FICLET: Disillusionment (QAF, joan!centric)
Luckily, no one held their breaths while waiting for me to update. But, look! I have ficlet! This is the first finished product of the Great Fic Retreat. Thanks to hermionemalfoy and sweetestdrain for both patience and their awesome beta services.
QAF Ficlet-
Title: Disillusionment
Spoilers: Set between S3 and S4
Warnings: None.
Summary: Joan finds Brian with a woman. Reflections ensue.
Disclaimer: All characters are property of Cowlip, no matter how I contort them.
It’s a Wednesday when the alcohol supply at the house runs out. My veins feel dry and I need something, anything to help me forget. Forget husbands who turn into monsters, daughters who fall apart in public at the drop of a name, and sons who flaunt their sins in your face. I need a drink. When nothing else was left, I even tried some of the cheap wine I keep around for cooking, but that only had a quarter-cup’s worth in it, not nearly enough to deliver the numb, relaxed feeling I need.
I’d drive to the market myself if Claire hadn’t taken away my keys. Insolent brat. If I were to ask her for a lift, she’d break into tears and give me a half hour lecture, filled with unsavory words and phrases like “drinking problem” and “irresponsible.”
Who is she to call me irresponsible? She’s the one who couldn’t keep a husband. I taught her responsibility. You’d think she’d be a little more grateful and understanding, but no . . . Claire would sooner dump me off on her brother like I’m some sort of obligation. I never once complained about what an obligation she and her brother were to me.
Oh, and I can’t even get started on her brother. There’s no possibility that he’d help his old mother so that she can pick up a few necessities. He’s always been selfish, just like his father. I’m not sure I’d sit in his hell-driven vehicle even if he offered the ride to me, which he wouldn’t.
So, due to my wretched children, I’m forced to walk the distance to the market cold and alone. I wrap my scarf tighter around myself as a gust of wind kicks up. Leaves litter the gray cement and the trees are bare. It feels cold enough to snow today, but the weatherman forecast a dry, windy night.
Cars quickly roar past me, oblivious to my needs. The windows of surrounding shops still have fake snow dusting their surfaces and there are gold leaves hastily painted in observation of some obscure holiday they seem to be celebrating. A few shopkeepers are out front, sweeping their doorways while covertly searching out new customers. These shops don’t have anything useful in them, however, just small trinkets, flowers, and pastries. None of these items would help me, so I continue to walk my path and avoid eye contact with any of the employees.
As I pass the park, I spot a young couple kissing up ahead, the tall man pulling his slighter girlfriend closer for warmth.
I smile despite myself, despite my anger at the foolish notions of love that the image starts to rekindle within me. There was a time when I was beautiful and happy, much like this blond girl, and I didn’t need the harsh burn of liquor running down my throat, searing through my chest, to tell me I’m alive and keep me warm.
As I approach the couple, I still don’t see the girl’s face, only the back of her coat-bundled body and her short strands of blond hair whipping in the wind. I don’t really need to see her face, however, because I know what’s written there in tiny smiles and fluttering eyelashes. Love. The word is bitter, ugly to me now, but it wasn’t always that way. I know that I was like her once. I know that the carefree, naïve, head-over-heels love consumed my features, too.
Jack used to take me out every once in a while to show off to the guys. I’d wear my favorite shade of lipstick, dress in a sensible skirt, and put on a dash of perfume. All night, he would make comments like, “She’s a fox, isn’t she?” that would give my cheeks a permanent blush as his friends looked on and grunted their assent.
As he talked sports and joked with the guys, his arm would be wrapped protectively around me. Small gestures like this made me smile as the hours passed, and I instantly forgave anything he said, even his jokes at my expense.
The guys could think what they wanted to and have their fun, but Jack Kinney had his arm around me, pulling me close to him like something valuable, so I was floating. Yes, I know the looks of adoration and giddy contentment quite well. They were the expressions I saw on my face every time I glanced in the mirror those first few months with Jack. That was before we had Claire, of course, and before I spent my nights worried and alone in bed, and my mornings waking up next to the sound of snoring and the smell of Jim Beam.
