Tintin: Past, Present, and Future II
Title: Past, Present, and Future
Author: ArethaHelena (
retha_helena)
Co-Author: Seer M. Anno (
seerstella)
Genre: AU (taken-again-from He’s the Boy universe)
Rating: PG-15
Pairing: Tintin & Haddock, Dorothy/Trent (OC/OC)
Warning: Child abuse, alcohol, OOCness, irrelevance, and stuffs
Disclaimer: Tintin’s universe © Herge. No copyright intended.
Note: This is for
. I told you your prompt is intriguing. So I decided to write it down. This is like He’s the Boy, but it’s from Tintin’s centric, with a bit of his mom’s past. Tintin would seem much older than his age, and for that I apologize. And, I think you’ve known about my 'Tintin’s mother', yes?
Prologue.
II. PAST
From my age of four and a half, I has to stop asking questions, even to myself.
In the age of four and a half years old, Tintin could never understand why children in the orphanage he lived had things nicer than him. Why when the kids around his age could sleep on comfy beds while he slept on an ugly, stained mattress in the usually dark attic.
Sometimes he remembered why he was here, although it began to blur a bit. He vaguely remembered his Captain, a tall man with sharp (stubbly?) cheeks. He went out really often until Tintin didn't remember much about him. But he still remembered Mom, a middle-aged woman who cared deeply at him. He didn't see both of them anymore, he knew that. But he didn't understand why.
Why did they leave him here? Did he do something wrong?
"You're not daydreaming again, kid!"
Tintin felt a painful tug on his ear, and suddenly he was slammed against the floor. He didn't know what 'daydreaming' meant, but that had to be something bad. He blinked several times, and a huge shadow was towering in front of him. Tintin began to cry. He always saw that shadow every day, everywhere. It even haunted him in his dreams.
"Bad boy! No dinner for you today!" the voice snarled, and with a stinging pain on his cheek, the boy's world darkened suddenly.
**
From my age of five, I understand why I am in this state.
Since Tintin was five, he had begun to understand why he didn't have decent things like his friends had. Well, if he could call them friends. They hardly talked to him, and Tintin was obvious that they talked about him behind his back.
He knew that he didn't deserve things that they had. He had received regular beatings, and he was forced to think that those were the things he deserved to get. He attended a small school near the orphanage, but in there nobody cared of him.
He didn't care about his past anymore. He only cared of how he could stay alive. He was often beaten and starved until he felt that he was in the verge of never coming back, but he oddly survived. He didn't understand why, but he knew better than ask about it.
"Boy!"
Tintin looked up, terrified.
His nanny was standing in front of him, hands crossed in front of her chest. "Why don't you clean the fourth floor? I taught you better than to be a daydreamer little monster," she asked, her tone venomous. Tintin cowered in fear.
"But…"
"No buts! I want it to be clean in an hour! Or there won't be any food for today!" she left, slamming the door as she did so.
Tintin sagged on the floor. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't. He hated the fourth floor. The five year old boy shakily rose to his feet, and took his broom from the storage room downstairs as fast as he could.
**
"Hey! Look who's coming! Our little Cinder-Tintin!" one of the boys exclaimed.
Tintin hated them, if he could call that burning feeling as hatred. For a small boy like him, it was a shocking feeling, to hate someone in his age of five. But Tintin couldn't help it, his insides burning every time he looked at them.
"Hey, itty witty boy!" Alphonse, one of the big boys, suddenly tripped him up. Tintin fell down, face-first, on the dusty floor. "Too smug, hm? Your parents killed themselves because you're a horrible boy! Now you even don't want to talk to us! No wonder your parents hated you!"
Tintin closed his eyes. He had believed it, his parents had died just to stay away from him. His nanny made sure of that by reminding him every time she could. She told the same to the other kids so they could remind the boy too. He wanted to cry again, but he couldn't let his tears fall out. Sometimes, when he couldn't help it, he would cry in the dark, when his nanny locked him in the attic.
