Father of Mine
By Saphron
Summery: A stoned Joren reflects his life and recounts the beginning of the end. Welcome to Joren's head, otherwise known as hell. A songfic using Everclear's Father of Mine. Sequel to Voo-doo.
NOTE: Very DDA-Dark, depressing, angst. Heavy material, hence the R rating. I advise you now-do NOT read this!
~
father of mine
tell me where have you been
you know i just closed my eyes
my whole world disappeared
father of mine
take me back to the day
when i was still your golden boy
back before you went away
"Eight for the heroine, two for the acid," The man said eagerly, licking his lips in anticipation, eyes shining greedily. He had this lad right where he wanted him.
Joren glared, "No way. It's not even worth half that amount." He hated being cheated during a deal.
The man's eyes narrowed and he said in a questioning mocking voice, "o you want the stuff or not?"
Joren bit the inside of his cheek, yes. So badly. He hadn't had any in over a week, and he was dying! He could feel himself crumble.
The man sensed Joren's desire and twitched his hands, before the night was out he'd sell ten kilos for sure. He shrugged, playing the last stretch of Joren's nerves, "Take it or leave it boy, but that's the price."
Joren practically growled but none the less he slapped his money, the last of his money, into the man's open palm and scooped up the bag. He placed it quickly into his pocket, glancing around the dark abandoned ally to make sure no one was watching. The man gave a curt nod but Joren could see the gleefulness on his face. He must make a fortune doing this… he thought ruefully.
i remember blue skies
walking the block
i loved it when you held me high
i loved to hear you talk
you would take me to the movie
you would take me to the beach
you would take me to a place inside
that is so hard to reach
The man scurried away, clutching his hard-earned money. As for Joren, he didn't even stop to think. The temptation to get high was too strong. The powder in his pocket called out to him, tendrils of thoughts sneaking into his brain, forcing him to give in submissively to the power of the leaf. He obeyed its command. So much for will power.
Before long he was sprawled in the ally, stoned as hell. He was also drunk after bringing some hidden bottles of alcohol under his coat. His mind a whirlwind of explosions and colors, walls hazy and dim, black stains smeared everywhere forming blobs of barely recognized shapes. His last thought before he passed out was that this was all his father's fault.
father of mine
tell me where did you go
you had the world inside your hand
but you did not seem to know
father of mine
tell me what do you see
when you look back at your wasted life
and you don't see me
When Joren awoke he tried to sit up but failed pathetically, his head pounded like a freakin' war-drum. Erg-that was the worst part about the crack, it left you with one helluva migraine. He shoved the empty glass bottles away as he tried once again to get upright. Only sometimes he drank when he doped, only when he was really, really pissed about something. The combo wasn't exactly what'd you call safe…but hey, who cared? Who freakin' cared? No body, that's who. No one cared about him, not even himself. Only freakin' no one.
Everyday he faced a battle…overdosing. Several times he was tempted, once he had tried. It had nearly killed him. Down in the ghetto overdosing was as common as sewer rats; it was just apart of life.
Of course, Joren didn't live in the slums; he was a noble after all. But still-why did everyone assume it was the neglected victims of society, the poor kids, who did the drugs? Half the users out there were the rich kids, maybe more. They were the ones who after all had the cash. Everyone, rich or poor; did drugs. That was the thing about drugs, it was a unifying experience. Everyone who'd done them could relate…nobles and commoners alike. Look at Joren! He was the perfect example of a good noble turned bad. And the whole reason he had started was because he wanted to share something special with his father…his lousy stinkin' father…
i was ten years ole
doing all that i could
it wasn't easy for me
to be a scared white boy
in a black neighborhood
sometimes you would send me a birthday card
with a five dollar bill
i never understood you then
and i guess i never will
His father was gone. As in, never coming back. He had left one day, just out of the blue, when Joren was home at the fief during the summer vacations. Joren still remembered the feeling of waiting up all night, not leaving the window to go make himself dinner, for him to come home. But he never did. He had just packed up and left. Maybe it was because some people were starting to get suspicious…maybe they already knew, and were coming to arrest him. But for whatever the reason he had disappeared, and he hadn't taken Joren with him.
He really screwed me over, Joren thought to himself, closing his eyes and remembering. When he was ten his father had pushed him into his world; and Joren had blindly followed him. It wasn't before long he was addicted. For two years they shared the experience, getting high together, living in their own bubbles. The good ol' days. But then he had left, not giving a damn what happened to his son. And now his child was sitting in a dark alley, wasted, alone, practically passing out, with half a kilo of crack and a few empty bottles.
Joren could've almost cried if he had known how. He hadn't since his mother died. But he wished he could now. Not only was his head threatening to explode, he was out of drugs and the cash needed to buy 'em. Sure he had half a kilo left, but that wouldn't get him very far. He'd be out by next week. Then what would he do? His father had always provided the dope or the dough, it was simple; it was the system they lived by. But now that he was gone there was no one to feed the hungry baby bird lying in a puddle of sewer water and beer.
daddy gave me a name
my dad he gave me a name
then he walked away
daddy gave me a name
then he walked away
my dad he gave me a name
He still didn't understand how his father could just leave him behind like that. I mean, Joren never loved his dad like most kids too. He didn't give him hugs and play ball and stuff. And at times he even hated the man for showing him the way to hell. But they were flesh and blood-he was his son for Mithro's sake. The least he could do was tell him he was leaving…and maybe why… But no. He just had to one-day get on his horse and go. Leave his kids behind. Sure what the hell, why does he give a damn.
father of mine
tell me where have you been
i just closed my eyes
and the world disappeared
father of mine
tell me how do you sleep
with the children you abandoned
and the wife i saw you beat
If it had just been Joren's life his father had practically destroyed, maybe he wouldn't have minded so much. He'd still have hated his worthless ass, but if only him had been wasted it wouldn't be quite as bad. But no. Not only was Joren's life screwed up because of his good-for-nothing father. He had killed his mother. High. Drunk. He beat her to death.
