Seeing as I'm getting pretty good with the whip, and everyone else is
producing stories and updating them, I guess I should put up or shut up.
Since I have a tendency to run on at the mouth, shutting up is not an
option.
I don't own a darn thing as far as the OC goes. It's time to play again!
Breakfast Not Served Here.
Chapter 1
"When the toast is burning"
Oliver had always dreaded this day. With the exception of one time, nothing good had ever happened on May 12. The house would soon be filled with kids he didn't like. Offspring of friends and associates of his parents, invited to a birthday party. His birthday party.
He sat on his bed looking at the navy suit his mother had placed there. He was turning 12 today and instead of having a few non existent friends over to play video games, hang out in the pool or even head over to Thunder Alley to run some laps in the go-carts, he was at home in his room, refusing to put on the stupid suit while his mother was in the midst of crawling inside a bottle of Remy Martin VSOP. His father was directing the caterers, magicians, clowns and other childish forms of entertainment to their places, all the while barking orders into a cell phone that was permanently attached to his ear.
He thought back to his 9th birthday. It was the best day he'd ever had. His parents had forgotten his birthday. They were overseeing the construction of a hotel in Amsterdam and planned to take a few extra weeks to spend some "quality" time together. He had stayed in one of the family's hotels in Los Angeles, after being "asked" to leave yet another exclusive boarding school. A newly hired concierge had been asked to take care of him. Natalie Bishop was not happy with the turn of events. He knew she was annoyed. Hotel staff liked to talk and they always forgot he was around. He knew she had a degree in Marketing. He knew babysitting some "snot-nosed kid" was not why she accumulated a $25,000 student loan debt, but with the banks making noises about loan repayment, she couldn't afford to lose this job. He knew all that, but it was still the best day he'd ever had.
He looked at himself in the mirror. The navy blue suit, pale grey shirt, burgundy tie, a perfect Windsor knot. His father peered back at him from the mirror. Oliver closed his eyes, not wanting to look at his father's image. He put his hands over his ears to block out his father's voice. The words came through anyway.
Useless, lazy, stupid...
They all added to the swirling cauldron, churning with the fear, doubt and self-loathing already brewing.
He knew his mother was now in the room with him. He didn't have to see or hear her. He just knew she was there. He opened his eyes and saw his own reflection staring back at him.
"I'm ready now Mother..."
She turned him around and gave him a quick hug, careful not to smear her make-up. He could smell the brandy.
"Happy Birthday Oliver... I can't believe you're 11 years old already... You look so handsome, just like your father..." "I'm 12!" He wanted to scream at her. "I'm 12 and you can't make me go to this stupid party with those stupid people and wearing this stupid suit!"
His rage intensified. He clenched his fists.
Not yet... Not now.... It's not time for the game... You're not ready...
Not yet...
Davina Trask released her son. He smiled at her.
"Thank-you Mother.
Natalie didn't know what to do with Oliver. He had barely acknowledged her presence. He was sitting on the floor of the penthouse watching a blank tv screen. He enjoyed staring at the dead space, focusing and unfocusing his eyes, watching the colours in his mind meld together, a kaleidoscope of shapes and hues.
She sat down directly in front of him.
"What would you like to do Oliver? I could take you down to the pool?"
He continued to stare, but now he was concentrating on her.
"Would you like to watch a movie?"
Again, nothing.
Natalie got up and looked around the suite. There was nothing personal about it. No pictures, no mementos. Nothing to suggest that the family spent a lot of time there. The suite itself was beautiful, put together by a leading interior design group, but it was sterile. Her eyes caught a piece of paper placed neatly on the desk. She hoped it would be instructions of some sort. There were only 3 lines, written by a child.
Mother. Father. Birthday cake. Ice cream. May 12.
She stared at the paper. That was today's date. Small fingers reached up and grabbed it out of her hands. Oliver's eyes were cold and hard.
"That's mine..." He said in a quiet steely voice.
Natalie had no idea what she was going to do next when she took Oliver by the hand.
"We're getting out of here..."
Oliver held his mother's arm, just as he had been taught to do in Ms Mandelbaum's etiquette class. Oliver Seaton Trask III and his wife, Davina Carlisle Trask were well schooled in the social graces. They expected nothing less from Oliver Seaton Trask IV. Oliver performed well. His mother smiled radiantly, but he knew the glow came from a bottle of 40 year old brandy, not maternal pride.
