R80: Ink
Title: Ink
Characters: Pearl, Silver, Giovanni (mentioned)
POV: Silver
Notes: Why is this called ink? Well, Pearl starts comparing people to paper and how life puts stains on them and so on. Ink is one thing that is permanent. It might have been on purpose (writing, drawing, etc.) or it might have been an accident (spill, blot, etc.). Either way, it's there on your paper and it changes the paper.
“Thank your father that you didn’t turn out like me.”
I look up. Ma’m tends to blurt things out as they come to her mind. Somehow, Dad can make sense of the context. But I can’t. “Yes, Ma’m?”
She offhandedly tosses her book over her shoulder. It falls into the sink. “Kid, here’s one for psychoanalogy.”
“Psychoanalysis?” I hazard a guess.
“Don’t you get lippy with me, kid,” she snaps.
“Yes Ma’m. What were you saying?” I snort.
My mother leans back in her chair. “Well, our childhoods form the basis for us today, right? I mean, we do change, but overall, wouldn’t you say that what we experienced as kiddos really sets the stage for us later on?”
Wow. This is really high-level thinking, coming out of Ma’m, who is still convinced that Sigmund Freud was the guy with the “bells and dogs and like stuff.” “I guess.”
“Well, look at yourself, kid. You’re chill and totally independent. You don’t like to depend on others because you can’t trust them to be there when you need them. You’re bitter like cough medicine. Your little mind’s gone all funny and you think that it’s you against the world. You hate the world, don’t you? You see everyone else and you see that they can afford to be dependent on other people and that just makes you even bitterer. The world doesn’t owe you anything and you don’t owe the world anything either.”
I drop my pencil. Ma’m has something that intellectuals don’t- she sees things exactly as they are. And her observation, as usual, is uncannily spot-on. “…Ma’m?”
“But you’re not that way, really. Deep down inside, you’ve got trust all right. You want to be protected, doncha? You want to be able to lean on someone else for once. You want to have faith in other people. There’s something that makes you able to trust other people, kid, and you can thank your old Daddy for that. That’s why you have friends. That’s why you’re here today.”
I put down my homework and look at her carefully. There’s nothing different about her. Same old Ma’m. Maybe looking a little sad, but she’s still herself, oddly enough. “What do you mean?”
“When you were a littler kid, your dad raised you fine. He gave you everything. Despite all that’s happened, despite how crusty and cynical you’ve become, you still have that little core of trust your dad gave you when you were just a toddler. Still got a soft gooey center like melty chocolate. You see, everything that happens leaves an imprint on you. Like stains on a paper. You make a bad blot, you make a stain, or you write something on a piece of paper, and that thing is there on the paper forever. Seems your subconscious remembers that trust, eh? That’s how you’re able to still trust people today, kid. Next time you see your old man, you’d better damn well give him a thank-you,” she snorts.
I regard her cautiously. I’m half wondering if she’s still talking to me.
But Ma’m continues. “Except for what your dad gave you, we’re a lot like each other, aren’t we? Someone that wasn’t his mother gave your father his little bit of trust when he was just a kid. It’s contagious, kid. He passed it on to you.”
I say nothing.
“What’s the first thing I said?” she continues. “Oh yeah. Count your lucky stars you have your father. Who knows? Or else you would have turned out something like-“ She spreads her arms wide. “-Me.”
.
Characters: Pearl, Silver, Giovanni (mentioned)
POV: Silver
Notes: Why is this called ink? Well, Pearl starts comparing people to paper and how life puts stains on them and so on. Ink is one thing that is permanent. It might have been on purpose (writing, drawing, etc.) or it might have been an accident (spill, blot, etc.). Either way, it's there on your paper and it changes the paper.
“Thank your father that you didn’t turn out like me.”
I look up. Ma’m tends to blurt things out as they come to her mind. Somehow, Dad can make sense of the context. But I can’t. “Yes, Ma’m?”
She offhandedly tosses her book over her shoulder. It falls into the sink. “Kid, here’s one for psychoanalogy.”
“Psychoanalysis?” I hazard a guess.
“Don’t you get lippy with me, kid,” she snaps.
“Yes Ma’m. What were you saying?” I snort.
My mother leans back in her chair. “Well, our childhoods form the basis for us today, right? I mean, we do change, but overall, wouldn’t you say that what we experienced as kiddos really sets the stage for us later on?”
Wow. This is really high-level thinking, coming out of Ma’m, who is still convinced that Sigmund Freud was the guy with the “bells and dogs and like stuff.” “I guess.”
“Well, look at yourself, kid. You’re chill and totally independent. You don’t like to depend on others because you can’t trust them to be there when you need them. You’re bitter like cough medicine. Your little mind’s gone all funny and you think that it’s you against the world. You hate the world, don’t you? You see everyone else and you see that they can afford to be dependent on other people and that just makes you even bitterer. The world doesn’t owe you anything and you don’t owe the world anything either.”
I drop my pencil. Ma’m has something that intellectuals don’t- she sees things exactly as they are. And her observation, as usual, is uncannily spot-on. “…Ma’m?”
“But you’re not that way, really. Deep down inside, you’ve got trust all right. You want to be protected, doncha? You want to be able to lean on someone else for once. You want to have faith in other people. There’s something that makes you able to trust other people, kid, and you can thank your old Daddy for that. That’s why you have friends. That’s why you’re here today.”
I put down my homework and look at her carefully. There’s nothing different about her. Same old Ma’m. Maybe looking a little sad, but she’s still herself, oddly enough. “What do you mean?”
“When you were a littler kid, your dad raised you fine. He gave you everything. Despite all that’s happened, despite how crusty and cynical you’ve become, you still have that little core of trust your dad gave you when you were just a toddler. Still got a soft gooey center like melty chocolate. You see, everything that happens leaves an imprint on you. Like stains on a paper. You make a bad blot, you make a stain, or you write something on a piece of paper, and that thing is there on the paper forever. Seems your subconscious remembers that trust, eh? That’s how you’re able to still trust people today, kid. Next time you see your old man, you’d better damn well give him a thank-you,” she snorts.
I regard her cautiously. I’m half wondering if she’s still talking to me.
But Ma’m continues. “Except for what your dad gave you, we’re a lot like each other, aren’t we? Someone that wasn’t his mother gave your father his little bit of trust when he was just a kid. It’s contagious, kid. He passed it on to you.”
I say nothing.
“What’s the first thing I said?” she continues. “Oh yeah. Count your lucky stars you have your father. Who knows? Or else you would have turned out something like-“ She spreads her arms wide. “-Me.”
.