A/N: Thanks for those reviews, Saikono! I was getting kind of pissed [and still kinda am] because I just know there's more people reading this than the number of reviews I'm getting. And, I'm not sure if you knew…But when it says 'gay' it means the happy, merry sort of 'gay'…

Now, I know I'm sposed' to be writing for myself, rather than getting upset about the number of reviews that I'm getting, as I so often preach myself, but…THIS IS RIDICULOUS…

I'm spoiled now, but I'm not expecting the amount of reviews I got for Vagabond…Yet…Grr…Just review! Get it? Got it? Good!

Children of the Harvest

Wednesday's Child

Pulling my cap down over my eyes to mask my emotions, I sat in the corner of the barn, hugging my knees to my chest and rocking back and forth.

It's been eighteen long years since my mother passed away. I had only been five at the time, but I remember everything quite clearly.

My father, Doug, quietly crept into my room one evening, holding my one-year-old sister Ann in his

Arms. "Gray,"

I had looked up from playing with my blocks and a set of animal figurines. "Yes, daddy?" my voice asked innocently, my eyes shimmering curiously.

He sat down on the bed, still cradling Ann. Quietly, he reached out a hand and motioned for me to come to him.

Approaching him cautiously, I was a bit scared by now. Looking up earnestly into his somber, grave face, I inwardly wondered what was wrong. Yes, I had been a very perceptive child…

"You know how mommy's been sick?" his usually proud voice croaked in a near whisper.

"…Yah,"

"Well, son, I don't really know how to break this to you…"

I just stared at him, very frightened. I wanted to burst out, 'What happened? Where's mommy?', but for some reason, I didn't.

"Gray, your mother…She…She…" he began to choke up, trying to find the right words. I think my little mind already fathomed what had happened, however.

So instead of bursting out into tears like any normal kid would have done, I continued to stare, even as he gave me the finishing blow, "She…God called for her, son,"

So that was it, huh? She just had to go…I wanted to kick, scream, or even throw a tantrum. This must be…Daddy must have made a mistake. But…he hadn't.

I never cried over her. Not once, not ever. I felt like it, I wanted to…I honestly did. Yet the tears never came.

I think my dad despised me for that from that moment on. For never shedding a tear. I always saw some sort of scorn in his eyes, or sneer on his lips when we were alone.

He loved Ann though. She was Daddy's little princess. Don't think, even for a minute, that I'm jealous. I have never been, or never will be. She deserves all of his attention and praise. She hadn't even known her mother but she still felt remorse. What was I? Was I so inhuman that I couldn't even grieve properly?

Continuing to rock back and forth, I thought about later in my life, trying to find some evidence to support my theory…An all out conclusive, 'My dad hates me.'

Ten-year-old Gray silently strode across the field, livestock-brush in hand. He was going to complete his morning chores before his dad woke up. Maybe then he'd be pleased.

No such luck. Lovingly, he brushed one of the cows, and glanced over at the house before moving onto the next bovine. A few moments after completing his task of brushing all twelve of them, a familiar voice boomed, "What the hell do you think you're doing, boy?"

Sighing, as I turned to face my father, who was running towards me, I wondered what I had done wrong this time.

Glaring at me, he snatched the brush out of my hands. "This is the sheep brush! It's not for cows!"

Yah. Whatever. They were the same thing, and he knew it. He just wanted an excuse to quarrel with me.

I guess he sensed the defiance in my expression, for he slapped me across the face before retreating back to the house. Shame wasn't the only thing that stung and stained my cheeks.

Silently, I re-did my chores so my father wouldn't bitch [although, knowing him, he'd find something to complain about], and set to work on a completely different project.

By then, it was the middle of the afternoon, so I headed in for a quick lunch. I sidled up to the counter, which Ann was behind. "Howdy," she winked playfully, but she frowned, and reached out to touch my face.

Wincing as she patted it, I averted my gaze. "Gray!" she exclaimed, shocked. "Your cheek is all red! Looks like you got scratched too,"

So that's what the stinging was about…

"It's nothing," I hoarsely whispered. "Nothing at all,"

"Stay right there, mister!" Ann scolded. She may be four years younger than I, but she sure liked to mommy me. A few moments later she emerged with a bottle of peroxide and a cotton ball.

The room temperature liquid felt icy cold as she applied it to my minor wound. It stung even more. Damn it to hell…"Thank you…"

Washing her hands after treating me, she put the stuff in a nearby cabinet. "No problem. Whatcha want for lunch?"

"Just a sandwich will do," I sighed.

"The usual?"

The usual must mean ham and Muenster Cheese. "Sure,"

As she made it for me, I sat down at the kitchen table. "Why does dad give you so much trouble?" she inquired.

"…"

"Hey, I was just asking!" she defended herself before falling silent. A few minutes later, "…I mean, there's obviously a reason…"

"…" I let her babble on.

"I suppose I should ask him one day," she mused.

"Don't you dare,"

"See! You do know the reason! Come on, Gray, tell me. Don't you think I have some right to know?"

"Not really,"

"…Argh," she growled, frustrated.

"It doesn't concern you," I snapped, a bit harshly. Snatching my newly-made sandwich up, I stuffed a humongous bite into my mouth so I wouldn't have to say anything more, and fled.

Maybe she did have a right to know. Maybe. But…No, forget it. She didn't. It didn't concern her, so there was no reason to drag her into it. Case closed. I'd tell her someday…Maybe. So many maybe's. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Pfft…Whatever.

Once again I was in the corner of the barn, contemplating. I savagely tore of bits of my sandwich and wolfed it down.

Some things would just never change. It's about time I stopped fooling myself and realized that. Dad will never accept me. Things will never be right.

The more I thought about it, the more it angered me, and the more it forced me to think about mom. And you know what?

I cried…

A/N: Whew, my shortest for this story, I believe. But oh well, quality over quantity, ne? Go ahead, click that nice little 'Submit Review' button lest I remind you again…