Sweet child of mine- chap 7 (2/5)
anonymous
September 23 2010, 12:33:46 UTC
"There you are, Firley!" he walked over to him, and Tomasz felt his mind fizzling. "The senators are all waiting to hear the speech! Our candidate is also pleased-" Did the maestro not see the faint vapor of melted brain coming from Tomasz's ears? - "Boy, come over here- you need some styling-" Tomasz was pushed into a chair in front of a large mirror, his reflection looking back with a nauseated blank stare; not the best look to go up and give a speech with. He was mortified even further as the horrible idea of throwing up on the stand crossed his mind. Pulling out his rosary, he held it and whispered a familiar prayer, wishing God will hear him and will pull off some divine neurochemical intervention with his brain (a godly chill pill, if you will) and if that didn't happen, well, at least holding the rosary had a soothing effect in itself. His figures traced the familiar, even intimate, trinket, a small souvenir from his parents that he could hold on to. That little metal cross was very old; well kept, but old. A family heirloom, possibly. Once he took it to an expert, hoping he will be able to use it to trace his parents. He was about nineteen. But all he was told that his rosary is from around the fourteenth century, probably belonged to a rich family as it was pure silver- "but with a family name like Firley it's not surprising, not really. After all it used to belong to nobles." Tomasz let the prayer on his lips and the silver cross in his hand to work on his rumbling mind for a few more moments. Like a silent trickle of cool water over a pot plant, traces of comfort seeped back to him and he absorbed them, slowly leading his high-strung mind somewhere completely different, where he never rambled about whores in German and spilling coffee and throwing up mid-sentence. His own strange version of "the happy place"; A place with no age or time, were he was everything and everything was him. Complete. Tranquil. At peace. Confident. Right. Then he opened his eyes to look at himself in the mirror again and everything fell back into place. He was himself again. Brown hair, green eyes, a little slim, wearing that god-awful costume, and knowing what he needed to say, word by word. He was going to say a whole lot of words. Pretty words, but thankfully nothing flowery. Mainly of love to the country and cleaner politics, more emphasis on social matters and a lot of adoration to his party's candidate. Tomasz never met him, but he did believe in him. He would go up there, confident in his words and tell all the people out there about his party's vision of the future. "You, uh, look good, Firley was it?" One of the maestro's girls- probably the one assigned to help him prepare, do his hair and makeup ("otherwise you'll, umm, look all gray and stuff, right?"), walked to him. "I was, uh, about to umm offer you a cup of tea, but you… mm… seem to be holding yourself together, yes?" "-thanks," He smiled at her, "just need to sort things out in my head a little. I'm still nervous, just… ugh, just less afraid." "Good, good- now, eh…- sit straight, okay?- let's, uhm, get you ready… it’s the opening speech of the campaign, isn't it?"
Tomasz let the prayer on his lips and the silver cross in his hand to work on his rumbling mind for a few more moments. Like a silent trickle of cool water over a pot plant, traces of comfort seeped back to him and he absorbed them, slowly leading his high-strung mind somewhere completely different, where he never rambled about whores in German and spilling coffee and throwing up mid-sentence. His own strange version of "the happy place"; A place with no age or time, were he was everything and everything was him. Complete. Tranquil. At peace.
Confident.
Right.
Then he opened his eyes to look at himself in the mirror again and everything fell back into place. He was himself again. Brown hair, green eyes, a little slim, wearing that god-awful costume, and knowing what he needed to say, word by word.
He was going to say a whole lot of words. Pretty words, but thankfully nothing flowery. Mainly of love to the country and cleaner politics, more emphasis on social matters and a lot of adoration to his party's candidate. Tomasz never met him, but he did believe in him. He would go up there, confident in his words and tell all the people out there about his party's vision of the future.
"You, uh, look good, Firley was it?" One of the maestro's girls- probably the one assigned to help him prepare, do his hair and makeup ("otherwise you'll, umm, look all gray and stuff, right?"), walked to him. "I was, uh, about to umm offer you a cup of tea, but you… mm… seem to be holding yourself together, yes?"
"-thanks," He smiled at her, "just need to sort things out in my head a little. I'm still nervous, just… ugh, just less afraid."
"Good, good- now, eh…- sit straight, okay?- let's, uhm, get you ready… it’s the opening speech of the campaign, isn't it?"
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