Chapter 1 Concerning Item #1: The Red Suspenders

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Love is a force longer than time, and stronger than will. Every story involves a woman. If it doesn't, it's not over yet.

Our story first begins with a particular woman. A mother. Her name was Mary Elizabeth Conlon. She bore one son, and one son only, now ten years old. She lived in a large house, most of the time all by herself, because her husband worked constantly. She was very wealthy, with maids attending to her every need during her uncomfortable time.

"Patrick, darling," she said with utmost patience. "You're father's on his way home, and you know he doesn't like to see you untidy."

Patrick looked himself over in the mirror, standing up straight, and puffing out his chest. He loved his own appearance, and though he longed for more height like his schoolyard friends, his mother would always promise that he would grow in time.

His clothes were perfectly arranged on him, and he relished in his own wealth. How clothes could give a kid so much more status than those orphan kids on the streets. When Patrick walked by, he was immediately respected by his exterior.

Whatever he wanted, he got. Except attention. Sure, he got attention from the other children, but they meant nothing. They followed him like ants in a line. As for his parents, they were the ones that he could not find love in.

So Patrick was a troublesome kid, without any heed to rules, especially those made by his heinous father of which he felt need to defy every day of his life. It was his only control. Patrick had no authority in his house, no control over his life. It was always 'go here', and 'do this', and he was expected to just go along with it with his head down and mouth shut.

But never was he taken that willingly. He would fight the command until his last breath. He fought for power, for a say in his schedule, but freedoms and liberties like that were not permitted. Patrick felt like a son that was there to make the family picture look whole; a space filler in the house. A model son. His father was all about politics, as a state senator. He could not fiddle with something as miniscule as a child, even his own son.

So through all his efforts, Patrick remained nothing but a thorn in his father's side, and all the more ignored.

As for his mother, she was a gentler soul, though always having a headache and usually couldn't deal with him either. Often when he didn't obey he was handed over to the maids for the paddle. But he would never yell or scream when he was struck. It was business as usual for him. Pain could be ignored, and it was over soon anyway, and he felt he only wasted energy by resisting. You would think the maids would learn this by now, but they only followed orders, he supposed.

Though the gray suit matched his eyes perfectly, Patrick felt the outfit needed something it had needed for a long time. Color. For some odd reason he wasn't allowed to wear any bold color. Father's rules. It was the only one he hadn't been able to break yet. He sneered at his reflection and ignored that particular entry on the to-do list for now.

"Mary, is that damn boy ready yet?"

"Almost, darling, please have patience."

His father was drunk before they even left. A slap across Patrick's mother's face was heard from the stairs. Patrick straightened his tie, and went to the stairs landing.

"Make sure he's ready. For every minute we're late it's coming off your hide."

It was the only reason Patrick stayed this long. For his mother.

"Leave her alone, pop," he said bravely.

His father's direction then would be immediately focused on Patrick, just the way he wanted. Patrick couldn't handle beatings any more than his mother, but he figured better himself than her. After the usual amount of hits and bleeding, Patrick was shoved into a car and sent on their way.

Dinner parties were all the same. You go in, stand by your father, eat a fancy meal, and basically be silent and look good. Just like everything else.

All the big shots were there: the mayor, the local newspaper chiefs, the judges and wardens.

"Aww, you poor boy," one of the wives said, dabbing at his bleeding with a napkin. "What happened to your face?"

"Oh, it's nothing," his mother would explain promptly. "He just had a little tumble down the stairs."

Patrick picked at his food, his interest not in eating. And it wasn't just because they were having escargot again. He was down in the dumps, and a girl was staring his way. He had smiled at her a few times, but she just stared, like he was some sort of god. He tried his luck at waving. She looked around herself as if to make sure he was waving at her, then lifted a hand to reply.

Patrick chuckled. Girls.

Then his father walked out to the podium for his usual speech.

"Friends and honored guests. I wish to thank you all for coming on this wonderful evening."

Patrick looked to the girl again, but something behind her now caught his eye. A man was parting his way through the crowd, one hand in his jacket pocket.

"At this momentous occasion, I am here to inform you that we are now becoming more prosperous a city than ever."

Patrick grabbed his spoon, and placed an empty snail shell in it. Holding the spoon in one hand, and bending it over with the other, he was ready to let the shell fly.

"I must thank my family, and the workers in this city who spend day and night so that I might speak these wonderful words in truth. We are thriving."

Patrick took aim, and flung the shell. It hit the man square in the eye. A loud noise sounded and smoke came out of a new hole in the man's pocket. People screamed and yelled and the police brought the man to the floor. Before Patrick knew what he had done, he was shoved back into the car. His mother grasped his head to her bosom, holding him tightly.

"Patrick, darling. My brave boy," she said. "You are too brave. You could have been killed."

Then his father stepped into the car too.

"What in hellfire was that?" his father demanded.

"Henry, dear, Patrick just saved your life."

"Shut up, woman!" the senator said, backhanding her across the cheek. "My life was at stake and here you are flinging things around! You can't gamble my breath like that you stupid blighter! Next time you fetch the police, stupid idiot."

Patrick frowned at his father. Maybe he should have let the man kill him.

"What did you say?" his father turned to him and spoke in a daring tone. Patrick shut his mouth. He didn't realize he had said that aloud. But a wave of courage blew over him, so he said it again.

"I SAID, MAYBE I SHOULD HAVE LET YOU BE SHOT!"

The driver looked in the rearview to see the show. Patrick shook in his anger. His fists were clenched and his breath was long and slow.

His mother face expressed shock and fear. The old man's brows met in the middle of his forehead, and his eyes narrowed.

"Is that so?" he said harshly.

"Henry, dear, please… don't…"

"You need another lesson in respect, boy."

The wood pounded underneath the wheels of the car as they drove over the bridge of Manhattan. Neither man moved.

Then as a lapse of sanity, the old man lunged, but the car door opened in front of him, and he found himself thrown from the car, right down into the water below.

-

Patrick couldn't face his mother, so he hid in his room for the next few days, letting the servants bring him food. He had saved and killed his father all in the same night. He had committed murder. And he wasn't sorry. His mother pounded on the door for him to come to the funeral.

"Please, Patrick, darling," she begged. "I can't do this alone."

So Patrick dressed, putting on black pants, and a black shirt, and looked to his drawer for one last thing.

He marched down to the burial sight proudly, as the people stared in wonder at his disrespect. For he wore black, but a pair of red suspenders stood boldly against the dark color. No one protested, just whispered amongst themselves at his audacity.

But as his mother came down the hill, Patrick became ashamed all on his own at what he had done. He couldn't face that woman, or what she could and would say. As she came down the hill in her funeral attire, Patrick shared one final glance with her, turned, and ran.