Hey guys. Time for a little briefing:
This chapter is entirely a flashback. For all of you who are wondering why Thomas wasn't under-butler at the beginning of my story – this chapter is for you.
Just clearing up, these events took place one month after Thomas was first granted the position of under-butler, on the day he got the news of his mother's death. Hope that clears up any technical questions you all might have.
Sparki: I own nothing!
Will not cry.
The glass bottle was warm in my grasp. Holding back a sob, I brought it to my lips, and winced as the foul liquid coursed down my throat. It set fire to my mouth, but I took another swig all the same.
What would she think, I wondered? As I stumbled, bleary-eyed down the path, I thought of my mother. What would she think if she could see me now? Angrily, I spat out the acrid alcohol. It splattered pitifully upon the ground, and within moments, it disappeared, swallowed up by the gravel.
It doesn't matter what she thinks. Not anymore.
And so, I took another gulp. Unsteadily, I raised the crumpled letter to my face. Peering through the darkness, I strained to decipher the scrawled letters. They were ugly letters, I decided. Not flowing, not lovely at all. Just blocked, cramped little digits. But I supposed it didn't really matter. Their message was clear.
And my mother was dead.
I threw my head back, and gave a great, heaving chuckle. The night's air was cold against my face; it bit into my pale skin, and tugged angrily at my hair. Ahead, the lights of the grand abbey glimmered in the darkness. With heavy footsteps, I marched towards the towering home.
Home? It's not a home – not mine, anyway.
I grasped tighter the bottle. I wanted to hurl it, as far away from me as possible. I wanted it to fall, and I wanted to laugh as it shattered into a million little pieces. But I couldn't. I'd already buried myself far too deeply within its depths to let go now.
"Mr. Barrow?"
From where he stood, his smart figure coated in the pale moonlight, Matthew Crawley smiled at me. I didn't smile back, but instead halted in my wanderings, and glared at the man. Infuriatingly, his smile did not falter.
"What are you doing out so late?" Mr. Crawley asked.
"What's it to you, sir?" I sneered. The man's gaze travelled from my face, to my bottle, and back again, and as I watched, a look of knowing caution spread across his handsome face. He took a slow step backwards, towards the safety of the abbey. "Where have you been, Mr. Barrow?" he asked, a note of authority creeping into his tone. I scoffed.
"That's none 'o your business, now are it, Mr. Crawley?" I mumbled with a sickly sweetness I wished I could spit into the man's face. Mr. Crawley frowned.
"Well yes, actually, it is," he pointed out, and I contemplated smashing his bloody face in. "You are our under-butler, after all." At this, I let out a mirthless laugh. The bottle in my hand jiggled precariously.
"Well, look at you," I smirked. "'Is Lordship ain't even in 'is grave, and 'ere you are, Mr. Crawley!" I cackled again, all the while, wishing I were dead. "Our under-butler? Blimey, we are confident, aren't we?" I gave him a condensing glare.
"Thomas," he began, and my blood began to boil. "I think you ought to go inside."
"No, Mr. Crawley!" I spat. "I think you 'ah better go inside. Go on!" I threw a finger towards the house. "Go on in, to your dear old mother! At least one 'o us can!"
I felt tears dripping down my cheeks, but I no longer cared. Matthew Crawley was staring at me, as though I were some kind of creature from the deep.
"How much have you drunk tonight, Thomas?" he queried. I grinned hysterically.
"Not enough," I replied, before hurling the bottle at him.
The fight was pointless; I had lost before I had thrown the first punch. Matthew Crawley knew I was drunk – he knew I wasn't right. But when I threw that bottle, and it hit him square in the chest, I knew, in the chaos that was my mind, I had started something that I wouldn't be getting out of anytime soon.
And so, I hit him. Hard.
The man fell back upon the scathing gravel. The spilt liquor stained his white shirt; in the darkness, it looked as though his heart were bleeding.
Just like mine.
As I watched, he rubbed at his jaw. "Good God, man!" he cried, the pain in his voice blatant and undisguised. "What's come over you?!"
What has come over me?
"I wouldn't expect you to understand," I snarled, and kicked him in the ankle. He rolled away, and climbed, lithe and agile, to his feet. Infuriated, I swung again, but he caught my arm easily. Through my drunken stupor, I felt pinpricks of shame and humiliation stabbing at my chest. But I was too far gone to end it now. I swung my fist again, and this time, caught him on his jaw. With a cry, Mr. Crawley stumbled back. I panted, glaring at him.
When he landed his first blow, I fell back upon the ground, and found myself struggling to regain my footing. He wasn't drunk; he was in his right mind. And his aim was true. I felt blood seeping from my lip.
"Just stay down, Thomas!" Mr. Crawley demanded, looking down at me with a mixture of concern and confusion, and just a stain of discomfort. His cheek was red and swollen; his dinner shirt was ruined. My head had begun to spin, and I felt my gut clenching. A wave of nausea rose through my body, and I felt I would be ill.
Retching into the gravel, I was vaguely aware of Mr. Crawley calling for assistance. Footsteps, and then I was surrounded. But my stomach heaved, and I was ill again. My vomit was pallid in the moon's glow.
"Thomas!" Carson bellowed. "What is going on?" He moved to grab me, but I pulled away. Unsteady, I fell back against the cold ground. The world spun, and I fought to remain conscious. I felt a hand grip my arm, and I looked up. Jimmy. The lad was looking down at me, disgust struggling with concern in his dark eyes.
No, not him. Definitely not him.
"Don't touch me, you miserable sod!" I spat, hoping that some would land on his pretty little face. I jerked away, and tried to stand. But my legs shook, and I was begging to feel Matthew Crawley's blow. My vision began to dim, and I feared I may be ill once more.
Before my mind shut down, I heard Carson against my ear.
"You are in trouble, Thomas. So much trouble."
Reviews, guys ;) Pweese!
