This is just a practice thing I'm trying out. I decided I'd try writing VC Andrews fanfiction because my neighbour gave me a load of books by her a few days ago. What I'm going to try and do is use the same archetypes as VC Andrews, but see if I can't add something of my own to it. Hopefully it'll work.
Sky
Prologue
"Andrew, you are not the father!"
Funny, isn't it? Daytime television, shows our bored brains gorge on, they say that sentence all the time. It belongs to the world of banshee-women, lie detectors and bright-white teethed presenters who smile as they spew the home-wrecking news. They make it entertainment. No, it's worse than that: They make it normal.
Looks like life screwed you over, dude. Knew she was a trollop. Look at those earrings, you can tell from a mile off. What else is on?
I can't watch them, I just can't. Every time the words "DNA test" float from the television, I zap the screen with the remote, barely blinking as the people vanish and my heart beat slows. When I was little I thought that all those people really lived in the television, and I tried to keep it switched on all the time because I was scared for them- I was scared what happened to them when the screen went black. I don't worry for them that much anymore. They don't live in there. Then again, my mother used to say that it was all pretend, so maybe they do.
What always got me, though, was how someone could suddenly not be the father. So the biology doesn't quite match up, so what? Is that all fatherhood is? Then who is the man who holds your hand? The man who works all day for you? The man who thinks no boy is good enough for his princess, the man who cries only once, with joy, on your wedding day? Who the hell is he if the father is just the gunk-giver? Can that bond be broken by bad blood?
My father is dead, however you define a father- both of them, buried. My birth mother hates me, and the woman I wish was my mother is in Heaven's garden, tending the saplings and singing her hymns. She loved flowers; weeding, watering, watching them bloom. She wanted to call me Daisy, Rose, Violet or Lily; something floral. Something outdated, my mother snorted.
But I suppose names don't matter much. Words are far more precious, actions far more valuable. And the most significant of all is what doesn't happen. My father did not father me. My mother did not mother me. I didn't do the right thing quick enough, and I'm too late to change that.
And so my story starts.
Lights.
Camera.
Action.