Dormez-vous? Chapter 4

"So this is where you live?" Jeanne finally broke the silence. They were standing outside of Francis' house, and she, with her neck craned back, was admiring it. It was a large house: a wide two-story, with an attic. The visible front of it was painted a lovely eggshell white, and there were many rectangular windows about it. The lower window sills had pots of red roses sticking out of them. There were seven steps leading up to the porch, and next to the door a grand oak rocking chair was nestled. "A rich boy, eh?" Jeanne chuckled, trying to get something, anything, out of her silent companion. Francis hadn't spoken since they left the Kirkland house.

He didn't speak now. He only nodded dumbly, then reached up towards his hair. His fingers embedded themselves beneath the elasticity of his rubber band and he yanked it out forcefully, causing his golden locks to spill out around his face like a lion's mane. Then, he chucked the band onto the ground. Jeanne gave him a stare full of both annoyance and concern, and he looked back at her - emotionlessly - and then he looked towards his house.

Not knowing what to say, Jeanne ended up muttering, "Well, see you later, I guess." Her shoe kicked at the earth for a second, and she studied it listlessly. Finally, she looked up. "Goodbye, Francis." She said. No response. "Goodbye, Francis." She repeated, a bit annoyed that he was ignoring her. His blue eyes were staring ahead - distant and unfeeling - and completely unfocused on her. Well, that was fine then, Jeanne knew how to make boys notice her! She leaned forwards, brought her face right up to the side of the boy's own. "Goodbye, Francis." She crooned, almost a purr, and brought her soft, chapped lips to his cheek.

She pulled away with a grin of triumph, eyes twinkling mischievously as she waited for the boy to turn red from head to toe and squeal in protest. Any moment now he will... She thought, continuing to beam at him. No reaction. it was as if she didn't even exist! Francis just stared at the ground with a sorrowful look in his eyes. After a while he sighed, looking up at her.

Ironically, it was Jeanne who turned red from head to toe and began to squeal, "Now look here you little brat! You have no reason to be moping - or, or ignoring me for that matter! I followed you to the Kirkland's house, I was ready for battle," She paused to withdraw her wooden sword from her side, pointing it into the air heroically. "and Arthur is fine!" She continued. "He didn't even want us there, he - "

" - was afraid." Francis cut her off, speaking at last. His eyes were a bit shiny on the insides, wet with emotion, though he wasn't in tears, and he reached up to wipe his nose every now and then. "I'm sorry, Jeanne." He said almost in a whisper, and placed a hand over her's upon the hilt of her sword. A forced smile played upon his lips. "I didn't mean to ignore you...I'll...I'll kiss you myself, if you want!" Francis leaned forwards, puckering his lips.

"EW! NO!" Jeanne squealed, laughing, and she smacked him on the head with her wooden sword. Although she was playing, it still stung a little, and Francis quickly retreated. He grinned at her and she gave him a false frown back. "I only smooched you to wake you up, idiot." She muttered.

Francis tilted his head to the side deviously. "Ah, are you sure it wasn't because you were dazzled by my good looks? Ahonhonhon..." He got another whack from her sword for that one.

"Ha! No way!" She yowled loudly, stamping her foot onto the ground. Quickly, she concealed her wooden blade. "I'll see you tomorrow then, Francis?" She asked, though, it was really more of a statement, and then she turned to dash away, her dirty blonde hair bouncing behind her as she ran. Francis called something back for an answer - she was sure it was the affirmative - but she didn't look back. She didn't want to see his face again, didn't want to see the pain in his eyes. He wasn't really ok, not really happy. All those smiles, grins, laughs, jibes...they were all part of an act to make her leave him alone and she knew it. Is it because of Arthur? She asked herself as her lithe feet carried her along. Or something deeper? Her brow furrowed, troubled, and Jeanne realized that, in all sincerity, she did not want to know.

