Dreams of Yesterday
Disclaimer: I don't own VG. I wish I did. Alas, no. Anyway, this story is written about Curt's childhood, which (as everyone who's seen the movie knows) sucked royally. It's gonna get a bit disturbing sooner or later, so be warned. Ahead be violence and sexuality, not all of it consensual. It will stay within the R rating, though, promise.
Chapter One: Welcome Home
The sky was pale and cold, the clouds shoving away all sunlight as the wind whipped around him. Clumps of yellowed snow were scattered the driveway; the flowers were dead in their clay pots. It was the perfect day for homecoming.
Curt caught a glimpse of himself in the window of his father's truck. His skin was too pale, his hair sticking out at odd angles as it grew out from its choppy cut. He tugged on the sleeves of his sweatshirt. It had been his favorite two years before. It was too large now, hanging limply from his bony frame.
His mother's warm hand landed on his shoulder; from habit, he flinched. She looked disappointed, but only said, "It's alright, sweetheart. You're home."
Home. It was a foreign word, registering only a vague recollection in his mind. It came with a hazy memory of love and pain, a mixture of elation and dread, forming in the pit of his stomach and traveling upwards, lodging a lump in his raw throat.
His footsteps echoed on the damp pavement. The sound was too loud, almost surreal. Everything around him was too much, too real. There were no blurring lines like at the hospital, nothing that was merely there. Since he'd set foot outside the hospital, everything had a smell, a taste, a feel to it, not least the air, which smelled like smoke, tasted like dust, and felt like freedom.
The porch was only a step away. He stopped still, watching his father climb the steps, his posture slumped and defeated. His mother gave him a tiny push forward, so gentle, like she was afraid to break him. He didn't move. There was something wrong in this place, there always had been, but he just couldn't remember what it was.
His mother noticed his hesitancy; glancing at his father, she whispered, "Michael…"
The gruff older man turned as he held the front door open with one hand; the other gripped Curt's barely used suitcase. Face pinched and scowling, he choked out, "Welcome home."
Curt nodded and lowered his head. Slowly he climbed the steps and entered the trailer. It was dingy and dark, nearly identical to the ones that surrounded it. The three of them piled into the small living room and Curt pulled away from the tiny crowd, heading down the hallway. He knew his bedroom was in the very back, but he didn't know if it was on the left or the right. Tentatively, opened the left door a crack, peeking in before stepping completely inside. He expected to remember, expected to look at the walls and feel the carpet beneath his feet and suddenly know everything that the treatments had made him forget. But he couldn't remember hanging the poster above his bed or throwing a basketball haphazardly in the corner.
Curt sighed and plopped down on his bed. It didn't feel like him. The room, the house, the clothes… It all felt wrong and different. He wrapped his arms around himself and fell back on the bed, sighing. Maybe it would come back, in time. Maybe one day, it would seem right again. He closed his eyes, suddenly feeling tired.
Before sleep could claim him, the door crashed open. Curt sprung to his feet, eyes wide. The name came unbidden to his lips as the taller boy lounged in the doorway. "Alex."
Alex nodded, a smile slipping across his face. "Hey, bro. Welcome home."
Disclaimer: I don't own VG. I wish I did. Alas, no. Anyway, this story is written about Curt's childhood, which (as everyone who's seen the movie knows) sucked royally. It's gonna get a bit disturbing sooner or later, so be warned. Ahead be violence and sexuality, not all of it consensual. It will stay within the R rating, though, promise.
Chapter One: Welcome Home
The sky was pale and cold, the clouds shoving away all sunlight as the wind whipped around him. Clumps of yellowed snow were scattered the driveway; the flowers were dead in their clay pots. It was the perfect day for homecoming.
Curt caught a glimpse of himself in the window of his father's truck. His skin was too pale, his hair sticking out at odd angles as it grew out from its choppy cut. He tugged on the sleeves of his sweatshirt. It had been his favorite two years before. It was too large now, hanging limply from his bony frame.
His mother's warm hand landed on his shoulder; from habit, he flinched. She looked disappointed, but only said, "It's alright, sweetheart. You're home."
Home. It was a foreign word, registering only a vague recollection in his mind. It came with a hazy memory of love and pain, a mixture of elation and dread, forming in the pit of his stomach and traveling upwards, lodging a lump in his raw throat.
His footsteps echoed on the damp pavement. The sound was too loud, almost surreal. Everything around him was too much, too real. There were no blurring lines like at the hospital, nothing that was merely there. Since he'd set foot outside the hospital, everything had a smell, a taste, a feel to it, not least the air, which smelled like smoke, tasted like dust, and felt like freedom.
The porch was only a step away. He stopped still, watching his father climb the steps, his posture slumped and defeated. His mother gave him a tiny push forward, so gentle, like she was afraid to break him. He didn't move. There was something wrong in this place, there always had been, but he just couldn't remember what it was.
His mother noticed his hesitancy; glancing at his father, she whispered, "Michael…"
The gruff older man turned as he held the front door open with one hand; the other gripped Curt's barely used suitcase. Face pinched and scowling, he choked out, "Welcome home."
Curt nodded and lowered his head. Slowly he climbed the steps and entered the trailer. It was dingy and dark, nearly identical to the ones that surrounded it. The three of them piled into the small living room and Curt pulled away from the tiny crowd, heading down the hallway. He knew his bedroom was in the very back, but he didn't know if it was on the left or the right. Tentatively, opened the left door a crack, peeking in before stepping completely inside. He expected to remember, expected to look at the walls and feel the carpet beneath his feet and suddenly know everything that the treatments had made him forget. But he couldn't remember hanging the poster above his bed or throwing a basketball haphazardly in the corner.
Curt sighed and plopped down on his bed. It didn't feel like him. The room, the house, the clothes… It all felt wrong and different. He wrapped his arms around himself and fell back on the bed, sighing. Maybe it would come back, in time. Maybe one day, it would seem right again. He closed his eyes, suddenly feeling tired.
Before sleep could claim him, the door crashed open. Curt sprung to his feet, eyes wide. The name came unbidden to his lips as the taller boy lounged in the doorway. "Alex."
Alex nodded, a smile slipping across his face. "Hey, bro. Welcome home."