I recently discovered how much I LOVE 'Moral Orel', so I came to check out the fanfiction…
AND THERE'S ONLY ONE STORY!
Seriously people? D:
The show is GREAT, and I think the third season should have sent the series soaring instead of canceling. I liked how dark and deep it was getting. I just totally fell in love with it for that. Sure, the Christian jokes were great, and I get how adult swim would think it was getting too serious, but would it hurt to have one amazing, serious show on there?
Sigh…they always end things just as they get good.
Anyone, this story is Orel's thoughts during 'Nature: Part 2'. That episode was a huge door opening for the show. It changed everything. I really wanted to explore Orel's mind as he went through what he did.
Disclaimer: I do not own 'Moral Orel' or any of the characters. If I did, then the series most definatly would NOT have ended right when things were getting so awesome, and in fact, it probably never would have ended. IT NEVER SHOULD HAVE! D:
Enjoy! (sorry is Orel is so angst, but in his defense, YOU imagine going through all this and not being seriously upset)
"Dad, I'm hurt."
I don't even know why I bothered to say it. He didn't care.
"Yeah?" Clay said, clearly uninterested. He smacked his lips a few times before speaking again. "Hey buddy, do me a favor. Take your sleeping bag…"
"Yeah." It wasn't a question to wonder what he wanted. My voice was dry and lifeless.
"And wrap it around my eyes, will ya?"
I silently forced myself over to him, handing him the plaid cloth. He muttered some words I didn't understand as he put it over his face, then turned over and began to snore.
Wincing as the pain stabbed through my leg, I settled back down, back pressed against the cold, hard rock.
Minutes ticked by, or maybe they were hours. Needless to say I had a lot of time to think. I didn't know whether or not be happy for that just then. But I thought anyway. Nothing better to do then bleed and hope the scent didn't attract some vicious beast.
I had been shot. By my father. Clay had shot me, and like he said, there were no accidents.
With lifeless eyes, I watched the atmosphere slowly burn up in the fiery rays of twilight. I absentmindedly played with the hem of my now ruined shirt. Dad had destroyed that, too. He ripped up my lucky shirt without second thought.
The shirt was supposed to mean something. It was supposed to represent the day I realized God loved everyone in my family. Clay had heartlessly torn it apart.
One thought lead to another, and I couldn't help but wonder: did God love Clay?
I know God loves everyone, but when Clay drank…he became a bad person. A very bad person. He yelled, and hit things, and shot me in the leg.
It felt like so much more had broken last night other then my skin and the seams of my red plaid shirt.
I hate you.
I had said it.
I had really said it.
I had told my father I hated him.
And the worst part is…I meant it. It felt good to say. Did that make me bad? Was God angry with me now?
Well, I could apologize later, given I didn't bleed to death now. Not that Clay would care.
God forgive me, but I hate him so much…
It was then I started to see things. My eyes were opening up, and it was like a cold slap in the face, taking my breath away.
Things were wrong. Horribly, terribly wrong.
My family was wrong. My father was wrong. My mother, my brother, everyone in town was just wrong!
This couldn't be how things were supposed to be, could it? Up until then, I had just accepted all that God threw at me. My mother's neglect, my father beating me when I didn't understand something and slipped up. They even let Blocky get switched with another baby, for crying out loud!
…didn't anyone care?
Didn't anyone care about me? Would anyone care if I just bled to death right then and there?
Well, I might get my answer. Clay is finally coming to. Over the shock of my epiphany, I now felt empty.
Cold.
Numb.
"Yeah…" Clay breathed, turning over as he was stirred from his long sleep. His eyes gained a little focus when he saw me. I only gave him a sideways glance in return.
"Hey, mornin'!" he said cheerfully, jumping up.
I stared at him, eyes still dead. How could he do that? How could he just put on a smile and act like everything was fine after all that had happened?