XXXX

Dylan's face was covered with purple bruises. It was of the upmost misfortune that his father had to aim for a place so visible - how was he suppossed to explain these to mum? - but, he knew nothing would be done about it. He felt bad, sort of, for his little brother though. He had told Arthur to leave, the boy wasn't lying, but when Allister had come home he saw Dylan's face and became so angry that Dylan was afraid if he said anything, he'd get a beating too. Dylan didn't quite understand it, but his older brother became livid whenever anyone was ever left alone with pa. 'Never leave anyone alone with pa.' He would say, and the majority of the time, everyone listened.

He could've treated Arthur a little less harshly though.. Dylan thought to himself, recalling the blood that had stained his brother's legs. As soon as he had seen Arthur's legs like that, he had left the room; he didn't want to see them, because seeing them made him feel guilty.

Sighing, Dylan leaned against the bathroom door. He could hear young Arthur inside - he was bathing, probably surveying his injuries with much dismay, probably hating Allister for causing them. I need to...apologize. Dylan figured, yet he knew deep inside that he would never be able to say the words. He could comfort his brother though, that much he could do.

There was the sound of water dripping onto the floor as Arthur emerged, and Dylan lay his head back against the door in waiting. Fabric rustled as his little brother changed into his pajamas. When finally Arthur opened the door, he was wearing a soft, blue nightgown. Dylan knew it immidiantly; it was the nightgown that mother had sewn for him when she was still well. Pa didn't like to see Arthur wearing it, and neither did Allister. Dylan found himself admiring his brother - he was defying them, in his own way.

Arthur's nose scrunched up when he saw him. "Dylan?" He asked, and there was a edge to his tone; he was making himself sound angry, but that was because he was being cautious. Dylan frowned. He was afraid.

"Hey, little one..." Dylan murmured, kneeling a bit so he was at the same height as his brother. He could see red rims around Arthur's eyes still. Even in the bath...was he still crying? He reached out, intending to ruffle Arthur's hair.

The latter ducked away. "I'm not little." He retorted, puffing out his cheeks with annoyance. He rubbed his eyes next, as if to rid himself of that annoying evidence of his sorrow. "Allister said I had to go to bed." Arthur said pointedly, an obvious diversion; what he really wanted to say was 'go away'.

His eyes...I bet they're sore from all those tears... Dylan thought ponderously, his fingers drumming against his side. "Well..." He said quietly, "I guess you'd better go to bed then."

"Yeah." Arthur looked at his feet.

After a moment of silence, Dylan leaned over and kissed his little brother on the forehead. The latter flinched away in response, his gaze hurt, and it tore Dylan up inside to see. He doesn't trust me. "Goodnight, Arthur." He whispered quickly, rising to his feet. Arthur retreated to his room hurriedly, leaving Dylan all alone in the hallway. He hates all of us... Dylan sighed, and he turned away.

When he was halfway down the hall, Dylan heard something shatter. "Allister! Allister, where's your mother!" A voice was thundering. "Where is she? That bitch!" Something else was smashed. "She's out cheating on me, isn't she? I'll throttle her, I will! Allister! Allister!"

Dylan shuddered at the sound of his father's voice. He really did not want to go out there - it would be better just to go to bed... He didn't care, really, where his mom was, or what she was doing - she dissapeared often, but she always returned within a few days. Sometimes, she had money when she returned. Dylan really didn't care how she got it; it helped feed the family.

Footsteps clattered loudly as Eily rushed down the hall to her room. The corner of her dress was torn, and her hand was bleeding slightly. A translucent piece of glass protruded out of the palm; she fished it out with expert precision, then tossed it away from her as hard as she could, so it smacked into the wall. When she saw Dylan looking at her, she frowned, her red eyebrows furrowing. "Little brother," She began, placing her uninjured hand on her hip. "you'd best go to bed right now, sir." She snorted. Dylan opened his mouth to reply, but she went inside her own room (which she shared with Arthur), leaving him alone in the hallway.

