Beware of Big Brother
As you all know it is my custom to post a story whenever a new doll has arrived. :D Well, William has arrived. (Not the most creative name choice in the world, but I like it. Don't spell it with an "s" behind.)
So, my dear friends, it is again time for me to word-bomb you with another lengthy tale of the douls that reside in my house. Excuse my trespass upon the sacred space of your Friend's Pages. There are some songs that you can listen to while reading (click the links~). The chapter will probably end before the music does but that's okay because only the first portion of each piece fits the story.
Beware of Big Brother
I
Soundtrack: Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky - Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy
The sun had sunk, leaving behind a fiery wake of orange clouds floating in the distant pink horizon. The street was silent save for a chilly breeze which swept dried brown leaves across the cold grey cobblestones. Bare trees flanked either side of the path, mournfully watching its sole occupant, a youth in a dirty grey coat. The youth trod down the road towards the shadows.
The lone lamplight at the end of the street flickered as it came feebly to life, casting its yellow glow onto the shabby establishment beside it. The youth paused for only a moment before the door of the rundown tavern before entering, as if to savour the sleepiness in the air. The windows of the bar lighted up as the sky darkened into an inky black, and the clink of cutlery now broke the silence in the bar.
Outside, a handful of scattered stars twinkled in the night sky above. Metal creaked against metal as the rusty signboard of the bar swung in the wind. The signboard, rather unfortunately, bore an unsavoury picture of an ox's rear end. Whether this was somehow symbolic or merely an exercise in bad taste on the part of its owner no one could tell, or bothered to tell. The owner in question was fast asleep in an old armchair behind the bar top, the smoke curling lazily up from the pipe still clutched in his hand. The shaggy hair on his head had almost completely turned white. The young man let him be as he washed several chipped, stained mugs in preparation for the night ahead.
William had been working at Gramp's bar ever since his middle school days. "Gramps" was but an affectionate nickname for the old man, nevertheless, Will and he enjoyed an amicable relationship not unlike that of grandfather and grandson. The Oxtail was a dingy, slightly dirty bar located in a desolate corner of town. It served beer and bread and oxtail soup, with usually about three to four young, wayward troublemakers running it at any one time. These youngsters were supposed to serve the food but came primarily to drink beer on the house. It did not have a bad reputation, however, for being particularly shady or suspicious. It simply did not have any reputation at all. Few visited this sleepy corner of town, and fewer visited the Oxtail.
The day Will had turned up on the doorstep of the Oxtail, he had little more than the shirt on his back, two changes of clothes in a tattered old suitcase and a pair of mismatched boots. This had been the result of a heated row between Will and his father that very morning, in which Will had reiterated (in an admittedly uncivil manner) how much he resented being sent to rot in boarding school and how he did not fancy being educated, in this way, into a "Fine Young Gentleman", and after which Will had packed his bags and left, never again to return to his parent's home. From then, he had taken up residence at the Oxtail, the only place left that welcomed him. School was out of the question, of course, now that he was in exile. This was not an unpleasant notion to Will. (In fact, it was an extremely agreeable one). He spend his days doing what his father would categorize as "mooching around", serving beer at the Oxtail by night.
It was a fact that was particularly disagreeable to Will that he had a twin brother, who had been given the pompous (and appropriate, in Will's opinion) name of Darcy. Darcy was night if Will was day. Darcy was, of course, very much inclined towards holing himself up in stuffy institutions of education, such as boarding school and burying his snotty (again, in Will's opinion) nose in dusty tomes. His ambition in life (so Will thought) was to be educated in a Fine Young Gentleman. The brothers hardly got along. Peace between the bickering pair was often more of a short-lived ceasefire (one cannot fight all day without being considerably exhausted) rather than a mutual attempt by both parties to leave each other alone. Darcy went to boarding school by himself, with the intent of graduating spectacularly.
Autumn passed into winter. Snow blanketed the cold cobblestones and the roof of the Oxtail. Winter passed into spring. The frost on the street had hardly melted when Gramps announced that it was Spring and that he simply had to go fishing, a hobby he and Will shared. Many a day they spent on the freezing banks of the lake with their fishing rods in hand, watching the golden sun sink into its watery grave at dusk, until a bout of flu took its toll on Gramps like never before. He breathed his last with Will at his bedside, leaving to Will all his worldly possessions, including the Oxtail, whose survival was no similarly threatened as in was on the verge of closing down. That day, the sun descended to give way into a starless night.