Looking back at those moments, I really have to wonder if Jack ever loved me.
There were times, in the beginning, when I thought that he might. That he might love me, not as some sort of housekeeper or cook, but as a companion. It was the small things he did, the teasing compliments he used as flirting and the way he kissed me when we disagreed, that kept my hopes alive for so long.
Seeing this couple standing by the park, however, it occurs to me that I could have been fooling myself into seeing things that weren’t there. The relaxed, tender lines on the young man’s face as he kisses her are marks that I don’t ever remember seeing on Jack’s face. A man passing on my left coughs, and I’m startled to find that I’ve stopped walking all-together.
For the past few minutes, I’ve just been gawking at them, motionless. What an old bat the others must think I am. I shake my head and continue to approach the couple. Their elated kiss continues without a break for air-my, to be young again. Here I am, nearly winded from a stroll through the streets. The man’s eyes open suddenly, as he ends the kiss, and I find myself stunned.
The young man, it’s . . . my son? But it can’t be. The last time I spoke with him, he was still following his perverted ways and had caused my grandson harm. Those eyes, his sharp jaw line . . . it must be him. And yet, he’s with this woman and they seem so intimate. His eyes are softer than I remember, and they hold a spark in them that I never associated with Brian. He gazes back down at his companion and brings his head closer for another kiss.
This is the future I always imagined for my son, not that despicable life he claimed to lead when last we met. Seeing this new vision, I realize that he must not have meant all of the things he said, those ugly words.
Perhaps I judged Brian too harshly; he always was one for theatrics and he knew how to push my buttons. Claire did drop the charges, after all, and children are prone to exaggerate. Maybe Brian was innocent all along. Oh, to doubt my own son, to say those things to him. But, perhaps worse, he let me believe my words. Brazen as ever, he looked me in the eye and tore at my heart. With a sinking feeling, I realize that Jack may have been right all along; we weren’t cut out to be a family.
My attention returns to the present, to Brian, who is still oblivious to my presence. Judging by the lazy smiles that cross his face even as his lips are still pressed against this woman’s, there may be hope yet of happier families with the Kinney name. I blink, tears from the cold sting my eyes, and yet the image holds true before me.
My son, Brian, is kissing a lovely young woman (running his fingers through her hair, even) and is actually, really happy. He’s finally listened to me (it only took him, what, thirty-two years to do so?) and has seen that God rewards those who follow His teachings. Finally, I have something to show for my marriage and years of torment with Jack, something that turned out right.
I stop next to the couple so I can meet this wonderful woman who helped my son see that his old path was wrong. Brian parts from another kiss, panting slightly, and says, “Hello, mother.”
Ah, so he did notice me. Brian drapes an arm around his companion and smiles tightly. All traces of the relaxed, young man from moments before are gone as he says, “You remember Justin.”
My eyes slowly turn toward the young woman who faces me, only I find myself looking into familiar, decidedly masculine face. I take a step back in horror, nearly bumping into a bicyclist behind me.
The bicyclist swerves and yells at me, but I’m still staring at this boy with long, blond hair who I mistook for a girl. I’m immediately mortified by my mistake, at how easy it was to believe that Brian could change his ways and finally make me proud, that I could welcome him back in open arms.
Brian’s still living in sin and, somehow, he’s brought this unfortunate young man with him. My disappointment and realization of dreams spoiled must show on my face, because the blue eyes of the boy before me suddenly widen in concern.
His soft, male voice asks me, “Mrs. Kinney? Are you all right?”
But, no, it’s all wrong, and I’m not all right, not by far. I stumble away from them without another word and quickly resume my journey to the market. I breathe deeply the harsh, crisp air and push my legs to carry me faster, farther away.
No matter how I try to shake it off and forget it, I know that the image of them standing together on the leaf-covered cement will stay with me for many sleepless nights to come. It’ll mock me in and out of dreams, a constant reminder of my failures and Brian’s sins. As I walk, I don’t look back, don’t need to. I don’t see them shrug at the old woman who interrupted their moment together, don’t see them communicate silently with their eyes, and I definitely don’t see them walk away with an arm wrapped around each other in something more than possession.