He coughed a bit and wiped his face from the dust. He had to finish his work. He was hungry beyond belief, he hadn't eaten since yesterday. For a five year old boy, it was torture, but Tintin had endured more than that until he didn't put much care anymore.
After deafened his ears from the insults, he eventually finished his job. He walked downstairs, to the storage room, to put his broom and dispose the trash. He passed the kitchen, and his vision caught something novel.
His nanny was squatting in front of a fireplace. Tintin was curious of what she was doing. She never liked being in the kitchen. He peeked in, despite her threats of stay away from the kitchen. The smell of paper on fire intriguing him.
Tintin slowly walked inside the place, hid behind the table, which was full of letters. He didn't know whose letters those was, but he knew better than to take one and look.
His unintentionally saw to who the letters were.
To: Monsieur Tintin
Tintin was so shocked his feet had turned into stone. But when he heard his nanny's steps nearing the table, he ran away outside. But his still saw she burned the letters, and his small heart shattered into pieces.
Nobody could love him. Nobody could send him letters. His letters deserved to be burned. It was because he was a horrible child, and he knew it into his very core.
**
From my age of six, I know that nobody can help me.
Tintin had attended a small school in the suburbia. The teachers were not as bad as his nanny in the orphanage, but they were not better either. He was unnoticed in class. But he was placed in the class lower than his age, due to his 'dumbness'.
He disliked the lessons he got in class, except writing. He liked to write about everything. He wrote about his opinion of a story, he wrote about his dreams, and he even wrote a story about a boy who was liked, had many friends, and had a loving family.
The temporary writing teacher was a young, supportive woman. She loved his writings, and sometimes his stories were put on the wall magazine. She was the only one who didn't treat Tintin badly, and Tintin was very grateful of that.
Today, in his age of six, Tintin was the only one who walked back to the orphanage, while his other so-called 'friends' took a school bus home. He was the only one who didn't bring food to eat, he was the only one whose body drowned in the rag-like hand-me-down clothes.
But Tintin didn't mind. As long as he could go to school and meet his favourite teacher, nothing else mattered. Unfortunately, his nanny knew this and often beat him until he couldn't go to school. He grew up to a clumsy little boy who was the easiest target if you wanted to blame someone. His hands always trembled every time he was nervous or scared, and that happened often.
His nanny's friends also liked to scold and blame him. They were several women around his nanny's age, and they were people who stayed in the orphanage and took care of the children. Tintin knew that he couldn't ask why he was treated like this, because, he believed that he had to be blamed. He was the punching bag, he was a horrible boy that no one liked.
He remained like that, until he met his writing teacher. He started to believe that harsh words were wrong, but he was afraid to stop the mistreatment he got in the orphanage. And his teacher never did anything to save him, so everything she did at school was almost useless. Tintin clung tightly on the hope that someday she would come and made his life better, but it never happened.
Nobody could help Tintin, and he knew that.
"Tintin!"
The boy looked up from the street he was stepping, and stared at his writing teacher. She was the most beautiful woman Tintin had ever seen, because her eyes were soft and she smiled all the time. "Do you want a ride home?" she asked, patted the empty seat behind her on the motorcycle.
Tintin gaped. He really wanted to, he didn't eat any food this afternoon, he was beyond thirsty, and his legs were hurt from the previous beatings. "Come on, my boy," she said.
My boy.
Tintin vaguely remembered that nickname. Someone used to call him that, but he didn't remember who, and when. Someone liked to hug him and asked him to play. But he didn't remember. He had forgotten everything behind.
He blinked at her, and eventually surrendered. He nodded.
**
Tintin's nanny was more than furious when Alphonse and his friends reported that Tintin went home with his teacher. She beat Tintin by a stick and locked him in the dark attic, leaving the boy starving and thirsty. Tintin looked up at the ceiling, his hand rubbed his painful ear. Outside, his nanny was still shouting at him.
