Fic: Between Us
Title: Between Us. (1/2)
Rating: M (mentions of rape and brief instance of domestic violence)
Fandom: Original (gen, het if you squint and look sideways)
The next time she sees him, he’s more handsome than she ever remembered. His features are somehow sharper, the backdrop of endless blue skies and jagged horizon hazing together into unimportance. She doesn’t think he’s beautiful (can a boy be beautiful?), but he is striking, a stand out sort of figure in a blur of conformity.
They’ve never spoken, never become acquainted, but they have recently become rather accustomed to staring at each other from across this endless jetty.
His eyes are very big, and are the same colour as the water beneath them, the sky above them.
Blueblueblue.
*
Harriet’s father is a big, unattractive man with an inclination for giving his children even less attractive names to make up for it.
HarrietMarianCherDouglasEvan.
Poor children.
Harriet rather likes her mother’s name though. Ginger’s a nice name, especially for a thin, pretty, middle-aged woman with the appropriate hair-colour and a severe lack of backbone and free thought. The ultimate housewife, well, she would be if she cooked andor cleaned.
Ginger leaves that for her children.
Poor Ginger.
Harriet’s father is a big, unattractive man with a fetish for gambling and two thumbs up in the support of domestic violence.
His name is Paul.
*
The blond boy on the jetty really likes ice-cream.
Whenever Harriet sees him he has one; strawberry, choc-mint, hokey-pokey, rocky-road.
He has a daisy chain necklace around his neck today, mango sorbet in a tiny paper cup.
She bites her tongue as he walks passed her. He doesn’t even look when she yelps.
She can taste the blood in her mouth for three days after.
*
Harriet is many things.
She is: 13, dark-haired, maintaining a sound grade average at school, friendless, a sister, a fulltime mother to children that aren’t her own. Bruised.
She has been: 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12.
She has: grown up too fast.
One day, she hopes to be: 14, and maybe just 14.
*
Paul is not a happy man. In fact, he is really quite angry. This, Harriet thinks, is quite unfortunate.
One, because no one deserves to be unhappy, Harriet thinks. And two, because unhappiness breeds unhappiness. It also, for Paul, breeds happy fists.
Ow, Harriet thinks, when she regains the rather pounding reality of consciousness, a blubbery Cher hovering over her.
Harriet isn’t a touchy-feely sort of person really, but Cher is only seven years old, so Harriet makes an exception. She always makes exceptions for Cher, no matter how much the little girl’s clinging hurts Harriet’s broken body.
*
The blond boy mustn’t have many friends, because he’s always at the jetty alone. Not once has Harriet seen him with company.
Then again, Harriet comes here alone too, mostly just for the sake of being alone.
It’s a nice place to think.
*
“Harriet.” Little Dougy is crying again, chubby fingers clutching at Harriet’s long hair. He is three years old.
“What?” Harriet snaps, and she feels a little bad at Marian’s look. Those taken aback, slightly terrified eyes when Harriet looks too much like Paul.
“Nothing.”
“Not nothing,” Harriet sighs, “what?”
“Well, um.” Marian says, and she’s holding baby Evan.
Harriet hates being mum, but Ginger’s at the pub sleeping with that nice man who gave Harriet and her sisters ribbons for their hair.
“Evan needs a diaper change.”
Harriet tries to put Little Dougy down, but his jam-covered fingers clutch tighter at her hair. “Put him on the table, Marian, I’ll do it in a second.”
*
Today the blond boy looks rather nice.
He has very tight jeans on, and a brown t-shirt that says Make chocolate, not war.
Harriet likes that, but she thinks she should tell him that people probably aren’t going to listen to it. She doubts John Howard or George Bush or Tony Blair or even the queen will think that it’s a very good idea.
Harriet thinks that maybe they don’t like chocolate.
“I’m Oscar.” He says, “But just for today.”
“That’s a nice name.” She says, and she means it. She thinks if she ever has a child, that’s what she’ll call it.
“My name isn’t Harriet.” She says, and Oscar nods, laughs, runs very pretty fingers through his hair. Fingers that are really much prettier than hers.
“My name is Desdemona and I am queen of this jetty.” She’s not sure why she’s said it, but it feels right, and Oscar’s laughing again so it must be right.
“Would you like an ice-cream?” He asks.
“Yes.” Harriet says.
*
The night Harriet and Oscar talk for the very first time, Ginger comes home late. She is very, very, very drunk.
Ginger trips over the table leg, and breaks the vase with the ashes of Harriet’s grandmother inside.
Paul meets her at the bottom of the stairs and rapes her in the kitchen. Harriet goes to sleep with her mother’s screams and sobs echoing in her ears.
I am Desdemona, queen of the jetty.
*
She’s at the jetty again the next day, and Oscar is wearing a kilt and a white sweater. He looks nice again, just in a very different way.
“I like you’re kilt.” Harriet says.
“Thank you,” Oscar replies, “I like you’re eyes.”
“Oh, thank you.” Harriet says, and she’s a little flustered. Her ears are pink, and so are her cheeks.