II
Soundtrack: Ludwig van Beethoven - "Moonlight" Piano Sonata No. 14
(Skip the 2nd movement)
Dark clouds swarmed above in the overcast sky. A distant rumble of thunder sounded, frightening into hiding a tiny black cat. It had boldly snuck under the foreboding steel gates of the Cheverell mansion just moments before. Despite the promise of a raging storm the air was heavy with heat - the neat rows of pansies planted in the Cheverell's lawns had dried up and wilted. The flowers drooped miserably, their dead grey petals still in the windless air. Not even a torrent of rain could save them now. Behind, the stone walls of the mansion rose like a gargantuan beast, aloof and unforgiving.
Lightning flashed across the sky just as a dark window above shattered, showering cruel shards of sharp glass down onto the lawns below. The cat jumped out of the hedge and fled.
Darcy looked resentfully at the broken window, then turned his attention to his bleeding hand. Seizing a shirt that had been thrown onto the floor, he wrapped his hand up in a makeshift bandage, deliberately ignoring the gaping hole in the glass and the cold rain that had begun splattering in through it. He would have broken another window if there had been one. Most of all, he wanted to break the jaw of a certain roguish youth, the very same one who had taunted him into a fight and gotten him expelled.
Expelled. He lay miserably on his bed, the detestable word echoing through his head. He had been self-imprisoned in his own dark room for a week already, bemoaning his fate. This was inevitable - Darcy had never gotten into a fight before. Darcy didn't get into fights. At least, he used not to. It was Will who got into fights. Nevertheless it was he who had been sent packing and had come home to a house that did not welcome him. His father, having pronounced him to be "just like William", had now refrained from speaking to him altogether. Darcy kicked a nearby teddy bear (he did not care, of course that it had once belonged to Will) in rage. Tristan would be a name to remember.
The inhabitants of the Cheverell household woke the next day to a misty dawn. The storm had let up, though pools of rainwater remained on the slippery roads, Dewdrops were still on the grass when they found that the bed was empty in the room with the broken window.
The window was crudely repaired by means of a bloodstained shirt affixed over its hole. The discovery of two missing suitcases and a hastily written note confirmed that Darcy had indeed left the Cheverell household, for better or worse, in search of his own fortune.
Many miles away, in the seamier side of town, a lively, if suspicious-looking, tavern with a large, ornately painted signboard triumphantly heralding its name stood proudly next to a lone lamppost. The small dingy bar that used to be called the Oxtail had finally seen the last of its struggling days. It was not a mere tavern anymore but also the place of choice for men with deep pockets to rendezvous and discuss clandestine affairs over wine and food, an exclusive Club of sorts.
Will was its proud owner. He still hired young, wayward troublemakers, but now there were more of them and they wore cleaner clothes, in addition to not coming primarily to drink beer on the house but to serve the food.
III
Soundtrack: Antonin Dvorák - Slavonic Dance No. 2
It was on a particularly cold autumn's night that Darcy found himself stranded in the more disreputable part of town. The roads were dark save for the weak light from lampposts placed at the corner of every street. Drunken laughter rang out every now and then, echoing into the night. Darcy had no luck finding a job for many months, often resorting to helping out with odd jobs in exchange for a roof to sleep under or a day's meal. Times were hard. The windows of many houses were lighted by the glow of warm fireplaces, but their cold doors were barred to strangers.
There was only one place which had its doors open in welcome. Darcy found himself in front of a shady-looking establishment that stood at the corner of the street. He entered the Ivraie without much optimism.
The lazy notes of a seasoned saxophone sounded faintly as he entered. The interior of the bar was bathed in a soft yellow light emanating from several dimly-lit lamps suspended from its ceilings. It seemed to him that it was almost as if the bar was candlelit. Women draped in expensive furs and satins lounged languorously in sofas of fine black leather as they gossiped and laughed with the suave bartenders. The delicate clink of glasses could be heard amongst the murmur of conversation as finely dressed gentlemen sipped liquor from their glasses. Darcy had never before stepped into such a place in his entire squeaky-clean existence. He recoiled from the curious gaze of the tavern's elegant patrons, imagining mocking smiles and hidden laughter trembling on their lips. He was a fish out of water.
