See how I'll leave, with every piece of you
Prompt: 91. Shard of Honor
Character: Josh Foley
Requested By: Kat
Josh was six years old the first time he really noticed that his father would, on occasion, pause briefly to massage at his right thigh, then return to what he was doing with a slight limp and a faint grimace. Naturally, he asked his older brothers what was wrong, but all his inquiry earned him was a punch in each arm and stern warnings to shut up. There was nothing wrong with their dad, and how dare he even think that. But he couldn't help but take notice every time after, the question burning within his young mind.
It was another five years before he raised the question again, this time directly to his father. He had waited until his brothers had left for their evening teenage hijinks, not wanting a repeat of the last time. Howard was relaxing in the living room after dinner with the newspaper, his nightly routine. Grace, finished cleaning up after dinner, sat across from him, knitting as she listened to the radio. Determined, Josh stepped into the living room and cleared his throat to announce his presence.
"Whaddaya want, Josh?" Howard asked, not bothering to look up.
"I just.. um... I wanted to ask..." Just spit it out, he chastised himself as he stared at his shuffling feet, willing them to stop. Then he took a deep breath, and raised his eyes back up to his father's level. "What happened to your leg to make it hurt?"
The paper dropped to Howard's lap. The rhythm of Grace's needles slowed to a stop. For a long, agonizing moment, they just stared at him, then at each other, then back at him, and Josh wondered if he could make it to the door before his father caught him. But instead, Howard just raised his newspaper back up before giving a simple, measured answer.
"Tank exploded in the war. Caught some shrapnel."
Josh's eyes went wide. He knew his father had served, but it was all before he was born. "Did you save anybody?" he asked.
"Yep," was his father's reply, punctuated by the rustle of the page being turned.
"Did you keep any of it?"
Howard set the paper down again, and Josh shrank back a little, hands shoved into his pockets. "Y'know, as a souvenir or something," he mumbled as an explanation.
The paper went up again, and after a moment of silence, Josh had turned away, figuring he'd never get an answer. But then his father's voice rumbled out low from behind the day's news.
"Why do you think it still hurts?"
They didn't talk about it again after that, not until another five years had passed, and Josh's abilities had manifested. Two men claiming to be from the government, although one sounded English and the other dressed like a beatnik, had just left after offering him a place with their "special division". He had watched from his bedroom window as they climbed back into their car and drove away, silently wishing that he could just go back to his normal life. Long after the car was gone, he had just stared at the street, willing time to somehow turn backwards, to reset. Behind him, he heard the doorknob turn, the uneven creak of the floorboards announcing his father's presence in the doorway.
"Mom wants me to go with them," Josh said softly, sinking back to the bed. "Doesn't she."
"It's for the best," Howard assured him, taking a seat next to him. "Those men might be able to help you, maybe even fix you. Your mom and I, we can't do that for you."
"Yeah, I guess," Josh sighed, his gaze focused on the floor. "But I could stay here too, right? I mean, it's not like I grew a tail or something. I could still go to school, and everything."
"Josh, I don't think that's a good idea," his father said. "You're still -" He stopped short of saying 'freak', remembering the dangerous look he'd gotten from the commie-looking one earlier. "Different," he finished.
"But look, I can do good things," Josh said, determined to show his dad that he was okay. "Here, watch?"
Before his father could protest, Josh was holding his hands over his father's leg, brow furrowed in concentration. It took Howard a moment to realize what was going on, before he felt the deep-seated burn of the shrapnel long buried in his leg working its way out through muscle and flesh, the tissues knitting back together after it had passed through. His face went pale, his eyes wide, his breathing shallow before a piercing scream finally escaped him.
"You little shit," he yelled, jumping up from the bed. But the pain was already subsiding, even if his heart was still pounding in his chest as he looked down at the floor and saw the twisted metal shards lying bloodied on the floor. The last fragments of a time already fading from memory, taken from him like it was nothing.
"You won't hurt anymore," Josh said, searching for approval in his father's face. But instead, there was only anger covering something much worse: fear.
"You're going to that place," his father growled, still staring at the floor. "Nobody else's gonna let a freak like you help them."
With those last words, he left the room, his stride loose and pain-free for the first time in years. Empty, he told himself, of the actions that had brought him pride and respect, and the reminder of what sacrifice meant.