No, I forge onward down the cold sidewalk because now I really, really need that drink.
~end~
QAF Ficlet-
Title: Disillusionment
Spoilers: Set between S3 and S4
Warnings: None.
Summary: Joan finds Brian with a woman. Reflections ensue.
Disclaimer: All characters are property of Cowlip, no matter how I contort them.
It’s a Wednesday when the alcohol supply at the house runs out. My veins feel dry and I need something, anything to help me forget. Forget husbands who turn into monsters, daughters who fall apart in public at the drop of a name, and sons who flaunt their sins in your face. I need a drink. When nothing else was left, I even tried some of the cheap wine I keep around for cooking, but that only had a quarter-cup’s worth in it, not nearly enough to deliver the numb, relaxed feeling I need.
I’d drive to the market myself if Claire hadn’t taken away my keys. Insolent brat. If I were to ask her for a lift, she’d break into tears and give me a half hour lecture, filled with unsavory words and phrases like “drinking problem” and “irresponsible.”
Who is she to call me irresponsible? She’s the one who couldn’t keep a husband. I taught her responsibility. You’d think she’d be a little more grateful and understanding, but no . . . Claire would sooner dump me off on her brother like I’m some sort of obligation. I never once complained about what an obligation she and her brother were to me.
Oh, and I can’t even get started on her brother. There’s no possibility that he’d help his old mother so that she can pick up a few necessities. He’s always been selfish, just like his father. I’m not sure I’d sit in his hell-driven vehicle even if he offered the ride to me, which he wouldn’t.
So, due to my wretched children, I’m forced to walk the distance to the market cold and alone. I wrap my scarf tighter around myself as a gust of wind kicks up. Leaves litter the gray cement and the trees are bare. It feels cold enough to snow today, but the weatherman forecast a dry, windy night.
Cars quickly roar past me, oblivious to my needs. The windows of surrounding shops still have fake snow dusting their surfaces and there are gold leaves hastily painted in observation of some obscure holiday they seem to be celebrating. A few shopkeepers are out front, sweeping their doorways while covertly searching out new customers. These shops don’t have anything useful in them, however, just small trinkets, flowers, and pastries. None of these items would help me, so I continue to walk my path and avoid eye contact with any of the employees.
As I pass the park, I spot a young couple kissing up ahead, the tall man pulling his slighter girlfriend closer for warmth.
I smile despite myself, despite my anger at the foolish notions of love that the image starts to rekindle within me. There was a time when I was beautiful and happy, much like this blond girl, and I didn’t need the harsh burn of liquor running down my throat, searing through my chest, to tell me I’m alive and keep me warm.
As I approach the couple, I still don’t see the girl’s face, only the back of her coat-bundled body and her short strands of blond hair whipping in the wind. I don’t really need to see her face, however, because I know what’s written there in tiny smiles and fluttering eyelashes. Love. The word is bitter, ugly to me now, but it wasn’t always that way. I know that I was like her once. I know that the carefree, naïve, head-over-heels love consumed my features, too.
Jack used to take me out every once in a while to show off to the guys. I’d wear my favorite shade of lipstick, dress in a sensible skirt, and put on a dash of perfume. All night, he would make comments like, “She’s a fox, isn’t she?” that would give my cheeks a permanent blush as his friends looked on and grunted their assent.
As he talked sports and joked with the guys, his arm would be wrapped protectively around me. Small gestures like this made me smile as the hours passed, and I instantly forgave anything he said, even his jokes at my expense.
The guys could think what they wanted to and have their fun, but Jack Kinney had his arm around me, pulling me close to him like something valuable, so I was floating. Yes, I know the looks of adoration and giddy contentment quite well. They were the expressions I saw on my face every time I glanced in the mirror those first few months with Jack. That was before we had Claire, of course, and before I spent my nights worried and alone in bed, and my mornings waking up next to the sound of snoring and the smell of Jim Beam.
Looking back at those moments, I really have to wonder if Jack ever loved me.