Of course, the scandal was covered up well. He paid big time mula to have a mage come and magic her body to look like she had died from a disease of some sort, not brutal bashing of a man's angry fist. But he couldn't pay the mage to magic the memories from Joren's mind…
Flashback:
"Please, Randy, no-"
"You stupid bitch! You FUCKING THREW AWAY MY DOPE!"
"Randal-it was killing you! It was killing Joren! It was killing this family!"
"I'll kill YOU, you little whore!"
Joren cringed, flinching at the sound of the crack of leather on bare skin. He was standing outside the door, peering in, fearful of being caught yet eyes glued to the scene in front of him. He was used to it by now, but it didn't make it any easier to watch. To see his father being so cruel…heedless to his mother's cries…
Joren tore his eyes away from the slot of light and stumbled down the hallway, towards he didn't know where. He kept running, sounds of screaming and crying and begging echoing behind him. Those voices haunted him the rest of his life. He could always hear the sounds replaying through his mind.
Tears cursed down his soft cheeks in a steady stream, outlining the worn-out tear tracks and blurring his vision. There were tears of fear. What would happen to his mother? Would she be all right? What would happen to him? They were tears of anger. How could his father do this? Even if he was high, even if he was drunk, even if he was angry at the world…it was no excuse. They were tears of shame. How could he just stand around doing nothing, watching his mother being beaten? He had run away, like a little coward. He should step in…he should do something…he was sick of all that blood…
But he was scared. He had seen the bruises and blood-soaked cloths on his mother's limp body after a cruel night before…and he didn't want that to happen to him. So he ran. And he cried. The last tears he'd ever shed. And he didn't look back.
i will never be safe
i will never be sane
i will always be weird inside
i will always be lame
now i'm a grown man
with a child of my own
and i swear that i'm not going to let her know
all the pain i have known
Joren somehow miraculously made it onto his feet. He started back to the palace at a slow trot, his head hanging low, his feet shuffling along, his empty shadow dragging behind. What was the use? What was the use of it all. There just didn't seem like any point in going back. What would he find? A pissed off training master and that determined girl squire too. He wouldn't find anyone who gave a damn about him. His 'friends' certainly wouldn't. They were just his mindless cronies. Not true friends. They wouldn't care. Maybe he should just disappear like his father had… Joren angry shoved that idea out of his head. The last person he ever wanted to be like was his father.
He made it back to the palace and into his room with no one spotting him. Good thing too, his eyes were bloodshot and cloudy, the red veins sticking out, throbbing in tune to the disembodied musical voices floating through Joren's head.
Smash. Glass fell through the air like rain, tiny shards piercing the flesh of hand that had killed it. Joren breathed heavily, holding his bloody and mangled hand out in front of him. He couldn't stand seeing his reflection in the mirror, because he had no reflection. When he looked in it…all he saw was a screwed up face with red bloodshot eyes and pale cheeks. He didn't see the happy face of a normal boy. Oh no. That stupid mirror. It showed him the truth. The cold, cruel truth. Damn it! He screamed in his mind, I hope no one heard that. Damn the truth to bloody fucking hell.
then he walked away
daddy gave me a name
then he walked away
my dad he gave me a name
then he walked away
daddy gave me a name
then he walked away
my dad he gave me a name
then he walked away
~
~*Saphron*~
Song is Father of Mine and it belongs to Everclear. I personally think one of their greatest songs ever. Joren is TP's. I made up Randal. You can have that bastard.
Hmm…well…more angst from me. Two fics in one day! Can you tell I like it? It's my favorite type of story to read/write. One day maybe I'll post the rest of my TP angst fics…when I can be sure you guys won't have to have physiatrists for the rest of your lives cause of it.
I know the words were written with no capitol letters…lo-and-behold there's a reason! *gasp* Yea, well, I figure that it kinda puts it into a child's perspective. I like it that way leave me alone.
And the 'eight for the heroine, two for the acid' is an inside joke for all use die-hard Alanna fans out there. ^-^
Um-still sorry if my info is wrong…never done drugs, and don't plan on doin' 'em either.
This is to all the people out there who have ever been hit, abused, a witness, whatever. My heart goes out to you. I haven't been abused but…I've been hit before. A little. Not really, but I've kinda never really gotten over it. My mum…in a temper…scares the holy shit out of me. You should see the look on her face *laughs bitterly* pure murder. For things I haven't even done too…slapped around at fourteen. I'm pathetic. And I've grown up before my time. But whatever. I love her, I'm not abused-I'm just too sensitive. Part of the reason I hate flames so much. FF.N is kinda my haven place and I hate to see it desecrated with insults and hatred. Whatever. Most people can't and won't ever understand what I'm talking about.
See you if I write another sequel. It's likely, still depressed. When you're depressed you write depressed-it's a twisted system but it works.