HT100 Challenge #88: Spirited Away
Here's a take on the Ghost of Christmas Past, and coming it at 400 words, so in the spirit of the season I'm going to encourage anyone who might want to whip up one of these but is worried about exceeding the word limit, to not sweat it. (Psst, maverick4oz I can do that, right? LOL)
Ghosts of Christmas Present and Yet To Come will be turning up as well... I think.
~Whom the Hand of Heaven Ignores~
“Ryan?” Cyril called up from the bottom bunk. “Did we ever have a merry Christmas?”
“Sure we did, kid, lots of them,” he lied. Since McManus had made them watch a goddamn Scrooge movie tonight -- a musical version, for Christ’s sake -- he’d been expecting the question. For a while there, he would have given his right nut to be a Jew or Muslim so he could get out of watching the movie; right now he’d give up the other one not to have to field Cyril’s questions.
“Tell me about it,” the childlike voice pressed and Ryan winced, turning on his side to look out at Em City, everything dark and quiet.
For the thousandth time he wondered just how much of his brother was really left inside there. It killed him sometimes that everybody looked at Cyril now and saw this sweet, innocent angel, when the truth was … had been, just the opposite. Cyril had been just as tough as him, every bit the badass, his right hand man all the way. The only area where Ryan had him outfoxed was in running circles around everyone, getting each side lined up against each other, with none of the blood ever spattering onto his hands.
He’d always be the last one standing, counting the cash and dancing on the bones.
Funny how that didn’t give him the kick it used to.
“Ryan?”
“Yeah, Cyril.” He scootched around to get more comfortable, snorted at that joke, and spun him sugarplum dreams of trips to see Santa and midnight mass, Tessie and Seamus caroling away and their house sparkling with decorations so bright it hurt your eyes to see it, presents piled higher than either one of them could stand.
Not a word of truth, of course. All Christmas had been was tears and misery, Seamus stewed to the gills and taking it out on anyone in his reach. Ryan didn’t need any visit from a Ghost of Christmas Past to set him straight on that -- but he didn’t tell Cyril that, he let his brother drift off to sleep with a smile on his face and a memory of things that never happened.
When he was sure Cyril was asleep, he pressed a kiss to his forehead, whispered, “God bless us, every one,” and went back to his bunk, doubting his own dreams would be as sweet.
Ghosts of Christmas Present and Yet To Come will be turning up as well... I think.
~Whom the Hand of Heaven Ignores~
“Ryan?” Cyril called up from the bottom bunk. “Did we ever have a merry Christmas?”
“Sure we did, kid, lots of them,” he lied. Since McManus had made them watch a goddamn Scrooge movie tonight -- a musical version, for Christ’s sake -- he’d been expecting the question. For a while there, he would have given his right nut to be a Jew or Muslim so he could get out of watching the movie; right now he’d give up the other one not to have to field Cyril’s questions.
“Tell me about it,” the childlike voice pressed and Ryan winced, turning on his side to look out at Em City, everything dark and quiet.
For the thousandth time he wondered just how much of his brother was really left inside there. It killed him sometimes that everybody looked at Cyril now and saw this sweet, innocent angel, when the truth was … had been, just the opposite. Cyril had been just as tough as him, every bit the badass, his right hand man all the way. The only area where Ryan had him outfoxed was in running circles around everyone, getting each side lined up against each other, with none of the blood ever spattering onto his hands.
He’d always be the last one standing, counting the cash and dancing on the bones.
Funny how that didn’t give him the kick it used to.
“Ryan?”
“Yeah, Cyril.” He scootched around to get more comfortable, snorted at that joke, and spun him sugarplum dreams of trips to see Santa and midnight mass, Tessie and Seamus caroling away and their house sparkling with decorations so bright it hurt your eyes to see it, presents piled higher than either one of them could stand.
Not a word of truth, of course. All Christmas had been was tears and misery, Seamus stewed to the gills and taking it out on anyone in his reach. Ryan didn’t need any visit from a Ghost of Christmas Past to set him straight on that -- but he didn’t tell Cyril that, he let his brother drift off to sleep with a smile on his face and a memory of things that never happened.
When he was sure Cyril was asleep, he pressed a kiss to his forehead, whispered, “God bless us, every one,” and went back to his bunk, doubting his own dreams would be as sweet.