"You unworthy brat! Do you realize that your idiocy mess everything up? And now your nosy teacher will put her nose in things she shouldn't! You idiot!"
"I'm an idiot," Tintin whispered to himself. He didn't know what 'idiot', 'brat', or 'unworthy' meant, but if he was called by those, it meant that he was one. He coughed; even the small whisper made his throat much sorer.
His back was aching badly as he lied down on the bed, but Tintin didn't care. He couldn't feel his left index finger, and he couldn't help but to think that it was broken. He didn't care much anyway, it could heal itself, like his bones used to do. He never stepped in a hospital after the day he was born.
"Don't you dare to sleep, boy! I want you to be ready in an hour! Francine wants to invite her friends, and I want you to clean the dining room! No dinner for you, and that's final!" She eventually left, her steps loud enough for Tintin to hear.
And Tintin cried. He cried over things he had experienced. He cried for the abuses, and for the fear he felt. He cried for the insults from the outside, which made him more scared. He cried for the loss of the people he knew well. He cried over everything.
His body was wet and really sticky because his nanny threw her hot tea at him. Tintin raised his shaky hands, and narrowed his eyes. Being in the dark for years made his eyes trained well for seeing in the dark. His arms were bruised, and his heart ached for the sight. He didn't know if he was doing anything wrong, but he knew one thing for certain.
"I deserve this."
**
Tintin was cleaning the dining room. He hardly could see, and his body was shaking from the beatings he had gotten. The dining room was huge, and he had to clean it alone. His nanny's friends only glanced at him, and walked away without a word. Alphonse, the boys, and the girls were outside, playing in the nearest playground.
One of the nannies had put a plate full of cakes on the table, and Tintin's mouth watered at the sight. Oh, the cakes! Surely one wouldn't hurt. He was hungry, above everything else. He had drunk water from the tap, so he didn't really thirsty anymore.
And now... one small cake surely was thousands tastier than scraps of food his nanny gave him to eat. Tintin took a deep breath, and looked around. Nobody but him was in the room.
When he reached for one of the cakes...
"I want to see him! I JUST WANT TO SEE HIM!"
Tintin stopped. He felt something in his mind sparked by the voice. He thought he had heard that voice before. He turned to the cakes and with a flash, he took one and stuffed it into his mouth.
Oh, that cake! He never ate one before, so this one was heavenly tasted. Tintin's eyes glistened with tears. He had never tasted anything this delicious.
"He doesn't want to see you. You've broke his heart, he doesn't want to see you anymore."
Tintin gasped at his nanny's cold voice. He hurriedly swallowed and rearranged the cakes, afraid if she suddenly barged into the dining room and found a cake missing.
"Miss... Myriam," the man's voice called. "He surely doesn't like that. He looks forward to see me."
"No, he doesn't. He is upstairs and refuses to see you."
"I can't believe that! This is not going anywhere!" the man's voice grew higher.
"You have, and yes, this is not getting us anywhere. Your 'beloved lad' does NOT want to see you, now get out! GET OUT!"
A loud slam on the door made Tintin jump. He hurriedly picked up his mop and the bucket of water when he heard steps nearing the dining room.
His nanny slammed the door open, her eyes stabbed at Tintin's like an eagle had spotted its prey. "Listening, boy?" she asked. Tintin shook his head in fear.
She slapped the small boy and watched as he fell, sprawled on the floor, water from the bucket covering his body. "Your beloved 'Captain' came a while ago," she snapped. "I think he won't have any business with us anymore after this."
Captain.
Tintin gasped. Vague memories flooded him, made him couldn't breathe. "Ma'am..."
"What? The itty witty Tintin boy wants to see him?" she asked cynically.
Tintin could do nothing but nod. His heart ached, and the burning feeling came back. Captain... his brother, his protector. He remembered him, although not really clearly, but he knew that Captain also loved him. He was too preoccupied in his mind until he felt a hard sting on his face.