He was then handed off to his father and made the rounds of introductions to the movers and shakers of the hospitality industry. Oliver performed well again. His father scowled. He knew the scowl came because Davina Carlisle Trask let herself get knocked up at the age of 40 by a man who did not want children. There would never be any paternal pride.
Oliver stared at the rows of shelves. He'd never been in a grocery store. Of course he knew these kinds of places existed, but he'd only ever seen the outside of them from the back of a limousine. He was fascinated by the sheer quantity of items. Natalie let him push the buggy, not even getting angry with him when he ran into the back of her legs with it. He watched as she loaded up with boxes of cake mix, powdered sugar, butter, eggs and ice cream cones. She let him pick the ice cream, putting 2 different kinds in the buggy when he couldn't decide which one to choose. The groceries filled the trunk of Natalie's small car. They raced back to her apartment before the ice cream could melt.
Oliver loosened his tie and slipped it over his head, smoothing it before he hung it on the tie rack in his closet. He took off the detested blue suit, carefully hanging it up. Ms Mandelbaum had taught him well. He put his khaki's and polo shirt back on. Reclining in his bed, he knew no one would miss him. The diversions his father hired would see to it the children were entertained. The diversions the bartenders provided would see to it the adults were also kept entertained. Happy 12th Birthday.
Natalie took Oliver to the beach, laughing as she watched him chase the seagulls. She sat with him as he ate his first ever hot dog. She took him to the go-cart track. They raced lap after lap. Natalie slowed down when she saw the "win at all costs" look in the 9 year old's face. After a lot of coaxing, she managed to bring Oliver back to her apartment. It was time to make a birthday cake. Helping make your own birthday cake was a Bishop family tradition. After they filled the cake pan, she showed him to put the left over batter into a flat bottom ice cream cone. She let him hold the mixer as she measured icing sugar, vanilla and butter into a bowl. The powdery substance coated all the kitchen's surfaces as Natalie neglected to tell Oliver to use the low speed. By the time they were finished, her kitchen looked like a level 5 hurricane had torn through it. Cake batter, powdered sugar and multi-coloured sprinkles were everywhere. It was all part of the tradition.
Oliver ventured downstairs later that night. The pile of unopened gifts were in the living room. His mother was sleeping off the brandy. His father was probably "schtooping" one of the young girls who had helped out at the party. Sure enough, he caught a quick glimpse of a pretty brunette sneaking out the side door. Judging from her disheveled clothing, she must have gotten a very good tip for services rendered. His father was still in his study. Oliver watched as he zipped up his pants.
"I wanted to thank you Father, for the party. It was very nice of you and Mother to invite all my friends..."
Oliver Seaton Trask III looked at his son. They both knew the boy had no friends. 7 years of therapy twice a week had garnered no results in giving Trask senior the type of child he could at least tolerate. He didn't leave the drunken whore when she got pregnant. It was the Carlisle fortune that was his true love and if he left the marriage, he would receive nothing. Davina and Oliver Seaton Trask IV were just his burden to bear.
Oliver felt his father's eyes look right through him. He wondered if his father would even mention the fact that Oliver was "asked" to leave another boarding school at the end of the academic year. A generous donation would ensure his school transcripts would reveal nothing but good grades and glowing remarks.
Oliver's father pointed to a stack of brochures on his desk. They had been pushed haphazardly to the side along with all the other desk accessories.
"Find a school..."
Oliver smirked. His father "had" noticed.
"Yes sir..." Sarcasm dripped from his voice
He waited for his father to say something else. Anything.
Oliver watched as his father left the room and walked out of the house.
Natalie enlisted one of the security guards to carry a sleepy Oliver up to the penthouse. She carried the left over birthday cake and cupcake cones while a porter brought up her luggage. She'd be staying in the suite for the next few weeks. The security guard put Oliver on his bed and wished Natalie good luck. The porter hung around for a tip. Natalie handed him a cupcake cone. She went into Oliver's bedroom. The room was as cold and sterile as the rest of the suite unless you looked at the small boy sleeping in the large bed. His tousled hair, sleepy smile and icing smudged cheeks brought life into the hotel room. She bent down and gave in a kiss on his forehead.
"Good night squirt..."
"I love you Natalie..." A tiny voice answered.
Maybe she could be happy with the turn of events.
Oliver blindly fished out a brochure from the pile. St. Anthony's Academy. It would do. He'd only be there for a year anyway. He placed the pamphlet next to the wet spot on the desk. At least his father had a good time. Happy 12th Fucking Birthday.
