OOC: 018. D_M Prompts
For D_M prompts! The assignment was to write five short situations involving your pup that never happened, or fictitious variations on situations that actually did happen. Thus, we have:
Five Times Verbal Told the Truth
[one]
When he came home from work that one day, when he came home to find his furniture in disarray and his wife and children sobbing on the couch, one of the Hungarians asked him if he was afraid.
They killed one of his sons, then-Verbal remembers that. It all happened in slow motion, just like people always say. Despite it all, he remembers feeling disconnected somehow. He willed himself to feel rage, sadness, anything-but there was nothing. He watched his wife scream, his boy crumple to the ground, the men around him laugh and laugh. He could only stand there, gun raised, sprinkles of his life flashing before his eyes.
Something inside him had been severed, and he wasn’t sure if he could ever fix it again.
“Yes,” he replied.
[two]
It was Verbal’s idea to find Edie before they left for Los Angeles. Keaton agreed readily enough, even if Verbal could see the uncertainty in his eyes. The two of them sat on that couch for what felt like hours. It was only after the sky began to darken and the flight time grew dangerously close that Verbal turned to Keaton, mustering up some courage of his own.
“We’re running out of time,” he said. He let his right hand rest on his knee, cigarette still burning weakly. “You should really talk to her. Leave a note. Something.”
Keaton threw him a weary glare. “When I’m ready, Verbal.”
“I’m saying this,” Verbal continued slowly, eyes focused on the light fixtures instead of Keaton’s worn face, “because it’s entirely possible you’ll never see her again.”
[three]
Maybe an hour or so into the interrogation, Verbal leans forward and places his coffee down on the desk. He looks up, eyes meeting Kujan’s.
“What would you do if I told you I killed Keaton?” he asks.
Kujan looks surprised for a moment-only a moment-before he gives a snort, shaking his head. “Un-fucking-believable.”
“Okay,” Verbal says calmly, leaning back in his chair. “Now where was I?”
[four]
Back when they were still alive, Verbal (Keyser then, really) would take his children to the playroom and tell them stories before sending them off to bed. He wasn’t used to spending time with them, so the first few minutes were always a bit awkward, but his stories helped him fall into a rhythm soon enough.
His wife claimed that he was so much better at it than she was, which was true, in a sense. He would fill their minds with all sorts of wonderful tales, adventures about dragons and fairies and little children who always outsmarted the adults. Sometimes he would tell them about the man who was a daddy at night, but during the day did all these cool things, like shoot a gun and scale tall buildings. This man was so good at what he did, he told them, that he got lots and lots of money to spend for his wonderful family. The family didn’t know, though, that the man was so special. The family only thought he was working for a well-respected business. He kept his secret very well, kind of like Batman.
He made sure only to tell this story when his wife had gone to bed early.
[five]
“The way I hear it, Soze is some kind of butcher. A peerless, psycho, fucked-up butcher.”
Verbal shifted his weight. You could hear the ceiling fan, the room was that quiet.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “He probably isn’t crazy.”
Five Times Verbal Told the Truth
[one]
When he came home from work that one day, when he came home to find his furniture in disarray and his wife and children sobbing on the couch, one of the Hungarians asked him if he was afraid.
They killed one of his sons, then-Verbal remembers that. It all happened in slow motion, just like people always say. Despite it all, he remembers feeling disconnected somehow. He willed himself to feel rage, sadness, anything-but there was nothing. He watched his wife scream, his boy crumple to the ground, the men around him laugh and laugh. He could only stand there, gun raised, sprinkles of his life flashing before his eyes.
Something inside him had been severed, and he wasn’t sure if he could ever fix it again.
“Yes,” he replied.
[two]
It was Verbal’s idea to find Edie before they left for Los Angeles. Keaton agreed readily enough, even if Verbal could see the uncertainty in his eyes. The two of them sat on that couch for what felt like hours. It was only after the sky began to darken and the flight time grew dangerously close that Verbal turned to Keaton, mustering up some courage of his own.
“We’re running out of time,” he said. He let his right hand rest on his knee, cigarette still burning weakly. “You should really talk to her. Leave a note. Something.”
Keaton threw him a weary glare. “When I’m ready, Verbal.”
“I’m saying this,” Verbal continued slowly, eyes focused on the light fixtures instead of Keaton’s worn face, “because it’s entirely possible you’ll never see her again.”
[three]
Maybe an hour or so into the interrogation, Verbal leans forward and places his coffee down on the desk. He looks up, eyes meeting Kujan’s.
“What would you do if I told you I killed Keaton?” he asks.
Kujan looks surprised for a moment-only a moment-before he gives a snort, shaking his head. “Un-fucking-believable.”
“Okay,” Verbal says calmly, leaning back in his chair. “Now where was I?”
[four]
Back when they were still alive, Verbal (Keyser then, really) would take his children to the playroom and tell them stories before sending them off to bed. He wasn’t used to spending time with them, so the first few minutes were always a bit awkward, but his stories helped him fall into a rhythm soon enough.
His wife claimed that he was so much better at it than she was, which was true, in a sense. He would fill their minds with all sorts of wonderful tales, adventures about dragons and fairies and little children who always outsmarted the adults. Sometimes he would tell them about the man who was a daddy at night, but during the day did all these cool things, like shoot a gun and scale tall buildings. This man was so good at what he did, he told them, that he got lots and lots of money to spend for his wonderful family. The family didn’t know, though, that the man was so special. The family only thought he was working for a well-respected business. He kept his secret very well, kind of like Batman.
He made sure only to tell this story when his wife had gone to bed early.
[five]
“The way I hear it, Soze is some kind of butcher. A peerless, psycho, fucked-up butcher.”
Verbal shifted his weight. You could hear the ceiling fan, the room was that quiet.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “He probably isn’t crazy.”