"You may," she said, rubbing her hands like she had finished wiping a dusty table. Tintin only stared at her from the floor. She never... she never did this before.
"What are you waiting for?" she shouted. Tintin hurriedly stood on his wobbly feet. "Get out before I change my mind!"
Tintin ran outside, as fast as his legs and energy could take. He rushed out to meet empty, dark space. The cold wind caressed his wet skin and clothes, and he was shaking like a leaf. His Captain was gone. Tintin sagged on the floor, crying quietly, uncontrollably.
He leaned on the wall; his hands cupped his bruised face, trying hard to make them hurt less. He felt someone walked pass him hurriedly, and he looked up. His Captain was walking pass him, without even look at him. He gasped.
Tintin's body was numb, but he could feel his already shattered heart broke into even smaller pieces.
**
From the age of seven, I learn not to rely on the past and to keep my mouth shut.
From the age of seven, Tintin had never seen his Captain anymore. He eventually forgot about the man, too. He didn't have any time to remember about him. He only wanted to make people around him satisfied of what he had done. And if he wanted to be successful for that, he should not remember about the past.
"Look! Cinder-Tintin!" someone screamed. And Tintin felt something cold and wet splashed against his shoulder. He looked up and saw Alphonse and his friends throwing eggs at him. "Cinder-Tintin! Happy birthday!" they mocked. "Hope you like your eggs and syrup!!"
Tintin wiped the smelly, rotten eggs from his vision. He coughed, choked at the stinky smell which was filling his nose. The seven year old boy started to stagger, the smell and the sudden heaviness from his ugly clothes made him lightheaded.
"Stop it! Stop this chaos this instant!"
At that time, the big boys stopped throwing eggs and doused him by the sticky syrup.
Tintin's favourite teacher knelt in front of him and said something with a soft tone. Tintin was too transfixed by the softness of her voice to notice what she had said. Being a temporary teacher made her didn't teach every day, but Tintin loved her nonetheless.
She never noticed that Tintin was abused. This school was for poor children who majorly dressed almost like Tintin, including the boys and girls in Tintin's orphanage, although there was nobody who dressed as bad as the sandy-haired boy. Or at least that was what Tintin thought. But Tintin didn't care, she was the only one who ever say and do things nice to him.
The boy eventually noticed that he was brought to the medical room. He began to panic. His nanny wouldn't be happy if she knew this. He began to struggle.
"Ssh, ssh," she calmed. "You'll be fine, Tintin."
"No..."
"Ssh, now stand still, my boy."
Tintin started to cry, but he didn't struggle anymore. His teacher pulled the shirt up, and gaped at the bruises on his body. "Tintin, what happened?"
Tintin swallowed. He really wanted to tell, but his nanny's face flashed in his mind, and he began to tremble. "I... fell."
"Fell?" she frowned. She summoned the school nurse, and she came in an instant. Tintin blinked at her. Tintin always lied to her, telling her that he fell. She apparently believed that he was a clumsy boy that never knew how to hold things right and to stand nicely on his two feet without falling. Alphonse and all the kids from the orphanage supported this opinion completely, and Tintin's heart swelled in joy when they smiled at him.
At that time, he felt like he was normal. But after that they would make fun of him again, and Tintin's feeling dissipated almost immediately.
"Yes, he fell," the nurse answered. "Alphonse said so, and Gertrude approved. Although I can't believe it, but that also what Myriam said. She's a friend of mine, and I trust her anyway."
Tintin stared at his teacher. Something sparked in his brain, and he found himself hoping that his teacher could help him. He was shocked when he knew that his nanny was a friend of his school nurse. She wouldn't do any good, Tintin thought sadly. His only hope now was only his teacher.
"Really?" his teacher asked. "I think I should have a word to this Myriam, then. Something is not right."
