NYDreamer – Thank you for being my first reviewer! Thanks for that bit of info, I've always thought it was Scott, and I would have been devastated to find out it wasn't. I was so worried about not getting Mike down, and your review gave me a lot of confidence. Thank you!
blue-eyed-blondie – Yay! Thank you! I've wanted to get a MOPI category for ages, it seemed totally bizarre to me that they didn't have one. Thanks for reviewing!
nidriel – Thank you so much! I was so glad that you thought I was getting Mike down. I hope I can live up to your praise!
Beena-Pani – I know exactly what you mean. The surreal imagery of the film was just so perfect and out-there, it felt too rich to be captured in words. That was another thing worrying me about this fic, but I'm so happy you thought it was good. Thanks for reviewing!
LadyOfThieves – Oh please, you didn't expect anything less, did you? You've known me for ten, eleven years, and you haven't figured out I'm obsessive? hugs
Ajayd – Consider it done! I know the feeling, I've got a gazillion stories that I really want to write, but I keep on telling myself that I need to finish some of them first…Thanks for reviewing!
leighkaty – Thanks! I was terrified that I'd missed the mark with Mike's character, so thanks for your praise! If you search the miscellaneous movies using the keyword 'Idaho' it turns up about five MOPI fics, some of which are really good. Thanks for putting this on your favourites!
Jamie – Yeah, I've always thought that Mike had such blind faith in Scott that it made his rejection even more painful, because it was like him saying that Mike wasn't worthy or something…anyway, analytical ramble over! I've always loved the original script for that, but I think it was a very powerful way to leave it in the actual film. Oh yes, and I'm a geek too (-:
Starscar – I could put a really long rambling response here, but I won't because you get enough of that in my emails hugs Thanks for reviewing! And yeah, I love the taped-together cowboy boots. Such powerful imagery…and I'm rambling again. Bad Chiara…
That is the warmest response I've ever got for the first chapter of a story. I should start categories more often (joke). Thank you all again! Your response has totally made my day.
Sorry this has taken a while. For some reason, I thought this chapter, which is in Scott's POV would be easier than Mike's. It turned out not to be. Damn surreal movie…just kidding.
This is most assuredly not a one-shot. I have five chapters planned, but it may be more, depending on my inspiration. If I choose to finish this after five chapters, you can bet that I'll be writing another MOPI fic.
On another note, I could really use a beta for this story. My usual writing style is very slap-dash; I write little bits here and there and then put the whole thing together. This works well for the unreal feel of the film, I think, but I would kill for a beta to make sure I'm not making stupid mistakes. If anyone wants to offer, I'll do the same for them. Any volunteers can email me through the link in my profile.
And without further ado…onto the angst!
Chapter II: Scott
This is surreal.
Everything around me feels like it belongs to a stranger. I'm back in my old house, my old room, my old life. It feels like I've never left.
Except for one thing.
It feels so strange around here with Dad's vibrations. He always made his presence felt. He didn't exactly like being ignored. He liked to pretend he was all humble and modest, but he needed to feel respected and admired. It was like a drug for him.
Strange, how he found it so easy to judge me, his own son, and yet he could never see his own faults and failings.
Everything is exactly as I remember it. The maids, still slaves to our every whim, the furniture, still expensive and immaculate, the silver spoons still polished. Everything's exactly the fucking same.
I guess I'm the one who changed.
I always thought that it would be easier to come back here, pick up where I picked off. I wonder whether Bob ever knew what I'd planned. I thought he'd caught me that day, when he'd overheard me in the courtyard. But no, he was too blinded by the promise of money and a better life. I don't blame him. I always knew that he was using me as an eventual source of cash. I don't blame him. I blame me for turning the tables. For being a cold heartless bastard.
I suppose I'm more like my dad than I thought.
I'm lying in bed next to Carmella. It almost feels too warm, the feel of her skin against mine, but I can't push her away. I feel frozen, transfixed here, in this state.
Carmella's body feels so delicate against mine. The last time I was this close to someone it was Mike, out by the campfire. Then, I wasn't too warm. It was just right.
