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Post by Cyrus on Dec 18, 2006 16:36:02 GMT -5
Fifteen year old Cyrus speared a meatball with his fork, popping it into his mouth. Eugene’s fat, pudgy face was hidden behind a newspaper, the only evidence he was there was from the noisy eating habits, the chewing and gnashing of teeth as crumbs and even whole pieces of meat fell down his stained shirt onto the floor below, to join with the collection of decaying junk.
Eugene did have one benefit on Cyrus’ life: he made Cyrus want to be a good person. The exact opposite of Eugene. Whatever Eugene did, Cyrus did the opposite. He worked hard. He exercised. He read extensively. He had impeccable table manners. He opened doors for ladies. He never raised his hand to a woman or a child.
He still felt the rage. The deep, powerful rage that gnawed at him, that tore him apart deep inside. The hatred for this….thing that called itself a man.
The newspaper was set down, and Eugene stood, stretching and yawning. “I’m takin’ a day off from the badlands. Give myself a break for once.” He spat into the sink.
“Where’s Mom?” asked Cyrus, knowing full well she was probably upstairs, hurt, quivering, after the noise last night. The beatings, the screams. The screams that Cyrus slept to.
“She’s gone to her sister’s. You’ll see her when she’s done.”
“Done with what?”
Eugene wheeled to face him. “You got yourself a questioning tongue, you know that?” he drawled lazily, with a hint of menace.
Cyrus nodded quietly, and picked both his and Eugene’s dishes up, bringing them over to the sink. He twisted the tap, washing away the glob of Eugene’s spit, and soon, hot water ran from the filthy tap.
Eugene headed for the hallway. Cyrus could always tell when Eugene was moving, his great weight making the grubby floorboards creak and groan as he moved slowly across the floor. “I’m gonna work in my shed today. You get to school.”
“It’s a Saturday.”
“Well, whoop-de-fucking-doo. Get yourself some friends, for God’s sake, when I was twelve I had a bunch of friends-“
“I’m fifteen, not twelve.”
Eugene turned again, moved, and struck Cyrus across the face. Not so hard as to knock him to the floor, but hard enough to leave a red mark. “Don’t interrupt.” Instructed Eugene, always keen to teach his son common manners and decency.
Cyrus nodded, and then asked, “Did you say you were working in the garden?”
“In the garden, my shed, yeah. Don’t come out, you want me, you yell, or you keep quiet. Understand?”
“Yeah, I understand.” Replied Cyrus, quietly surprised. Eugene had never gone into that shed, at least not in Cyrus’ memory.
Eugene spat in the sink again, and then moved like a sloth out the door, towards the garden.
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Post by Cyrus on Dec 18, 2006 16:36:25 GMT -5
Digging. He could clearly hear it. Cyrus rolled off his bed, and rushed to his window, giving the almost completely darkened window a quick wipe down with a cloth. Eugene, in the garden, digging. Sweat lashed off the meat mountain of a man, as he continued to dig. A very deep, deep hole.
Instantly, Cyrus felt anxiety tug at his insides, and he clenched his fists.
Where was Momma? Where was-
Cyrus knew exactly why you dig a hole that big. That shape.
He bolted down the stairs, ignoring the barks of the dogs out the front of the house.
Suddenly, the phone shrilled to life, and since Cyrus was passing it anyway, he grabbed it off the hook. “What?” he yelled down the line, his face streaked with tears and flushed with rage. The voice on the other end was a man’s voice. It was calm, polite, and from it, came a powerful sense of authority, knowledge, and even security. So much that it held Cyrus’ attention. That, and what the voice said.
“Cyrus. Please stay inside the house, I’m coming. Don’t worry. It won’t be much longer.”
Before Cyrus could reply or even think about what the voice was saying, the line went dead. Completely dead. No tone. Nothing. Cyrus dropped the phone, and continued on his rampage. Had he not been so angry, he would have noticed that every zap of electricity in his house had disappeared. But he was too angry, not seeing straight.
He smashed out the rusty back door, almost knocking it off the hinges. He seized one of Eugene’s spare shovels, and ran towards his enemy.
Eugene spun, the larger shovel still in his hand. He was totally unprepared, as Cyrus screamed, “Where is she?! What did you do with her?!” He swung the shovel, striking Eugene directly in the face.
Tager Senior let out a short, piggish squeal, and fell directly on his ass, besides the hole. Cyrus attacked again. But Cyrus was only fifteen years old. Eugene was a sixty-six year old bag of flesh with a good right hook. He blocked the second attack, punching Cyrus twice in the face. As soon as Cyrus was down, the thick, muddy boot slammed into his gut twice. “Your Momma couldn’t take a punch, that’s what I did with her!” yelled Eugene.
Cyrus got to his feet slowly, and launched himself at Eugene, but once again found himself in contact with his father’s fist. Then, he felt himself falling, landing on hard dirt and winding himself completely. He could hear riotous chuckling from above, and he opened his eyes.
The grave. He was in the grave. The grave meant for his mother. He tried to stand, failed, and all he could see was Eugene, laughing down at him like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Suddenly, he heard the slam of a door, and Eugene turned. He could barely hear or see what was going on, but in a few moments, Eugene disappeared from view.
The next six minutes were long and agonising, as Cyrus’ fingers scraped at the dirt of the hole, trying to scramble up out of the grave. Then, a hand appeared. A pale, bony, almost skeletal hand, and Cyrus instinctively took it. He was instantly hoisted up by a young man who Cyrus estimated to be in his early twenties, tall, with swept back hair and concentrated, precise eyes. He wore a suit that would’ve looked more at place at a funeral, and Eugene was nowhere to be seen.
“Who…who-“
“I’m Wade. Nice to meet you.” Smiled the man, in the same voice that Cyrus heard on the end of the phone. “Now, Cyrus, I’ll be happy to explain everything, but if you could just go down to the end of the driveway and wait by my car? It’s a Hyundai. Don’t worry, I just need to take care of things here. Understand? Can you do that for me, son?”
Cyrus nodded slowly, and Wade smiled in response. “Good man. Don’t worry, answers are comin’.”
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Jack
Collecting Info for a Census
plg%%Jack, Boone, Ben Henry, Kyle, Neil, Goodwin, Pickett%%
Posts: 1,725
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Post by Jack on Jan 3, 2007 23:47:03 GMT -5
man, Cyrus gives 'daddy issues' a whole knew meaning. Very nicely done, extremely well written, I loved some of your metaphors, which is one of many things I could never do with writting. I am really curious to find out what happened, but that sucks large for Cyrus.
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