"You said so, then," the nurse answered with a snort. "I don't know what's wrong with him. Myriam said that he was really clumsy, I've witnessed it myself when he fell down the school stairs. He is your favourite student, no wonder. I can't imagine he didn't screw up in your class."
Tintin gulped and blushed. He didn't like being a topic of a conversation as if he wasn't there. The nurse left without any word, and his teacher took spare clothes from the shelf, glaring at the door where the nurse had left. Tintin stared at the set of garment with hitched breath. He never wore clothes like that, and had stopped dreaming of wearing one decent shirt.
"When is your birthday, my boy?"
Tintin wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. "Tomorrow."
She stared at him and a small smile crept out her lips. "10th of January?" Tintin nodded.
"Wait for me, I'll come to the orphanage. I have something to my favourite student."
Tintin never been as happy as he was at that time.
**
Tintin was so sad today. Something happened to his teacher. Today was his birthday, and when his nanny heard that his teacher would come, she was busy preparing a party for him. She even dressed Tintin in better clothes than what his teacher had given him. She made a small cake and told his 'friends' not to made fun of the bluish-grey-eyed boy.
And now, Tintin wiped blood from his nose and stared at the dark. His teacher didn't come at all, and his nanny, with Alphonse and his friends, had beaten him up, accusing him that he was lying. Tintin-for the first time-had cried in front of them, telling them that he was telling the truth. Nothing could make them believe him, it seemed.
He still remembered what they had called him.
Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar!
The hurtful word stabbed deeply in his heart, and he couldn't help but to believe that it was true.
Now was midnight, and his birthday had passed. Tintin couldn't help but to feel betrayal from his teacher seeped into his inner core. He was very hungry-his nanny even didn't want to give him decent food in his birthday-and his head was spinning due to the lack of water and blood.
Tintin couldn't help it. He staggered out the attic, his left ankle must be sprained because it hurt so much, but he managed it to the nearest bathroom. He just needed some water now. He didn't dare to turn on the light, in case someone came, and he placed his mouth on the tip of the tap. Slowly, he turned it on.
Oh! He felt like he was a man in a desert and just found some water. He let the water flowing into his sore throat, enjoying the wonderful sensation. He drank and drank until his stomach couldn't bear it anymore, and he turned off the tap slowly. He felt a bit lightheaded, but it was much better than when he was still in the attic.
He walked out and staggered downstairs. Now he needed something to eat, just something!
Eventually, he could reach the kitchen. He hoped that he could find anything decent for him to eat. He looked around in the dark, the moonlight shone into the kitchen. The fireplace was off, but Tintin almost stepped on something flat, and it was not the wooden floor. He looked down.
A letter? Tintin took the letter and stared at the name on the envelope. He lost his appetite immediately. He opened the letter and walked towards the window, so he could read the letter properly. His breath hitched when he read the crappy handwriting.
Tintin my boy, how are you?
I am not good of writing letters, so this one may come short and brief.
Tintin, I'm sorry if I broke your heart. But at least that explained why you never reply my letters. Your nanny, I think her name is Myriam, told me so last year. I can understand if you don't want to see me, lad, I've been abandoning you for so long. I'm really sorry. Is it okay if we try once more? I'll be happy to come there again after I come home from New York next month.
I don't know how you are there, but I hope you're fine. Your place now is not the best place I could find after Mom died, but the people are nice (except that stubborn Myriam, but it's okay) and you had had friends when I was still staying with you. I'm really sad if I can't meet you anymore. But if you're happy, I can deal with that, no worries.
Tintin, happy birthday! I'm not forgetting your birthday, of course. I hope you have a nice day today. I'm sorry that I can't come, as I've told you before, I'm going to New York today.
Yours truly,
Your Captain, Archibald Haddock
Tintin's eyes watered. He walked upstairs, and put the letter under the table. He would reply tomorrow. Because he still loved his Captain.
Tintin didn't know what would happen to him tomorrow.
**