Darcy stood like a deer caught in the headlights. At length he caught a tall bartender eyeing him with an odd look. He looked down at his threadbare coat and muddied shoes, immediately feeling ashamed of the numerous holes and patches his attire bore. Already the bartender was headed towards him. He wondered if the bartender would turn him out if he did not quickly come up with a reasonable excuse to remain. As always, he had no money, and he was no bartender, but Darcy was a sensible young man who was prepared to wash the dishes or wipe the counter in return for food and lodgings (or so he thought).
The bartender apparently needed no explanations. "I'll take you to see K," he said brusquely, even before Darcy could open his mouth.
He sheperded Darcy into a narrow back corridor which led to a room. He rapped twice on the door.
"Come in," drawled a lazy voice. It sounded vaguely familiar. The bartender swung the door open and pushed Darcy in. The door slammed shut.
A pair of black-booted feet rested upon an intricately carved rosewood table. The cloaked figure to whom the feet belonged to slouched indifferently on a black couch, his face obscured by dark curls and a hood. The room was furnished with the height of luxury. The chandelier hung from the ceiling glittered, blue and white light bouncing off its many reflective facets as if they were precious gems. Encased within a glass cabinet were snuffboxes adorned with delicate paintings of dazzling workmanship and cunningly crafted Faberge eggs. Curtains of flowing silk were drawn over the large windows in the room, and a bottle of wine stood unopened upon the beautiful rosewood table where the booted feet were so carelessly placed.
The figure slipped off its hood and looked up.
Darcy found himself staring into deep blue eyes that mirrored his own.
"YOU! Forget it, I'm not working here!" Darcy was not too pleased to see his brother again, and made for the door.
Will was equally stunned to meet Darcy. Nevertheless he intended to fully exploit the fact that Darcy was alone and in need of money.
"We pay good money here, you know," he murmured. His voice, though soft, was akin to an incessant echo within Darcy's mind. Will pushed further. "Jobs are rare," he continued, casting a well-directed glance at Darcy's beat-up boots.
Moments later Darcy was clad in a filthy apron and washing dirty glasses in the sink.
Back in the room, Will sat smoking an expensive cigar, deep in thought. He had changed substantially ever since he had left his family with only the shirt on his back and two spare changes of clothes in a tattered suitcase. He had now fairly stylish drabs, among other luxuries. Not bad for the black sheep of the family, he thought, thinking of Darcy's predicament. He silently thanked Gramps and retired for the night, full of fiendish ideas on how to work his brother to possible death.
THE END
So, my dear friends, it is again time for me to word-bomb you with another lengthy tale of the douls that reside in my house. Excuse my trespass upon the sacred space of your Friend's Pages. There are some songs that you can listen to while reading (click the links~). The chapter will probably end before the music does but that's okay because only the first portion of each piece fits the story.
Beware of Big Brother
I
Soundtrack: Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky - Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy
The sun had sunk, leaving behind a fiery wake of orange clouds floating in the distant pink horizon. The street was silent save for a chilly breeze which swept dried brown leaves across the cold grey cobblestones. Bare trees flanked either side of the path, mournfully watching its sole occupant, a youth in a dirty grey coat. The youth trod down the road towards the shadows.
The lone lamplight at the end of the street flickered as it came feebly to life, casting its yellow glow onto the shabby establishment beside it. The youth paused for only a moment before the door of the rundown tavern before entering, as if to savour the sleepiness in the air. The windows of the bar lighted up as the sky darkened into an inky black, and the clink of cutlery now broke the silence in the bar.
Outside, a handful of scattered stars twinkled in the night sky above. Metal creaked against metal as the rusty signboard of the bar swung in the wind. The signboard, rather unfortunately, bore an unsavoury picture of an ox's rear end. Whether this was somehow symbolic or merely an exercise in bad taste on the part of its owner no one could tell, or bothered to tell. The owner in question was fast asleep in an old armchair behind the bar top, the smoke curling lazily up from the pipe still clutched in his hand. The shaggy hair on his head had almost completely turned white. The young man let him be as he washed several chipped, stained mugs in preparation for the night ahead.
William had been working at Gramp's bar ever since his middle school days. "Gramps" was but an affectionate nickname for the old man, nevertheless, Will and he enjoyed an amicable relationship not unlike that of grandfather and grandson. The Oxtail was a dingy, slightly dirty bar located in a desolate corner of town. It served beer and bread and oxtail soup, with usually about three to four young, wayward troublemakers running it at any one time. These youngsters were supposed to serve the food but came primarily to drink beer on the house. It did not have a bad reputation, however, for being particularly shady or suspicious. It simply did not have any reputation at all. Few visited this sleepy corner of town, and fewer visited the Oxtail.
