Candyfloss and Altruism
Summary: You painted dark pictures of black houses and grey skies, and wondered why the world had dulled since your mother died. - - - Addition to "The Girl That Wasn't" series.
A/N: I welcome all reviews wholeheartedly.
Candyfloss;Noun : a candy made by spinning sugar that has been boiled to a high temperature
Altruism;French altruisme, probably from Italian altrui, someone else, from Latin alter, other. See al- in Indo-European Roots Unselfish concern for the welfare of others; selflessness.
You never had to think of the turning point in your life, the moment you realised you were an adult with responsibilities and duties to not only yourself but your family and society. You guessed that it was a long time before your classmates. You answered in an even, steady voice, the words emerging from your mouth as you tried to ignore the pain in the pit of your stomach. The rest of your class looked awkwardly at their desks, their eyes unwilling to meet yours as though you would sob onto their shoulder that very minute. Miss Clay, your bookish sociology teacher pushed her classes further up the bridge of her nose, and coughed uncomfortably, a quick flash of sympathy crossing her face before it was suppressed, turning to the girl sitting next to you, tapping her pen on the table as she desperately tried to think of an answer.
She never asked you a question again, never put you on the spot through fear of causing you to break down into tears or stirring up the well worn grief in your heart. After that, she smiled at you in the corridors as you walked to the art rooms, shirking from the company of your peers at lunchtime, but you stared straight ahead. Weakness, of any sort, was not permitted in your family. You were Carters after all. Carters never ran. Carters were strong. That was why your father cried at night in his bedroom clutching a picture of his wedding day, that was why your brother drunk himself into a stupor barely remembering the night before and it was why your sister worked herself into the ground, gaining herself the status of the best student in her year, if not the whole high school. That was why you painted dark pictures of black houses and grey skies, and wondered why the world had dulled since your mother died.
Your sister left the swimming team before you joined, complaining of the early hours and the time it took up in her busy academic schedule, but you relished the cold harsh feeling on your body as you slipped into the water, shivering as you swam 400M of butterfly, your favourite, before seven o'clock in the morning. You cycled home just as the sky began to lighten, birds singing and waved to Mrs Walburton, your next door neighbour as she collected the post. It didn't take you long before you were the captain of the team, your dedication and speed impressing even the seniors and you became the first freshman captain in the history of the school. You told your father, but he brushed you aside as he collected his car keys and shouted that your sister should be in the car already. You never tried telling him again.
You can remember the last time you were truly happy, the last time that you felt the warm sensation spreading from your heart, smiling just because it felt good instead of having to cheer up your father or another grieving member of your family. You grinned because you loved your life, and your parents and because Mark had chased Sam round the Haunted House, her mixture of laughter and screams causing your cheeks to ache. The fair had stopped in your little Air Force town, before it moved to the suburbs of the cities and you pestered your parents until they relented to take you there, two weeks before a taxi driver decided that getting drunk was a good idea at four o'clock in the afternoon. You spent the day spending your father's money on cuddly toys you didn't need and eating pink candyfloss that stuck like cottonwool to your lips, the strawberry flavour staining your tongue.
And before the sky darkened too much, you gathered your family together, asking a neighbour three doors down to take a picture of you with your camera that your father bought you on your tenth birthday. The light flashed into the afternoon sky, and your smiles were captured, the innocence that life had given you was still evident on your face, your sister's and even Mark's.
You remember being happy, and the smell of your mother's perfume. The way your father's eyes would light up as she walked into the room, and how Mark would strive for her approval and how Sam would spend as much time in your parents company as possible. It seems like a distant memory for you now, but you still remember glimpses of it, like countries you couldn't name.
Your father would tell you that you were selfless, altruistic even as you cared for your family after she passed away. How you would spend the weekends performing domestic duties at such a young age, your skin cracking because of the powerful detergent and your back aching from washing the dishes three times a day. Proud that you would spend half the afternoon shopping for groceries before swimming practice and making dinner. Though he didn't know the truth. Every time you scrubbed a plate or bought a loaf of bread and a leg of beef that you knew he would like, you could sense your mother just behind you, her voice telling you how Mark didn't like fish and that he wore a tee shirt on Fridays whatever the weather or that Sam preferred coffee in the morning and tea at night.
And as you fell into eternal sleep, the rosary round your neck and Jimi Hendrix playing softly in the background, you felt less than altruistic. You dreamt of your parents, your brother and sister and a God that you believed would one day save you. And candyfloss.
The End