It feels too weird to be returning to this life. I'd never have got back so easily if it weren't for my dad dying. My mom's easy, she's just glad to know where I sleep at night. And she just loves Carmella. She's even asking us about grandchildren. I mean, fuck, one minute I'm too immature and just a complete and utter fuck-up, the next she expects grandchildren? They're seriously twisted. That should be she's twisted. But my father's still going to be commanding this place for a while. He would be so pleased about that.
Though, if he'd got his way, my name would never be spoken again in this house.
Yet here I am, back in the house I grew up in.
That's the thing about my dad. He forces you into a competition you don't even want to take part in. From the second I was born I had to be the first kid in my class to know my times tables, I had to run the fastest, I had to climb the highest. It was taken for granted that I would continue the family legacy, follow his path and go into politics, and do exactly what he told me too.
Yeah right.
He really should have seen this coming.
It was almost entertaining, whenever people came over for an 'upper-class', polite, formal, entirely boring dinner or 'social function' as my mother always referred to them, because someone was bound to comment how different we were. In looks, and in opinions. And every time someone made this comment, he would inwardly groan and change the conversation. He didn't like to think that his only son was going to be so different from him. He didn't like to think that I wasn't going to follow in his path. And he showed me his displeasure in every breath.
I think he cared more for the people who voted for him rather than his own family.
Oh, he did care about what I represented though. I was his son, his heir, the one who would naturally follow in his footsteps. Someone to carry on doing what he was doing.
Right now, my mother's holding up well after the funeral and stuff, even though she knew full well he didn't care about her. It wouldn't surprise me if she'd had a hand in his death herself. Oh no, not directly, but if a whisper of a plot reached her ears she wouldn't exactly warn Dad. I guess he must have loved her at one point, but he criticised everyone, and she was no exception. He almost blamed her for his accident. He always used religion and faith as a crutch, and when he couldn't think of anything sinful enough that he had done to deserve to be put in a wheelchair, so he blamed her. Hypocrite. Of course, then he turned his attention to me, which apparently gave him endless joy.
When I left this house, all that time ago, walked out on my dad and all the shit of this place, I never intended to leave for years. I meant to go for a few months, worry them a bit and then come back. They'd be so glad to have me back, they wouldn't care about my previous misdemeanours.
But I stayed. Something compelled me to stay.
It felt good being out there. We could do whatever the fuck we pleased, even though we had to think about where the next meal was coming from, and more often than not, that involved selling your ass. So what? We were a community. Whatever else, you couldn't want for people and company. Most of all, I felt respected simply for being me. People always expected me to have the answers and the solutions to any problems, and in a way, that felt good. But there was one person who could see me for who I was and not for my family or money or shit like that.
Is it stupid to admit this to myself?
No. Here goes.
I miss Mike.
When I saw him at the funeral, I barely recognised him. He looked at me, I know that much, but I don't know what he saw. He seemed almost manic, frenzied. I know that something's wrong with him. I can tell that simply from looking at him.
Do you know what? We never even talked once about not finding his mom. He cried, and I was there, but not properly there. I was thinking about Carmella. I don't think we said more than a few words about this.
I am a selfish bastard. I can rely on that much.
In the graveyard, I wanted to go over and talk to him, make sure he was okay, but I wasn't sure of the welcome I'd get.
I heard what they were chanting. I know Bob's dead. The strange thing is, I honestly don't care. When I spoke to him in the restaurant, I meant every word, I meant every fucking word. Right then, I was in love with this new independence. No Dad, no Bob…everything is gone apart from me.
I'm free. But alone.
Is this the person I've become?
I don't recognise myself.
Right Favor. No bullshit. Cut through the crap and get to the heart of the problem.
It's this.
I don't love Carmella.
I thought I did, but I guess I was wrong.
Oh God, I feel like shit. Lower than shit. I've always been Scottie Favor, who can do what he likes and looks out for number one. I don't like this feeling of guilt.