“They’re very sad.” He says, “They’re very honest.”
“Oh,” Harriet says, “Thank you.”
“I’m not Oscar today.” Oscar says, “I am William.”
“Okay.” Harriet says, “I’m still not Harriet.”
*
They only have two beds and one cot in a rather tiny room.
This is where Paul and Ginger’s five children sleep.
Evan gets the cot as he’s the littlest. In the first single bed, the one pulled right next to the cot, sleeps Harriet, Marian, Cher and Douglas.
No one sleeps in the other bed.
*
Harriet doesn’t think Paul was always like this.
She thinks that when he and Ginger were young, they must’ve fallen in love quite dramatically. It would’ve been a few years of romancing, of big band dances, and candle-lit dinners and strolls along dark beaches.
He would’ve proposed to her in a garden, planted a seed months earlier with the tiny ring inside. The flower would’ve grown and grown, and bloomed with the ring clutched in the sticky pollen.
Ginger wouldn’t have been able to say no.
Harriet can’t think of any other reason as to why Ginger would’ve married Paul.
*
“Today,” Oscar says, “Today my name is Johnny Depp and I am a pirate. You are Lucia Cartwheel and together we are going to roam the seas in search of vast supplies of cursed treasure.”
“I can see,” Harriet starts, “where Johnny Depp comes in, but I really don’t know where the name Lucia Cartwheel comes from.”
Oscar shrugs, and jumps down from his perch on the wooden bench. “I just like the name to be honest.”
It’s rather stormy today, big balls of rotten cotton-candy in the sky. Grey and gloomy and trying desperately to eat up whatever happiness the sun may bring.
The jetty is still a pleasant place to be though, and Harriet thinks that might be more to do with the company now.
Oscar is wearing tattered pants, and a long red bandanna. He isn’t wearing a shirt, and Harriet thinks (rather embarrassingly) that he should feel the urge to not wear a shirt more often.
“We should get married.” He says, rather out of the blue, and his eyes are staring at her in such vivid animation that Harriet almost says yes.
“We can’t, Oscar, whatever would our parents say? Besides, it’s against the law, I’m only 13, I don’t even know how old you are.”
Oscar gives her a strange look, one that isn’t too impressed and Harriet isn’t sure if it’s because she didn’t accept his proposal or if it stems from the fact that she called him Oscar rather than Johnny Depp.
“What is age?” He says, and he seems to have recovered from whatever had him frowning in the first place.
He’s back to wistful, rhetorical questions.
*
Continue to part 2.
Rating: M (mentions of rape and brief instance of domestic violence)
Fandom: Original (gen, het if you squint and look sideways)
The next time she sees him, he’s more handsome than she ever remembered. His features are somehow sharper, the backdrop of endless blue skies and jagged horizon hazing together into unimportance. She doesn’t think he’s beautiful (can a boy be beautiful?), but he is striking, a stand out sort of figure in a blur of conformity.
They’ve never spoken, never become acquainted, but they have recently become rather accustomed to staring at each other from across this endless jetty.
His eyes are very big, and are the same colour as the water beneath them, the sky above them.
Blueblueblue.
*
Harriet’s father is a big, unattractive man with an inclination for giving his children even less attractive names to make up for it.
HarrietMarianCherDouglasEvan.
Poor children.
Harriet rather likes her mother’s name though. Ginger’s a nice name, especially for a thin, pretty, middle-aged woman with the appropriate hair-colour and a severe lack of backbone and free thought. The ultimate housewife, well, she would be if she cooked andor cleaned.
Ginger leaves that for her children.
Poor Ginger.
Harriet’s father is a big, unattractive man with a fetish for gambling and two thumbs up in the support of domestic violence.
His name is Paul.
*
The blond boy on the jetty really likes ice-cream.
Whenever Harriet sees him he has one; strawberry, choc-mint, hokey-pokey, rocky-road.
He has a daisy chain necklace around his neck today, mango sorbet in a tiny paper cup.
She bites her tongue as he walks passed her. He doesn’t even look when she yelps.
She can taste the blood in her mouth for three days after.
*
Harriet is many things.
She is: 13, dark-haired, maintaining a sound grade average at school, friendless, a sister, a fulltime mother to children that aren’t her own. Bruised.
She has been: 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12.
She has: grown up too fast.
One day, she hopes to be: 14, and maybe just 14.
*
Paul is not a happy man. In fact, he is really quite angry. This, Harriet thinks, is quite unfortunate.
One, because no one deserves to be unhappy, Harriet thinks. And two, because unhappiness breeds unhappiness. It also, for Paul, breeds happy fists.
Ow, Harriet thinks, when she regains the rather pounding reality of consciousness, a blubbery Cher hovering over her.
Harriet isn’t a touchy-feely sort of person really, but Cher is only seven years old, so Harriet makes an exception. She always makes exceptions for Cher, no matter how much the little girl’s clinging hurts Harriet’s broken body.
