wants to give it a try?", the host offered, holding out the first can. A boy grabbed it, and popped the tab, quickly sipping at the foam that burst out.
Martie's fingers twitched in anticipation, and she stepped forward to take up the offer of the second can. She opened the can, expecting it to be just like a soda. Grinning, she took a huge gulp.
It took everything not to spit it up, it tasted awful. But she kept it down, and gave a small giggle. So this was what adulthood was like! She took another swallow in daring, in hope to get herself used to the taste.
Only a few other people took cans, some not interested in it, and another boy muttering that certain brand tasted like piss.
Nobody was taking the cans after a while, so Martie helped herself to a second. After an hour, another, even as she felt woozy.
Within twenty minutes of that third can, the contents of her stomach churned, and her vision started spinning. Feeling a sense of dread crawl up her throat, Martie quietly excused herself, and hobbled up the stairs, and fumbled on uneasy feet for the bathroom. It was on the left, wasn't it?
No. It was on the right. The closet was on the left. But it was too late then. Before she could even stop herself, she began throwing up on the floor of the household's coat closet.
Martie began to sob, and sank onto her knees as her stomach emptied itself in a virtual stranger's house. When she felt it was finally over, she shakily got onto her knees, still crying.
This wasn't fun anymore.
Stumbling into the bathroom to clean her face and cry more, Martie's hands shook violently, hoping nobody saw what she did. Or how stupid she was.
Knowing she was probably going to be in huge trouble in some sort of regard, and being too sick to care, Martie used the telephone in the foyer to dial home. Her stomach twisted painfully as she anticipated talking to her mother or father on the other line.
"Hello?", Laramie's voice chirped on the other line.
Martie almost sobbed in relief, "L-Lari, it's Martie. Can you p-pick me up?"
"Hey, what's wrong?", he immediately sounded worried, "Did some punk try to make a move on you? I'll bean 'em if-"
"N-no!", she cried, "I had beer and I threw up in a closet!"
"Oh," he stifled a small laugh, still sympathetic to her cause, "Ok, you're at the Landson's place, right?"
"Yeah," she whimpered.
"Ok, I'll pick you up out front, alright?", he assured, "I'll be over soon," then hung up.
Shuffling outside, Martie resisted the urge to throw up again, and went over to the front lawn near her poorly parked bike, and dropped onto her side, deciding to rest on the grass and cry over how shitty she felt physically and how stupid she felt inside.
Laramie pulled up in their family's station wagon within fifteen minutes, and got out to dump his sister's bike in the trunk, and then lift her into the back seat of the car.
"Y'ok, sis?", he smiled.
"I'm a dummy!", she wailed.
"Yeah, but you're my dummy. So how many of those things did you drink?", he asked as he started the car, and drove for home.
"Three," she sniffled.
"Three? Well no wonder you feel like crap!", he exclaimed, "You don't ever drink that much in that little of time! Only an idiot does that!"
Martie bawled louder, and Laramie sighed, "Look, just for next time, stick to one or two, and sip them. Chugging them is a bad move."
"Ok," she whimpered into the car seat, "Are you going to tell mom and dad?"
"Hell no," he rolled his eyes, "Here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna go home, get your stomach emptied out in the toilet if you haven't already done that in their closet, and then you're going to bed. If mom and dad even ask, we're going to say it's stomach flu, got it?"
"Got it," she whimpered.
"But hey, want to know the cool thing from this?", he glanced in the back, "Aside from knowing that you can maybe handle more than three beers before going black out drunk?"
"Yeah?", she groaned, head pounding.
"You experienced your first real party. And before high school. I'm jealous", he grinned softly.
Martie weakly smiled against the seat of the car.
"Stay jealous bro."