The day Will had turned up on the doorstep of the Oxtail, he had little more than the shirt on his back, two changes of clothes in a tattered old suitcase and a pair of mismatched boots. This had been the result of a heated row between Will and his father that very morning, in which Will had reiterated (in an admittedly uncivil manner) how much he resented being sent to rot in boarding school and how he did not fancy being educated, in this way, into a "Fine Young Gentleman", and after which Will had packed his bags and left, never again to return to his parent's home. From then, he had taken up residence at the Oxtail, the only place left that welcomed him. School was out of the question, of course, now that he was in exile. This was not an unpleasant notion to Will. (In fact, it was an extremely agreeable one). He spend his days doing what his father would categorize as "mooching around", serving beer at the Oxtail by night.
It was a fact that was particularly disagreeable to Will that he had a twin brother, who had been given the pompous (and appropriate, in Will's opinion) name of Darcy. Darcy was night if Will was day. Darcy was, of course, very much inclined towards holing himself up in stuffy institutions of education, such as boarding school and burying his snotty (again, in Will's opinion) nose in dusty tomes. His ambition in life (so Will thought) was to be educated in a Fine Young Gentleman. The brothers hardly got along. Peace between the bickering pair was often more of a short-lived ceasefire (one cannot fight all day without being considerably exhausted) rather than a mutual attempt by both parties to leave each other alone. Darcy went to boarding school by himself, with the intent of graduating spectacularly.
Autumn passed into winter. Snow blanketed the cold cobblestones and the roof of the Oxtail. Winter passed into spring. The frost on the street had hardly melted when Gramps announced that it was Spring and that he simply had to go fishing, a hobby he and Will shared. Many a day they spent on the freezing banks of the lake with their fishing rods in hand, watching the golden sun sink into its watery grave at dusk, until a bout of flu took its toll on Gramps like never before. He breathed his last with Will at his bedside, leaving to Will all his worldly possessions, including the Oxtail, whose survival was no similarly threatened as in was on the verge of closing down. That day, the sun descended to give way into a starless night.
II
Soundtrack: Ludwig van Beethoven - "Moonlight" Piano Sonata No. 14
(Skip the 2nd movement)
Dark clouds swarmed above in the overcast sky. A distant rumble of thunder sounded, frightening into hiding a tiny black cat. It had boldly snuck under the foreboding steel gates of the Cheverell mansion just moments before. Despite the promise of a raging storm the air was heavy with heat - the neat rows of pansies planted in the Cheverell's lawns had dried up and wilted. The flowers drooped miserably, their dead grey petals still in the windless air. Not even a torrent of rain could save them now. Behind, the stone walls of the mansion rose like a gargantuan beast, aloof and unforgiving.
Lightning flashed across the sky just as a dark window above shattered, showering cruel shards of sharp glass down onto the lawns below. The cat jumped out of the hedge and fled.
Darcy looked resentfully at the broken window, then turned his attention to his bleeding hand. Seizing a shirt that had been thrown onto the floor, he wrapped his hand up in a makeshift bandage, deliberately ignoring the gaping hole in the glass and the cold rain that had begun splattering in through it. He would have broken another window if there had been one. Most of all, he wanted to break the jaw of a certain roguish youth, the very same one who had taunted him into a fight and gotten him expelled.
Expelled. He lay miserably on his bed, the detestable word echoing through his head. He had been self-imprisoned in his own dark room for a week already, bemoaning his fate. This was inevitable - Darcy had never gotten into a fight before. Darcy didn't get into fights. At least, he used not to. It was Will who got into fights. Nevertheless it was he who had been sent packing and had come home to a house that did not welcome him. His father, having pronounced him to be "just like William", had now refrained from speaking to him altogether. Darcy kicked a nearby teddy bear (he did not care, of course that it had once belonged to Will) in rage. Tristan would be a name to remember.
The inhabitants of the Cheverell household woke the next day to a misty dawn. The storm had let up, though pools of rainwater remained on the slippery roads, Dewdrops were still on the grass when they found that the bed was empty in the room with the broken window.
The window was crudely repaired by means of a bloodstained shirt affixed over its hole. The discovery of two missing suitcases and a hastily written note confirmed that Darcy had indeed left the Cheverell household, for better or worse, in search of his own fortune.