*
The blond boy mustn’t have many friends, because he’s always at the jetty alone. Not once has Harriet seen him with company.
Then again, Harriet comes here alone too, mostly just for the sake of being alone.
It’s a nice place to think.
*
“Harriet.” Little Dougy is crying again, chubby fingers clutching at Harriet’s long hair. He is three years old.
“What?” Harriet snaps, and she feels a little bad at Marian’s look. Those taken aback, slightly terrified eyes when Harriet looks too much like Paul.
“Nothing.”
“Not nothing,” Harriet sighs, “what?”
“Well, um.” Marian says, and she’s holding baby Evan.
Harriet hates being mum, but Ginger’s at the pub sleeping with that nice man who gave Harriet and her sisters ribbons for their hair.
“Evan needs a diaper change.”
Harriet tries to put Little Dougy down, but his jam-covered fingers clutch tighter at her hair. “Put him on the table, Marian, I’ll do it in a second.”
*
Today the blond boy looks rather nice.
He has very tight jeans on, and a brown t-shirt that says Make chocolate, not war.
Harriet likes that, but she thinks she should tell him that people probably aren’t going to listen to it. She doubts John Howard or George Bush or Tony Blair or even the queen will think that it’s a very good idea.
Harriet thinks that maybe they don’t like chocolate.
“I’m Oscar.” He says, “But just for today.”
“That’s a nice name.” She says, and she means it. She thinks if she ever has a child, that’s what she’ll call it.
“My name isn’t Harriet.” She says, and Oscar nods, laughs, runs very pretty fingers through his hair. Fingers that are really much prettier than hers.
“My name is Desdemona and I am queen of this jetty.” She’s not sure why she’s said it, but it feels right, and Oscar’s laughing again so it must be right.
“Would you like an ice-cream?” He asks.
“Yes.” Harriet says.
*
The night Harriet and Oscar talk for the very first time, Ginger comes home late. She is very, very, very drunk.
Ginger trips over the table leg, and breaks the vase with the ashes of Harriet’s grandmother inside.
Paul meets her at the bottom of the stairs and rapes her in the kitchen. Harriet goes to sleep with her mother’s screams and sobs echoing in her ears.
I am Desdemona, queen of the jetty.
*
She’s at the jetty again the next day, and Oscar is wearing a kilt and a white sweater. He looks nice again, just in a very different way.
“I like you’re kilt.” Harriet says.
“Thank you,” Oscar replies, “I like you’re eyes.”
“Oh, thank you.” Harriet says, and she’s a little flustered. Her ears are pink, and so are her cheeks.
“They’re very sad.” He says, “They’re very honest.”
“Oh,” Harriet says, “Thank you.”
“I’m not Oscar today.” Oscar says, “I am William.”
“Okay.” Harriet says, “I’m still not Harriet.”
*
They only have two beds and one cot in a rather tiny room.
This is where Paul and Ginger’s five children sleep.
Evan gets the cot as he’s the littlest. In the first single bed, the one pulled right next to the cot, sleeps Harriet, Marian, Cher and Douglas.
No one sleeps in the other bed.
*
Harriet doesn’t think Paul was always like this.
She thinks that when he and Ginger were young, they must’ve fallen in love quite dramatically. It would’ve been a few years of romancing, of big band dances, and candle-lit dinners and strolls along dark beaches.
He would’ve proposed to her in a garden, planted a seed months earlier with the tiny ring inside. The flower would’ve grown and grown, and bloomed with the ring clutched in the sticky pollen.
Ginger wouldn’t have been able to say no.
Harriet can’t think of any other reason as to why Ginger would’ve married Paul.
*
“Today,” Oscar says, “Today my name is Johnny Depp and I am a pirate. You are Lucia Cartwheel and together we are going to roam the seas in search of vast supplies of cursed treasure.”
“I can see,” Harriet starts, “where Johnny Depp comes in, but I really don’t know where the name Lucia Cartwheel comes from.”
Oscar shrugs, and jumps down from his perch on the wooden bench. “I just like the name to be honest.”
It’s rather stormy today, big balls of rotten cotton-candy in the sky. Grey and gloomy and trying desperately to eat up whatever happiness the sun may bring.
The jetty is still a pleasant place to be though, and Harriet thinks that might be more to do with the company now.
Oscar is wearing tattered pants, and a long red bandanna. He isn’t wearing a shirt, and Harriet thinks (rather embarrassingly) that he should feel the urge to not wear a shirt more often.
“We should get married.” He says, rather out of the blue, and his eyes are staring at her in such vivid animation that Harriet almost says yes.
“We can’t, Oscar, whatever would our parents say? Besides, it’s against the law, I’m only 13, I don’t even know how old you are.”
Oscar gives her a strange look, one that isn’t too impressed and Harriet isn’t sure if it’s because she didn’t accept his proposal or if it stems from the fact that she called him Oscar rather than Johnny Depp.
“What is age?” He says, and he seems to have recovered from whatever had him frowning in the first place.
He’s back to wistful, rhetorical questions.
*
Continue to part 2.