Homeward Bound
Chapter Three: All My Words Come Back to Me
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I couldn't give you anything if you DID sue me, cause
I'm sixteen and the library doesn't have any job openings currently.
Note: Simon and Garfunkel fans will notice that I've put all the lines out of order as my chapters. I do apologize -- I could not command the story to fit into the number of chapters I intended to write. (What, you thought I was in *control* here?)
Homeward Bound
Chapter 3: All My Words Come Back to Me
They were sitting down to tea (Christian had left an empty seat between himself
and his father) when the door opened. Christian's brother ran into the parlor, apologizing profusely for being late, there had been a problem at the newspaper office and-
He spotted Christian, teacup in hand, and grinned. "Ah, the prodigal son returns."
"The prodigal *elder* son, I'll have you remember," Christian returned mockingly.
"So bitter," he commented, sitting down and pouring himself a cup of tea. "So how was the City of Immorality? Wine, women, and the like?"
Christian's mother interrupted. "He doesn't want to talk about it, Robert."
"Ah, I get it." Robert laughed. "He probably had a bad experience with some whore down in old Pair-ee -- probably thought she was in love with him or something!"
Christian inhaled sharply, as though he'd been hit, then set his teacup down gently. "Excuse me," he muttered, the left the room without waiting for further comment.
He spent the afternoon in his room. He didn't really want to unpack; he didn't know how long he'd be staying. But he was fairly sure there was nowhere else to go.
In the end, he decided only to unpack the typewriter. Perhaps with a change of milieu, he'd be able to write. Perhaps not about *her* as yet, but about *something.*
He wasn't really sure how long he sat at the desk, the blank white paper staring him in the face. "Damn it!" He tore the paper from the typewriter, crumpled it up, and threw it at the wastebasket indifferently. He wondered clinically why he had done that; there was nothing on the paper, thus there probably had been no reason to throw it away. But smashing it into a little ball had been very satisfying.
He wondered if he would ever want to write again.
~~
He fell asleep at the desk just before dark; he woke up again at eleven-fifteen, realizing he'd missed dinner. He was slightly put-out that no one had seen fit to come wake him, but he saw his mother's note lying on the corner of the desk.
Didn't want to wake you -- there is food in the pantry if you get hungry tonight.
But he wasn't hungry. After another wrestling match with writer's block and an untimely nap, he again felt the need for a drink.
He pulled his coat off the doorknob and stepped quietly out into the hall. The fifth step from the bottom would squeak; he skipped it before he consciously knew he had done so.
"Where are you going, Christian?"
He swore and turned around. His mother was standing in the hall, a book in her hand.
"I..." It was no good lying, but he wasn't going to act embarrassed about what he was doing. "I'm going out for a drink."
She didn't even look surprised. "You'll find neither absinthe nor magnolia wine in a London pub."
"How did you -"
"My father was fond of both. Lock the door when you go; take the key on the hook beside the door." She turned to go back into the parlor.
"What, aren't you going to stop me? Tell me I shouldn't do this to myself, that this will just make Father angrier?"
She tossed him a small, knowing smile. "You won't listen to anyone who tells you not to, unless that person is you. And do bundle up, Christian. English winters are cold."
Without waiting for the admonition that probably wasn't coming, Christian stuffed the key in his pocket and left the house.
~~
She was right; London pubs were nothing like the nightclubs that seemed to
overrun Paris. Here, men sat in dim, smoky halls, drinking beer or whisky and calling out lewdly to the barmaids. Suddenly England seemed so terribly uncultured. He wondered why his father took such offense at the French, when here on his own island, the situation was no better.
He ordered a pint of whiskey; the bartender underfilled the glass, then slapped it down on the counter so hard as to spill a good deal of what remained. Christian judged that about half the original pint remained, but he said nothing as he handed the barkeep a few coins.
In a corner booth, the smoke was less dense. He drank the whole 'pint,' even though he remembered at the first sip that he had never cared for it. It was *strong* whiskey, too, and just about brought tears to his eyes.
"Can I refill that for ye?"
He blinked hard. "Satine-" But no, this woman had a cockney accent, and
although her hair was as red as Satine's, it was cropped to barely below her shoulders. But squinting through the smoke, he could see that the bar girl had about fifty pounds and at least fifteen years on his love.
He tried to tell himself that it was the whiskey, or perhaps the poorly-lit pub, that made him see Satine in someone so little like her. He knew that wasn't it; he was obsessed with his courtesan, and this kind of hallucinatory shit had to stop *now.*
"No," he said quickly, pushing his empty glass to the side and standing up. He didn't excuse his quick exit as simply "leaving." It was an escape, and he wasn't ashamed to admit that.
The night was indeed cold, but he was nearly too preoccupied to notice it. He was obsessed with a dead woman: *dead.* Why hadn't the word struck him so harshly before? Surely he had recognized the meaning of her death on the stage with her.
So why did it hurt so much worse now? He brushed a frozen teardrop from his cheek. He was seeing her everywhere, but -
*He would never see her again.* And these mind tricks had to stop.
~~
"You haven't been gone very long," his mother commented gently as he shook
snow off his coat. "Lost your taste for English beer?"
"I don't think I ever had one."
She set her book aside without marking her page. Christian suspected that she hadn't been reading it in the first place, just waiting for him to come home.
"Will you tell me, Christian?"
It was the only way he was ever going to stop imagining things -- to tell someone. "Yes," he said softly.
