[Fic] I'd Rather Be Dreaming
Rupert scratched his head, and lowered his pen to the paper. And then he lifted it again. That wasn't right. That wasn't how it happened. He took in a deep breath, lowered his hand and wrote one, two words. And scratched that out, crumpling the paper up into a ball. Nope. Not right. There was a right way to do these things, and he was going to do it the right way and he was going to do it the right way the first time, dammit. Deep breath. And --go.
Mrs. Lucy Wrightfield, born--no, no. Too formal. This wasn't an obituary, it was a history. He wanted it to be interesting--needed it to be interesting so someone later wouldn't skip over it. He was an Angel of Knowledge, goddammit. He was recording history. This is what he did.
Pen to paper. Inhale. Go. Write. Don't think, just write. Mrs. Lucy Wrightfield has been--no, past tense, past tense. Had been described, had, as... where were his notes? Where were his notes?
He had gotten so many weird looks while trying to get those interviews. "Shouldn't you be greeting guests or something?" one Mr. Bernie Wrightfield (brother-in-law to the deceased) had hissed in his ear. Rupert had tried to tell him that this was not an event where one greeted guests, and that he was doing this for posterity, because the woman's memory deserved to be preserved. And he was going to be the one to preserve it, goddammit--that's what he did. That was his life. So all he had to do was find his notes and--ah, here they were.
Described as 'sweet', 'caring', 'kind'. 'Gorgeous', too, with 'a great set of'--no. That was wrong. Was that really what the neighbor across the street had said? That wasn't going into this work, not right here. Perhaps as an annotation or a footnote or tucked away in an appendix somewhere, but certainly not in the pages of the actual work itself. And who was this man to say that about Rupert's--
Well. Gorgeous. And. She had been married to Mr. Ronald Wrightfield, and their wedding was--shit. Rupert had no idea what their wedding was like. He was going to have to dig up accounts of it later. He had no time now--he was on a roll and--
Christ, what the hell was he doing? This was wrong, all wrong. This wasn't how it had been. Rupert crumpled up the half-page he had written, threw it across the room and then slammed the notepad on his desk. There. He was focused. He could do this. Mrs. Lucy Wrightfield began her life as Miss Lucy Reagan, born in--
He had been to the place of her birth before. The little town in Iowa--they didn't live there for very long, but once on a road trip he had pulled over to see it. Just for posterity's sake. And perhaps sentimental value, but that wasn't all that he was after, there were other things he was focused on at the time like getting to the big city to do some reporting and...
He was rambling. He had to stop, he had to focus. One simple history, he had all his notes (not on the wedding, had to get something on the wedding) and he was ready to go. He was all set, had his pens and his notes and--
He couldn't do it. He was biased. That was it. He was just biased, was all. He'd get someone else to write the history. He just couldn't do it, couldn't even be subjective about it, much less give a completely unbiased history of the woman.
How can one be subjective about the funeral of one's own mother?
Muse: Rupert
Word count: 637 words
Prompt: the story you can't tell for allfireburns
Mrs. Lucy Wrightfield, born--no, no. Too formal. This wasn't an obituary, it was a history. He wanted it to be interesting--needed it to be interesting so someone later wouldn't skip over it. He was an Angel of Knowledge, goddammit. He was recording history. This is what he did.
Pen to paper. Inhale. Go. Write. Don't think, just write. Mrs. Lucy Wrightfield has been--no, past tense, past tense. Had been described, had, as... where were his notes? Where were his notes?
He had gotten so many weird looks while trying to get those interviews. "Shouldn't you be greeting guests or something?" one Mr. Bernie Wrightfield (brother-in-law to the deceased) had hissed in his ear. Rupert had tried to tell him that this was not an event where one greeted guests, and that he was doing this for posterity, because the woman's memory deserved to be preserved. And he was going to be the one to preserve it, goddammit--that's what he did. That was his life. So all he had to do was find his notes and--ah, here they were.
Described as 'sweet', 'caring', 'kind'. 'Gorgeous', too, with 'a great set of'--no. That was wrong. Was that really what the neighbor across the street had said? That wasn't going into this work, not right here. Perhaps as an annotation or a footnote or tucked away in an appendix somewhere, but certainly not in the pages of the actual work itself. And who was this man to say that about Rupert's--
Well. Gorgeous. And. She had been married to Mr. Ronald Wrightfield, and their wedding was--shit. Rupert had no idea what their wedding was like. He was going to have to dig up accounts of it later. He had no time now--he was on a roll and--
Christ, what the hell was he doing? This was wrong, all wrong. This wasn't how it had been. Rupert crumpled up the half-page he had written, threw it across the room and then slammed the notepad on his desk. There. He was focused. He could do this. Mrs. Lucy Wrightfield began her life as Miss Lucy Reagan, born in--
He had been to the place of her birth before. The little town in Iowa--they didn't live there for very long, but once on a road trip he had pulled over to see it. Just for posterity's sake. And perhaps sentimental value, but that wasn't all that he was after, there were other things he was focused on at the time like getting to the big city to do some reporting and...
He was rambling. He had to stop, he had to focus. One simple history, he had all his notes (not on the wedding, had to get something on the wedding) and he was ready to go. He was all set, had his pens and his notes and--
He couldn't do it. He was biased. That was it. He was just biased, was all. He'd get someone else to write the history. He just couldn't do it, couldn't even be subjective about it, much less give a completely unbiased history of the woman.
How can one be subjective about the funeral of one's own mother?
Muse: Rupert
Word count: 637 words
Prompt: the story you can't tell for allfireburns