A reminder he knew his son would now never understand.
Character: Josh Foley
Requested By: Kat
Josh was six years old the first time he really noticed that his father would, on occasion, pause briefly to massage at his right thigh, then return to what he was doing with a slight limp and a faint grimace. Naturally, he asked his older brothers what was wrong, but all his inquiry earned him was a punch in each arm and stern warnings to shut up. There was nothing wrong with their dad, and how dare he even think that. But he couldn't help but take notice every time after, the question burning within his young mind.
It was another five years before he raised the question again, this time directly to his father. He had waited until his brothers had left for their evening teenage hijinks, not wanting a repeat of the last time. Howard was relaxing in the living room after dinner with the newspaper, his nightly routine. Grace, finished cleaning up after dinner, sat across from him, knitting as she listened to the radio. Determined, Josh stepped into the living room and cleared his throat to announce his presence.
"Whaddaya want, Josh?" Howard asked, not bothering to look up.
"I just.. um... I wanted to ask..." Just spit it out, he chastised himself as he stared at his shuffling feet, willing them to stop. Then he took a deep breath, and raised his eyes back up to his father's level. "What happened to your leg to make it hurt?"
The paper dropped to Howard's lap. The rhythm of Grace's needles slowed to a stop. For a long, agonizing moment, they just stared at him, then at each other, then back at him, and Josh wondered if he could make it to the door before his father caught him. But instead, Howard just raised his newspaper back up before giving a simple, measured answer.
"Tank exploded in the war. Caught some shrapnel."
Josh's eyes went wide. He knew his father had served, but it was all before he was born. "Did you save anybody?" he asked.
"Yep," was his father's reply, punctuated by the rustle of the page being turned.
"Did you keep any of it?"
Howard set the paper down again, and Josh shrank back a little, hands shoved into his pockets. "Y'know, as a souvenir or something," he mumbled as an explanation.
The paper went up again, and after a moment of silence, Josh had turned away, figuring he'd never get an answer. But then his father's voice rumbled out low from behind the day's news.
"Why do you think it still hurts?"
They didn't talk about it again after that, not until another five years had passed, and Josh's abilities had manifested. Two men claiming to be from the government, although one sounded English and the other dressed like a beatnik, had just left after offering him a place with their "special division". He had watched from his bedroom window as they climbed back into their car and drove away, silently wishing that he could just go back to his normal life. Long after the car was gone, he had just stared at the street, willing time to somehow turn backwards, to reset. Behind him, he heard the doorknob turn, the uneven creak of the floorboards announcing his father's presence in the doorway.
"Mom wants me to go with them," Josh said softly, sinking back to the bed. "Doesn't she."
"It's for the best," Howard assured him, taking a seat next to him. "Those men might be able to help you, maybe even fix you. Your mom and I, we can't do that for you."
"Yeah, I guess," Josh sighed, his gaze focused on the floor. "But I could stay here too, right? I mean, it's not like I grew a tail or something. I could still go to school, and everything."
"Josh, I don't think that's a good idea," his father said. "You're still -" He stopped short of saying 'freak', remembering the dangerous look he'd gotten from the commie-looking one earlier. "Different," he finished.
"But look, I can do good things," Josh said, determined to show his dad that he was okay. "Here, watch?"
Before his father could protest, Josh was holding his hands over his father's leg, brow furrowed in concentration. It took Howard a moment to realize what was going on, before he felt the deep-seated burn of the shrapnel long buried in his leg working its way out through muscle and flesh, the tissues knitting back together after it had passed through. His face went pale, his eyes wide, his breathing shallow before a piercing scream finally escaped him.
"You little shit," he yelled, jumping up from the bed. But the pain was already subsiding, even if his heart was still pounding in his chest as he looked down at the floor and saw the twisted metal shards lying bloodied on the floor. The last fragments of a time already fading from memory, taken from him like it was nothing.
"You won't hurt anymore," Josh said, searching for approval in his father's face. But instead, there was only anger covering something much worse: fear.
"You're going to that place," his father growled, still staring at the floor. "Nobody else's gonna let a freak like you help them."
With those last words, he left the room, his stride loose and pain-free for the first time in years. Empty, he told himself, of the actions that had brought him pride and respect, and the reminder of what sacrifice meant.
A reminder he knew his son would now never understand.