I don't own a darn thing as far as the OC goes. It's time to play again!
Breakfast Not Served Here.
Chapter 1
"When the toast is burning"
Oliver had always dreaded this day. With the exception of one time, nothing good had ever happened on May 12. The house would soon be filled with kids he didn't like. Offspring of friends and associates of his parents, invited to a birthday party. His birthday party.
He sat on his bed looking at the navy suit his mother had placed there. He was turning 12 today and instead of having a few non existent friends over to play video games, hang out in the pool or even head over to Thunder Alley to run some laps in the go-carts, he was at home in his room, refusing to put on the stupid suit while his mother was in the midst of crawling inside a bottle of Remy Martin VSOP. His father was directing the caterers, magicians, clowns and other childish forms of entertainment to their places, all the while barking orders into a cell phone that was permanently attached to his ear.
He thought back to his 9th birthday. It was the best day he'd ever had. His parents had forgotten his birthday. They were overseeing the construction of a hotel in Amsterdam and planned to take a few extra weeks to spend some "quality" time together. He had stayed in one of the family's hotels in Los Angeles, after being "asked" to leave yet another exclusive boarding school. A newly hired concierge had been asked to take care of him. Natalie Bishop was not happy with the turn of events. He knew she was annoyed. Hotel staff liked to talk and they always forgot he was around. He knew she had a degree in Marketing. He knew babysitting some "snot-nosed kid" was not why she accumulated a $25,000 student loan debt, but with the banks making noises about loan repayment, she couldn't afford to lose this job. He knew all that, but it was still the best day he'd ever had.
He looked at himself in the mirror. The navy blue suit, pale grey shirt, burgundy tie, a perfect Windsor knot. His father peered back at him from the mirror. Oliver closed his eyes, not wanting to look at his father's image. He put his hands over his ears to block out his father's voice. The words came through anyway.
Useless, lazy, stupid...
They all added to the swirling cauldron, churning with the fear, doubt and self-loathing already brewing.
He knew his mother was now in the room with him. He didn't have to see or hear her. He just knew she was there. He opened his eyes and saw his own reflection staring back at him.
"I'm ready now Mother..."
She turned him around and gave him a quick hug, careful not to smear her make-up. He could smell the brandy.
"Happy Birthday Oliver... I can't believe you're 11 years old already... You look so handsome, just like your father..." "I'm 12!" He wanted to scream at her. "I'm 12 and you can't make me go to this stupid party with those stupid people and wearing this stupid suit!"
His rage intensified. He clenched his fists.
Not yet... Not now.... It's not time for the game... You're not ready...
Not yet...
Davina Trask released her son. He smiled at her.
"Thank-you Mother.
Natalie didn't know what to do with Oliver. He had barely acknowledged her presence. He was sitting on the floor of the penthouse watching a blank tv screen. He enjoyed staring at the dead space, focusing and unfocusing his eyes, watching the colours in his mind meld together, a kaleidoscope of shapes and hues.
She sat down directly in front of him.
"What would you like to do Oliver? I could take you down to the pool?"
He continued to stare, but now he was concentrating on her.
"Would you like to watch a movie?"
Again, nothing.
Natalie got up and looked around the suite. There was nothing personal about it. No pictures, no mementos. Nothing to suggest that the family spent a lot of time there. The suite itself was beautiful, put together by a leading interior design group, but it was sterile. Her eyes caught a piece of paper placed neatly on the desk. She hoped it would be instructions of some sort. There were only 3 lines, written by a child.
Mother. Father. Birthday cake. Ice cream. May 12.
She stared at the paper. That was today's date. Small fingers reached up and grabbed it out of her hands. Oliver's eyes were cold and hard.
"That's mine..." He said in a quiet steely voice.
Natalie had no idea what she was going to do next when she took Oliver by the hand.
"We're getting out of here..."
Oliver held his mother's arm, just as he had been taught to do in Ms Mandelbaum's etiquette class. Oliver Seaton Trask III and his wife, Davina Carlisle Trask were well schooled in the social graces. They expected nothing less from Oliver Seaton Trask IV. Oliver performed well. His mother smiled radiantly, but he knew the glow came from a bottle of 40 year old brandy, not maternal pride.