In Italy, after we had sex once, she said she loved me. Or at least I think so, she said it softly, as though she was willing me to pretend I didn't hear, and simultaneously me to answer. I had no idea what to do. What the fuck do you say when someone says that to you? Only one person has ever said that to me before. And I had no idea what to say then either. Then, I took the 'no bullshit' approach and spoke the truth, whatever the cost. With Carmella though, I had the feeling that if I said 'I don't love you', she would break. There was something about her that seemed like she was waiting to crack and break. And I loved being with her, she was beautiful, and I was going back to Portland soon.
"T'amo" I said, simply because it was the easiest thing to do. I should have realised that the easiest thing isn't always the right one.
So, one word, and here I am.
One word.
One wrong choice.
One wrong choice. I know that now. One wrong choice. I shouldn't have come back here with Carmella. I should have come back here with Mike.
This realisation made me acutely aware of where I was; lying on a massive bed with Carmella, sleeping on satin sheets and surrounded by the best of everything. It all suddenly felt wrong, and I needed to get out of there. It was too warm, too close, too strange. I slid out of the bed, going slowly and carefully so that I wouldn't wake Carmella up, but it took some trying not to run away and hope that everything is a bad dream, and I'll wake up back on a rooftop. It's like I'm seeing clearly for the first time in a long while.
I staggered into the bathroom, the acidly bright lights hurting my eyes and making my head ache that feels reminiscent of a truly awful hangover. When my eyes can focus again, I stare through the ornate mirror encased within the shitty false golden frame into my own face.
Every single decision I'd made in the last month was coming back to haunt me.
I'm sorry I dragged Carmella to a foreign country.
I'm sorry I left Mike alone.
Everything was so screwed up. This wasn't the way things were meant to be. When did I, of all people, develop a guilty conscience?
I guess I'm making up for lost time.
I've always had the answers. I've always known what to do. I've never been in so much turmoil before.
I've never felt this confused and alone before.
I kept on staring in the mirror. Staring at my own face.
My fucked up face.
Fucked up face.
I suddenly knew where Mike would be.
I moved around the bedroom quickly, getting dressed and grabbing my car keys – part of my dear father's inheritance – and sneaking out of the window. I know, real juvenile, but I didn't want one of the maids to hear me. I just wanted to go like a ghost. Pretend this is all a dream.
I can see my mistake now.
I've become my father. I swore I'd never be like him.
I can make things right though. For Mike, and for me.
The car sprung to life, almost like a living thing. It felt enclosed, boxy. I wanted to get back on the motorbike and feel alive, feel like the wind out there was something animate, wrapping its fingers around me and causing my pulse rate to soar.
I started to drive, fast, almost guided by instinct to the inter-state. I hadn't really stopped to think about what I was doing. All I knew was that this was the first smart idea I'd had in a long time, and I owed it to Mike. He probably never realised it, but he did so much for me in just being there. Now, I want to be there for him.
I'd missed my first chance. Now I was going to get a second one.
The mountains of Idaho loamed on the horizon. I was getting closer. The rest of the journey from Portland had passed in a sort of daze, almost a trance. I could feel it, a sense of purpose was guiding me to this. For the first time in ages, I felt with true conviction as though what I was going to do was the right thing to do.
I could see the dawn coming, over the misty horizon. A new day. A new chance, for everyone. Even fuck-ups like me.
Can you see me, Dad? Can you see what I'm going to do?
I bet you're pissed. You wouldn't want me to leave when everything's suddenly so perfect. I'm back, I'm virtually engaged and I'm finally doing what you want me to. Everything's just perfect.
Fuck that.
That's the difference between us, Dad. You would be happy with this, because this is material success, and it can be measured. I want more than that. I want to have the closest person to me, the other half of my soul back. And that can't be determined or calculated.
This is where you and I differ. I'm never going to be like you. Never.
I can't make it right with you. I can't make it right with the world. I can't make everyone forgive me for what I've done.
But I've got this chance.
One chance. Only one more chance.
I'm not going to fuck it up this time.
What do you think? Did I get Scott down? As a point of interest, the bit about 'Can you see into me?' I kinda took from the 'A Scanner Darkly' trailer ('Can the scanner see into me?'). Go check it out if you haven't already, it looks awesome!
Please review!