Many miles away, in the seamier side of town, a lively, if suspicious-looking, tavern with a large, ornately painted signboard triumphantly heralding its name stood proudly next to a lone lamppost. The small dingy bar that used to be called the Oxtail had finally seen the last of its struggling days. It was not a mere tavern anymore but also the place of choice for men with deep pockets to rendezvous and discuss clandestine affairs over wine and food, an exclusive Club of sorts.
Will was its proud owner. He still hired young, wayward troublemakers, but now there were more of them and they wore cleaner clothes, in addition to not coming primarily to drink beer on the house but to serve the food.
III
Soundtrack: Antonin Dvorák - Slavonic Dance No. 2
It was on a particularly cold autumn's night that Darcy found himself stranded in the more disreputable part of town. The roads were dark save for the weak light from lampposts placed at the corner of every street. Drunken laughter rang out every now and then, echoing into the night. Darcy had no luck finding a job for many months, often resorting to helping out with odd jobs in exchange for a roof to sleep under or a day's meal. Times were hard. The windows of many houses were lighted by the glow of warm fireplaces, but their cold doors were barred to strangers.
There was only one place which had its doors open in welcome. Darcy found himself in front of a shady-looking establishment that stood at the corner of the street. He entered the Ivraie without much optimism.
The lazy notes of a seasoned saxophone sounded faintly as he entered. The interior of the bar was bathed in a soft yellow light emanating from several dimly-lit lamps suspended from its ceilings. It seemed to him that it was almost as if the bar was candlelit. Women draped in expensive furs and satins lounged languorously in sofas of fine black leather as they gossiped and laughed with the suave bartenders. The delicate clink of glasses could be heard amongst the murmur of conversation as finely dressed gentlemen sipped liquor from their glasses. Darcy had never before stepped into such a place in his entire squeaky-clean existence. He recoiled from the curious gaze of the tavern's elegant patrons, imagining mocking smiles and hidden laughter trembling on their lips. He was a fish out of water.
Darcy stood like a deer caught in the headlights. At length he caught a tall bartender eyeing him with an odd look. He looked down at his threadbare coat and muddied shoes, immediately feeling ashamed of the numerous holes and patches his attire bore. Already the bartender was headed towards him. He wondered if the bartender would turn him out if he did not quickly come up with a reasonable excuse to remain. As always, he had no money, and he was no bartender, but Darcy was a sensible young man who was prepared to wash the dishes or wipe the counter in return for food and lodgings (or so he thought).
The bartender apparently needed no explanations. "I'll take you to see K," he said brusquely, even before Darcy could open his mouth.
He sheperded Darcy into a narrow back corridor which led to a room. He rapped twice on the door.
"Come in," drawled a lazy voice. It sounded vaguely familiar. The bartender swung the door open and pushed Darcy in. The door slammed shut.
A pair of black-booted feet rested upon an intricately carved rosewood table. The cloaked figure to whom the feet belonged to slouched indifferently on a black couch, his face obscured by dark curls and a hood. The room was furnished with the height of luxury. The chandelier hung from the ceiling glittered, blue and white light bouncing off its many reflective facets as if they were precious gems. Encased within a glass cabinet were snuffboxes adorned with delicate paintings of dazzling workmanship and cunningly crafted Faberge eggs. Curtains of flowing silk were drawn over the large windows in the room, and a bottle of wine stood unopened upon the beautiful rosewood table where the booted feet were so carelessly placed.
The figure slipped off its hood and looked up.
Darcy found himself staring into deep blue eyes that mirrored his own.
"YOU! Forget it, I'm not working here!" Darcy was not too pleased to see his brother again, and made for the door.
Will was equally stunned to meet Darcy. Nevertheless he intended to fully exploit the fact that Darcy was alone and in need of money.
"We pay good money here, you know," he murmured. His voice, though soft, was akin to an incessant echo within Darcy's mind. Will pushed further. "Jobs are rare," he continued, casting a well-directed glance at Darcy's beat-up boots.
Moments later Darcy was clad in a filthy apron and washing dirty glasses in the sink.
Back in the room, Will sat smoking an expensive cigar, deep in thought. He had changed substantially ever since he had left his family with only the shirt on his back and two spare changes of clothes in a tattered suitcase. He had now fairly stylish drabs, among other luxuries. Not bad for the black sheep of the family, he thought, thinking of Darcy's predicament. He silently thanked Gramps and retired for the night, full of fiendish ideas on how to work his brother to possible death.
THE END