He was then handed off to his father and made the rounds of introductions to the movers and shakers of the hospitality industry. Oliver performed well again. His father scowled. He knew the scowl came because Davina Carlisle Trask let herself get knocked up at the age of 40 by a man who did not want children. There would never be any paternal pride.
Oliver stared at the rows of shelves. He'd never been in a grocery store. Of course he knew these kinds of places existed, but he'd only ever seen the outside of them from the back of a limousine. He was fascinated by the sheer quantity of items. Natalie let him push the buggy, not even getting angry with him when he ran into the back of her legs with it. He watched as she loaded up with boxes of cake mix, powdered sugar, butter, eggs and ice cream cones. She let him pick the ice cream, putting 2 different kinds in the buggy when he couldn't decide which one to choose. The groceries filled the trunk of Natalie's small car. They raced back to her apartment before the ice cream could melt.
Oliver loosened his tie and slipped it over his head, smoothing it before he hung it on the tie rack in his closet. He took off the detested blue suit, carefully hanging it up. Ms Mandelbaum had taught him well. He put his khaki's and polo shirt back on. Reclining in his bed, he knew no one would miss him. The diversions his father hired would see to it the children were entertained. The diversions the bartenders provided would see to it the adults were also kept entertained. Happy 12th Birthday.
Natalie took Oliver to the beach, laughing as she watched him chase the seagulls. She sat with him as he ate his first ever hot dog. She took him to the go-cart track. They raced lap after lap. Natalie slowed down when she saw the "win at all costs" look in the 9 year old's face. After a lot of coaxing, she managed to bring Oliver back to her apartment. It was time to make a birthday cake. Helping make your own birthday cake was a Bishop family tradition. After they filled the cake pan, she showed him to put the left over batter into a flat bottom ice cream cone. She let him hold the mixer as she measured icing sugar, vanilla and butter into a bowl. The powdery substance coated all the kitchen's surfaces as Natalie neglected to tell Oliver to use the low speed. By the time they were finished, her kitchen looked like a level 5 hurricane had torn through it. Cake batter, powdered sugar and multi-coloured sprinkles were everywhere. It was all part of the tradition.
Oliver ventured downstairs later that night. The pile of unopened gifts were in the living room. His mother was sleeping off the brandy. His father was probably "schtooping" one of the young girls who had helped out at the party. Sure enough, he caught a quick glimpse of a pretty brunette sneaking out the side door. Judging from her disheveled clothing, she must have gotten a very good tip for services rendered. His father was still in his study. Oliver watched as he zipped up his pants.
"I wanted to thank you Father, for the party. It was very nice of you and Mother to invite all my friends..."
Oliver Seaton Trask III looked at his son. They both knew the boy had no friends. 7 years of therapy twice a week had garnered no results in giving Trask senior the type of child he could at least tolerate. He didn't leave the drunken whore when she got pregnant. It was the Carlisle fortune that was his true love and if he left the marriage, he would receive nothing. Davina and Oliver Seaton Trask IV were just his burden to bear.
Oliver felt his father's eyes look right through him. He wondered if his father would even mention the fact that Oliver was "asked" to leave another boarding school at the end of the academic year. A generous donation would ensure his school transcripts would reveal nothing but good grades and glowing remarks.
Oliver's father pointed to a stack of brochures on his desk. They had been pushed haphazardly to the side along with all the other desk accessories.
"Find a school..."
Oliver smirked. His father "had" noticed.
"Yes sir..." Sarcasm dripped from his voice
He waited for his father to say something else. Anything.
Oliver watched as his father left the room and walked out of the house.
Natalie enlisted one of the security guards to carry a sleepy Oliver up to the penthouse. She carried the left over birthday cake and cupcake cones while a porter brought up her luggage. She'd be staying in the suite for the next few weeks. The security guard put Oliver on his bed and wished Natalie good luck. The porter hung around for a tip. Natalie handed him a cupcake cone. She went into Oliver's bedroom. The room was as cold and sterile as the rest of the suite unless you looked at the small boy sleeping in the large bed. His tousled hair, sleepy smile and icing smudged cheeks brought life into the hotel room. She bent down and gave in a kiss on his forehead.
"Good night squirt..."
"I love you Natalie..." A tiny voice answered.
Maybe she could be happy with the turn of events.
Oliver blindly fished out a brochure from the pile. St. Anthony's Academy. It would do. He'd only be there for a year anyway. He placed the pamphlet next to the wet spot on the desk. At least his father had a good time. Happy 12th Fucking Birthday.