(no subject)
The old man was a bitter drunk, which made him a strange choice for a baby-sitter. His daughter, Christina, and her husband Gerry were going to a very large New Year's Eve party down at the Radisson Hotel and were not aware that their usual choice of baby-sitters were all invited. Left with no one, they dropped off their new child, Rhea with her bedraggled grandfather.
Rhea was just like every other baby before her, bringing both hopes and fears, having potential for brilliance and blinding terror. Despite this lack of individuality, everyone had been talking about the coming of Rhea for almost a month before she was born, when they weren't distracted by religion as common people are wont to be. Generally, the claims made were ridiculous, such as that Rhea would help someone lose weight or help someone get a better job or flat-out kill the president of the United States. Not that the child was not destined for big things, mind you, she just rarely listened to the dreams of others. Babies typically have weak hearing, as is.
Unsure what to do with Rhea, the old man simply sat her on the couch and glared at her. Because she was so new, this was the first time he had with his granddaughter.
"So," he said threateningly, "New life, huh? Well watch it. Because you will have to kill many people."
The baby drooled, but the old man did have a point. He had, in fact, killed many people. Even in the last throes of his life, he killed world leaders and acclaimed musicians.
"It runs in the family," the old man told his granddaughter. "My grandfather killed, his grandfather killed, his grandmother killed, over and over and over again."
Because he was bitter and fresh with Grey Goose, the old man did not mention how the family has an amazing legacy of giving life, and each generation has improved on the last. Though not many know it, nearly everyone on the planet has, in some way, been touched by the life given by this family. Few hardly acknowledge the miracle of life, because it is a miracle we all have had. I mean, seriously, have you died?
The old man's jowls and scraggly skin hardly moved when he spoke, and his long, wispy eyebrows, dark eyes, and lips that constantly moved with a slight uncertainty made him look like a burlap sack that hates you. The angry elderly would scare anyone, and it drove Rhea to tears. The old man dipped a finger into his drink and shoved the touch of alcohol into the baby's mouth. She promptly silenced, though more out of confusion than the alcohol. Why did this old man stick his finger inside of my face, and why does he seem afraid of me?
Rhea was far more perceptive than the old man took her for, and he sensed this. "I've done some bad things." He admitted, his strong exterior cracked ever so slightly. "You will, too. To all of us. That's all our family is remembered for, the terrible deeds we've blanketed humanity with. We ruin lives, kid."
"Not always," the baby replied.
The old man stared into Rhea's eyes for what felt like hours and then finally smiled. The physical act of smiling broke the old man's face. The muscles working in a brand new, dangerous way reverberated into his brain and he died. The doctors ruled it as a stroke, which explained why the mere moments he looked at his granddaughter felt so long.
As was tradition, there was no funeral, no mourning. Some lamented the old man, some praised him, but all looked to Rhea, because they all saw her potential, each one planning to exploit it in some way.
Rhea was just like every other baby before her, bringing both hopes and fears, having potential for brilliance and blinding terror. Despite this lack of individuality, everyone had been talking about the coming of Rhea for almost a month before she was born, when they weren't distracted by religion as common people are wont to be. Generally, the claims made were ridiculous, such as that Rhea would help someone lose weight or help someone get a better job or flat-out kill the president of the United States. Not that the child was not destined for big things, mind you, she just rarely listened to the dreams of others. Babies typically have weak hearing, as is.
Unsure what to do with Rhea, the old man simply sat her on the couch and glared at her. Because she was so new, this was the first time he had with his granddaughter.
"So," he said threateningly, "New life, huh? Well watch it. Because you will have to kill many people."
The baby drooled, but the old man did have a point. He had, in fact, killed many people. Even in the last throes of his life, he killed world leaders and acclaimed musicians.
"It runs in the family," the old man told his granddaughter. "My grandfather killed, his grandfather killed, his grandmother killed, over and over and over again."
Because he was bitter and fresh with Grey Goose, the old man did not mention how the family has an amazing legacy of giving life, and each generation has improved on the last. Though not many know it, nearly everyone on the planet has, in some way, been touched by the life given by this family. Few hardly acknowledge the miracle of life, because it is a miracle we all have had. I mean, seriously, have you died?
The old man's jowls and scraggly skin hardly moved when he spoke, and his long, wispy eyebrows, dark eyes, and lips that constantly moved with a slight uncertainty made him look like a burlap sack that hates you. The angry elderly would scare anyone, and it drove Rhea to tears. The old man dipped a finger into his drink and shoved the touch of alcohol into the baby's mouth. She promptly silenced, though more out of confusion than the alcohol. Why did this old man stick his finger inside of my face, and why does he seem afraid of me?
Rhea was far more perceptive than the old man took her for, and he sensed this. "I've done some bad things." He admitted, his strong exterior cracked ever so slightly. "You will, too. To all of us. That's all our family is remembered for, the terrible deeds we've blanketed humanity with. We ruin lives, kid."
"Not always," the baby replied.
The old man stared into Rhea's eyes for what felt like hours and then finally smiled. The physical act of smiling broke the old man's face. The muscles working in a brand new, dangerous way reverberated into his brain and he died. The doctors ruled it as a stroke, which explained why the mere moments he looked at his granddaughter felt so long.
As was tradition, there was no funeral, no mourning. Some lamented the old man, some praised him, but all looked to Rhea, because they all saw her potential, each one planning to exploit it in some way.