"Morning was thirteen hours ago," I said, voice deadpan as I held up the small sundial I had been smart enough to bring. Another thing to add to my newfound detest of my father: he never listened to me. He never wanted to hear me. He only listened to the liquor. If it had been up to him I would have left all our survival supplies behind. Fat load of help it did anyway. He drank all of the rubbing alcohol. Whatever. It's not like he would care if I died of infection.
"Heheh, missed the rosters, eh?" Clay chuckled. I glared at him. He was either completely oblivious or he really didn't care. "High time for some breakfast!"
"I wanna go home, dad," I said, my voice now cold. I rubbed the back of my head as I spoke for lack of anything better to do. My body was pretty damn sore from just sitting there for so long.
Clay looked baffled.
"Wha-Why? What happened?" he asked. I swallowed a growl. He still hadn't caught on.
"You shot me in the leg," I informed him monotonously. The bitter resentment was choking me up.
"No I didn't!" Clay said indignantly, hands on his hips.
"Look," I said, fighting to keep my cool. My tone was harsh as I said it, gesturing to the now bloody tourniquet he had made out of my favorite shirt. The crimson had lone since seeped through the fabric and I could feel it trickling warmly across my flesh.
But apparently, this wasn't a concern of my father.
"Oh," he said blankly, as though struggling to comprehend the fact that shooting his son was wrong. "I don't remember that, so that means it's not my fault!"
I nearly snapped then. I really did. That was all he ever cared about. Himself. Weather or not he got in trouble. I would put money on it that he would leave me to die out here instead of facing accusations when we got back home.
But there would be none. Because mom didn't care either.
Nobody. Fucking. Cared.
"Well, we should get you--" his words cut off with a loud gasp as his eyes finally caught sight of the bear. "Orel!"
"He's dead."
I was a bit surprised at how I said it. When we had first come on the hunting trip, I had been so scared. I shuddered at the very thought of harming another creature of God.
But now, looking at the mangled mass of blood-soaked black fur that had once been a magnificent animal, stomach ripped open and a heavy flow of scarlet glistening in the grass, I felt nothing but cool contempt.
I just didn't care.
"Shot?" Clay asked. What a stupid question. No dad, I beat it to death with a shoe.
"Yeah," I replied, choosing not to make jabs at his intelligence at the moment despite the urge. It would only cause more problems.
"Orel," he said, tone becoming serious. He kneeled down next to me. I stared at him. What could he possibly want now?
"Make me happy. Make me proud of you son and tell me you shot that bear yourself."
That threw me off guard for a moment. I thought about what my father was asking of me, and now faced one of the biggest choices I had ever had to make.
It may not seem like it, but that question would change everything.
My whole life, I tried to be good. I really did. I tried to follow God's words and the Bible. I wanted to be a good Christian.
But, more then that, I realized I just wanted please my father.
Whenever he lectured me, I listened intently and followed his instruction without question, only to be punished for it later. But I took the abuse. I just wanted my father to be proud of me. To pay attention to me. Was that really too much to ask for?
And here I was, my father looking at my with so much hope in his eyes it made my heart clench.
But was this what I wanted? After all this time, was I about to admit to bloodying my hands to get that long-waited for pat on the back and 'nice work, son'?
I was at a mental crossroad. One lead to my father's acceptance through the decaying animal before us, and the other…
I just didn't know at the moment.
All I did know was the wound in my leg was burning, and after all I had done, after everything I went through to try and get my father to notice me, he still turned a blind eye to my pain.
Me admitting to shooting the bear was like opening a door to a new life. A life where I felt like I was worthy of my father's attention.
"No dad," I said bitterly. "You killed it."
And I just didn't care.
I think it might have been overlooked by some people watching that episode how major the tearing of Orel's favorite shirt was. And even greater then that, how big Clay's question was. Orel could have finally been worthy in his father's eyes, but he realized he just didn't care anymore.
That was huge. That was probably the biggest moment of the series.
Well, like I said, I thought it was ridiculous that 'Moral Orel' only had one fanfic, so here's my addition!
I hope you liked it and please review!