He was about to leave - his body was turned three quarters of the way around, and he was about to descend down the hallway to his own room (which he shared with Allister) - when something struck him as wrong. His father had stopped yelling. The house was...silent. This disturbed him, it was wrong in so many ways, and he found himself turning back around, and heading towards the violence. As quietly as he could, Dylan Kirkland crept towards the kitchen. It was right beside the living room, which was likely where his father was. But maybe...it is only quiet because father went to bed. He told himself, for he knew that his parent's bedroom was right next to the living room.

Heart throbbing, Dylan walked into the kitchen. From there he looked over the yellow counters and towards the disaster. His eyes were inquisitive - wide, and staring - and he surveyed a broken picture frame lying near the foot of the couch, and a shattered vase - his mother's vase - smashed beside the bedroom door. No one was in the room, and it scared him. His heart seemed to beat even harder, so hard that he felt it in his throat and in his temples, and sweat grew upon his brow. So wrong...something is so wrong... His mind kept reciting.

"GET OVER HERE!" Dylan heard his father's voice roar; it came from within his bedroom.

Oh god...he knows I'm here! Dylan thought, and he swayed on his feet. He started shaking, and for a moment he thought he might throw up.

"Ha. Look at you. You're so pathetic." His father continued, his voice wavering slightly, probably from the alcohol.

Dylan didn't know how his father could see him - The door must be open a crack! He thought. - but it didn't matter anyways, because he was terrified. He didn't obey his father, he didn't stay to hear more insults, he merely turned, fear making him skiddish, and ran. He sprinted down the hall, perspiration dampening his skin, and slammed into his bedroom door. It took him a few moment to find the door nob, as it was dark now, and when he was able to open it, he slid inside without a word.

The room was dark as well, and he couldn't see a thing. The only reason he could tell his bed from his brother's (besides from which side of the room they were on) was the tale-tale stench of cigar smoke that constantly lingered around Allister's bed. It was not secret that his brother, though underage, smoked (he would drink to, if he could find anything father hadn't already sucked dry). Dylan's bed was the one that smelled chaste, and so he made his way towards it.

Once Dylan found his bed, he practically jumped inside it. He curled up into a little ball, pulling the blankets tight around his frame. Even though he was sweating, and he felt sticky with heat beneath the covers, he didn't want to take them off - then he would feel exposed. For a while, he lay awake panting. When he felt like he had calmed, and his heart had stopped beating so fast, he was able to breathe, "G-goodnight Allister." He got no response; it didn't phase him. Allister is already, probably, asleep. He figured, but it didn't really matter.

XXXX

Francis couldn't sleep. He wanted to, but he could not. Every time he started to drift off, his body would try to shift, and when his body tried to shift, it hurt. He hurt especially worse than normal; somehow Auguste knew about his escapade to Arthur's house, and he supposed he was suffering for it. No preparation - that was his punishment.

He knew if he lay on his stomach the pain would subside, but he would not bring himself to lay in such a way. He could, but it was a vulnerable position, and made him feel exposed, and so he remained on his back, staring up at the ceiling. There was a big crack on his ceiling. He liked staring at it, and fancying that one day his father would walk in and the ceiling would cave in on him. He would pretend to cry, but inside he would be laughing. Bye, bye, Auguste.

If only Charline would hurry and come home, then his pain would lessen; his father didn't bother him as much when his wife was home. Charline wasn't Francis' mother, in fact, he didn't know who his real mother was, and he wasn't allowed to ask, so he supposed he would never know. Charline was the one who made the most money in the family. Sure, Auguste did as well, but not nearly as much. Charline had connections - rich friends, a rich family, and rich admirers - and she knew how to pull their strings so that they'd be coughing dough into her hand by sunrise. She was out on business now. Francis hoped she'd come home soon. He actually missed her, for once...

Tears were running down his face when Francis closed his eyes. He didn't care if it hurt anymore - he was going to sleep, damn it! He forced his body to remain still for as long as he could, and slowly, slowly, Francis drifted into a troubled sleep.

XXXX

"You're so pathetic..."