TBC
Chapter Three: All My Words Come Back to Me
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I couldn't give you anything if you DID sue me, cause
I'm sixteen and the library doesn't have any job openings currently.
Note: Simon and Garfunkel fans will notice that I've put all the lines out of order as my chapters. I do apologize -- I could not command the story to fit into the number of chapters I intended to write. (What, you thought I was in *control* here?)
Homeward Bound
Chapter 3: All My Words Come Back to Me
They were sitting down to tea (Christian had left an empty seat between himself
and his father) when the door opened. Christian's brother ran into the parlor, apologizing profusely for being late, there had been a problem at the newspaper office and-
He spotted Christian, teacup in hand, and grinned. "Ah, the prodigal son returns."
"The prodigal *elder* son, I'll have you remember," Christian returned mockingly.
"So bitter," he commented, sitting down and pouring himself a cup of tea. "So how was the City of Immorality? Wine, women, and the like?"
Christian's mother interrupted. "He doesn't want to talk about it, Robert."
"Ah, I get it." Robert laughed. "He probably had a bad experience with some whore down in old Pair-ee -- probably thought she was in love with him or something!"
Christian inhaled sharply, as though he'd been hit, then set his teacup down gently. "Excuse me," he muttered, the left the room without waiting for further comment.
He spent the afternoon in his room. He didn't really want to unpack; he didn't know how long he'd be staying. But he was fairly sure there was nowhere else to go.
In the end, he decided only to unpack the typewriter. Perhaps with a change of milieu, he'd be able to write. Perhaps not about *her* as yet, but about *something.*
He wasn't really sure how long he sat at the desk, the blank white paper staring him in the face. "Damn it!" He tore the paper from the typewriter, crumpled it up, and threw it at the wastebasket indifferently. He wondered clinically why he had done that; there was nothing on the paper, thus there probably had been no reason to throw it away. But smashing it into a little ball had been very satisfying.
He wondered if he would ever want to write again.
~~
He fell asleep at the desk just before dark; he woke up again at eleven-fifteen, realizing he'd missed dinner. He was slightly put-out that no one had seen fit to come wake him, but he saw his mother's note lying on the corner of the desk.
Didn't want to wake you -- there is food in the pantry if you get hungry tonight.
But he wasn't hungry. After another wrestling match with writer's block and an untimely nap, he again felt the need for a drink.
He pulled his coat off the doorknob and stepped quietly out into the hall. The fifth step from the bottom would squeak; he skipped it before he consciously knew he had done so.
"Where are you going, Christian?"
He swore and turned around. His mother was standing in the hall, a book in her hand.
"I..." It was no good lying, but he wasn't going to act embarrassed about what he was doing. "I'm going out for a drink."
She didn't even look surprised. "You'll find neither absinthe nor magnolia wine in a London pub."
"How did you -"
"My father was fond of both. Lock the door when you go; take the key on the hook beside the door." She turned to go back into the parlor.
"What, aren't you going to stop me? Tell me I shouldn't do this to myself, that this will just make Father angrier?"
She tossed him a small, knowing smile. "You won't listen to anyone who tells you not to, unless that person is you. And do bundle up, Christian. English winters are cold."
Without waiting for the admonition that probably wasn't coming, Christian stuffed the key in his pocket and left the house.
~~
She was right; London pubs were nothing like the nightclubs that seemed to
overrun Paris. Here, men sat in dim, smoky halls, drinking beer or whisky and calling out lewdly to the barmaids. Suddenly England seemed so terribly uncultured. He wondered why his father took such offense at the French, when here on his own island, the situation was no better.
He ordered a pint of whiskey; the bartender underfilled the glass, then slapped it down on the counter so hard as to spill a good deal of what remained. Christian judged that about half the original pint remained, but he said nothing as he handed the barkeep a few coins.
In a corner booth, the smoke was less dense. He drank the whole 'pint,' even though he remembered at the first sip that he had never cared for it. It was *strong* whiskey, too, and just about brought tears to his eyes.
"Can I refill that for ye?"
He blinked hard. "Satine-" But no, this woman had a cockney accent, and
although her hair was as red as Satine's, it was cropped to barely below her shoulders. But squinting through the smoke, he could see that the bar girl had about fifty pounds and at least fifteen years on his love.
He tried to tell himself that it was the whiskey, or perhaps the poorly-lit pub, that made him see Satine in someone so little like her. He knew that wasn't it; he was obsessed with his courtesan, and this kind of hallucinatory shit had to stop *now.*
"No," he said quickly, pushing his empty glass to the side and standing up. He didn't excuse his quick exit as simply "leaving." It was an escape, and he wasn't ashamed to admit that.
The night was indeed cold, but he was nearly too preoccupied to notice it. He was obsessed with a dead woman: *dead.* Why hadn't the word struck him so harshly before? Surely he had recognized the meaning of her death on the stage with her.
So why did it hurt so much worse now? He brushed a frozen teardrop from his cheek. He was seeing her everywhere, but -
*He would never see her again.* And these mind tricks had to stop.
~~
"You haven't been gone very long," his mother commented gently as he shook
snow off his coat. "Lost your taste for English beer?"
"I don't think I ever had one."
She set her book aside without marking her page. Christian suspected that she hadn't been reading it in the first place, just waiting for him to come home.
"Will you tell me, Christian?"
It was the only way he was ever going to stop imagining things -- to tell someone. "Yes," he said softly.
TBC