There were times, in the beginning, when I thought that he might. That he might love me, not as some sort of housekeeper or cook, but as a companion. It was the small things he did, the teasing compliments he used as flirting and the way he kissed me when we disagreed, that kept my hopes alive for so long.
Seeing this couple standing by the park, however, it occurs to me that I could have been fooling myself into seeing things that weren’t there. The relaxed, tender lines on the young man’s face as he kisses her are marks that I don’t ever remember seeing on Jack’s face. A man passing on my left coughs, and I’m startled to find that I’ve stopped walking all-together.
For the past few minutes, I’ve just been gawking at them, motionless. What an old bat the others must think I am. I shake my head and continue to approach the couple. Their elated kiss continues without a break for air-my, to be young again. Here I am, nearly winded from a stroll through the streets. The man’s eyes open suddenly, as he ends the kiss, and I find myself stunned.
The young man, it’s . . . my son? But it can’t be. The last time I spoke with him, he was still following his perverted ways and had caused my grandson harm. Those eyes, his sharp jaw line . . . it must be him. And yet, he’s with this woman and they seem so intimate. His eyes are softer than I remember, and they hold a spark in them that I never associated with Brian. He gazes back down at his companion and brings his head closer for another kiss.
This is the future I always imagined for my son, not that despicable life he claimed to lead when last we met. Seeing this new vision, I realize that he must not have meant all of the things he said, those ugly words.
Perhaps I judged Brian too harshly; he always was one for theatrics and he knew how to push my buttons. Claire did drop the charges, after all, and children are prone to exaggerate. Maybe Brian was innocent all along. Oh, to doubt my own son, to say those things to him. But, perhaps worse, he let me believe my words. Brazen as ever, he looked me in the eye and tore at my heart. With a sinking feeling, I realize that Jack may have been right all along; we weren’t cut out to be a family.
My attention returns to the present, to Brian, who is still oblivious to my presence. Judging by the lazy smiles that cross his face even as his lips are still pressed against this woman’s, there may be hope yet of happier families with the Kinney name. I blink, tears from the cold sting my eyes, and yet the image holds true before me.
My son, Brian, is kissing a lovely young woman (running his fingers through her hair, even) and is actually, really happy. He’s finally listened to me (it only took him, what, thirty-two years to do so?) and has seen that God rewards those who follow His teachings. Finally, I have something to show for my marriage and years of torment with Jack, something that turned out right.
I stop next to the couple so I can meet this wonderful woman who helped my son see that his old path was wrong. Brian parts from another kiss, panting slightly, and says, “Hello, mother.”
Ah, so he did notice me. Brian drapes an arm around his companion and smiles tightly. All traces of the relaxed, young man from moments before are gone as he says, “You remember Justin.”
My eyes slowly turn toward the young woman who faces me, only I find myself looking into familiar, decidedly masculine face. I take a step back in horror, nearly bumping into a bicyclist behind me.
The bicyclist swerves and yells at me, but I’m still staring at this boy with long, blond hair who I mistook for a girl. I’m immediately mortified by my mistake, at how easy it was to believe that Brian could change his ways and finally make me proud, that I could welcome him back in open arms.
Brian’s still living in sin and, somehow, he’s brought this unfortunate young man with him. My disappointment and realization of dreams spoiled must show on my face, because the blue eyes of the boy before me suddenly widen in concern.
His soft, male voice asks me, “Mrs. Kinney? Are you all right?”
But, no, it’s all wrong, and I’m not all right, not by far. I stumble away from them without another word and quickly resume my journey to the market. I breathe deeply the harsh, crisp air and push my legs to carry me faster, farther away.
No matter how I try to shake it off and forget it, I know that the image of them standing together on the leaf-covered cement will stay with me for many sleepless nights to come. It’ll mock me in and out of dreams, a constant reminder of my failures and Brian’s sins. As I walk, I don’t look back, don’t need to. I don’t see them shrug at the old woman who interrupted their moment together, don’t see them communicate silently with their eyes, and I definitely don’t see them walk away with an arm wrapped around each other in something more than possession.
No, I forge onward down the cold sidewalk because now I really, really need that drink.
~end~