marmalade #13 stereo → "worth it"
marmalade 13. stereo + butterscotch + sprinkles
story: second chances ; parent generation. wordcount: 1180. rating: pg13. (implied physical abuse)
Sandy felt like maybe he entered a Zen-like trance when Duane tried to start with him. Breathe in and out and just let it go. Sandy has enough of this less-than-ideal living situation.
notes: So Sandy is Rayn's father, who we've seen as a teenager in a couple of pieces. I believe he's 19 in this one and it's set after both those pieces. I actually wrote three versions of this piece with varying degrees of detail but this is the one I like best @_@
That asshole couldn't have been home more than ten minutes, and already he was pounding on Sandy's door.
Sandy hadn't thought to shove a chair up under the doorknob until now, and now was too late. The lock had been broken for weeks now-broken beyond repair, much worse than its predecessors. It wouldn't be an easy fix this time. Sandy figured it was just a matter of time before he needed a new fucking door.
And of course, nothing to do at that point but let him come in.
"You want to turn your goddamn music down?" Duane demanded. His oversized frame filled the doorway. Sandy fantasized that one day he might just get stuck. "I could hear it all the way outside."
Sandy glanced at his radio cassette player, playing his Talking Heads 77 tape at what he was sure was a reasonable register.
It wasn't even worth it though. It was never worth it. Sandy's mother wasn't even home, and Duane was clearly drunk. Wordlessly, Sandy reached over to turn down the volume knob.
Of course, this was not satisfactory. Duane was, as always, a big, hulking animal, looking to assert his dominance. Looking to pick a fight. Sandy could stall him, but his chances of actually avoiding one were gone when he forgot to barricade the door.
Duane was looking at the stereo as if it was admitting a foul stench.
"Any volume's too much for this. What is this crap anyway?"
Sandy felt like maybe he entered a Zen-like trance when Duane tried to start with him. Breathe in and out and just let it go, let all Duane's bullshit roll off his back like water. He reached for the radio-cassette again. "I'll turn it off."
"You'll turn it off," Duane said in a snively voice, what Sandy was sure was the asshole's best impression of what he just said. Before Sandy could reach for the stereo, Duane planted one of his steel-toed boots square on top of it, pinning it to the hardwood floor. "It makes me sick to look at you."
Sandy supposed the feeling was mutual. Duane was just a bully; it was easier to think of him as that than his goddamn step father. He was all the assholes in high school Sandy had managed to avoid rolled into one. Who happened to be shacking up with his mother.
Sandy sighed. "Get your fucking foot off my radio, Duane."
"Oh, are you gonna be a tough guy now?" Sneering, Duane leaned heavily on the boombox. Sandy thought he could maybe hear the plastic creaking, threatening to give way. "You gonna stand up to me?"
It wouldn't be worth it, Sandy tried to convince himself. He did not look at Duane. He tried the Zen breathing approach again, clenching his fists against his bedspread.
Duane didn't like being ignored; he drew back his foot and slammed it into the radio. The tape stopped short as the cord pulled out of the wall and whipped around like a tail; the radio collided with the the wall to the sole tune of breaking plastic. That made Sandy look.
Without thinking, he jumped to his feet.
That was the excuse Duane was looking for.
He waited until he was sure the asshole had left the house to make the call. Even in his room with the door now barricaded shut, he took the extra precaution of turning off the lights and dragging himself and the phone over to the chair by the window. From there, he could see whoever was coming up the steps of the duplex.
He dialed Ignacio's number and listened to the phone ring until his cousin picked up.
"I was thinking," Sandy said into the receiver, "about...what we were talked about. About Duane."
"Seriously?" Ignacio asked. Then, perhaps self-conscious of his enthusiasm, he added more somberly: "What happened?"
"Nothing." Sandy caught himself touching his throat and dropped his hand back to his side. "It's just...you're right. It's been almost four years. I can't do this anymore. I still think your plan is shit, but-"
"We'll work out the details! We'll get my brother, and this friend of mine, Bryan-"
"I don't want your friends involved. Let's keep it in the family."
"But Bryan would be perfect! He's this huge, Irish dude, really intimidating, you know?"
Sandy found something sharp with his foot. A piece of broken plastic. He'd missed it when he'd cleaned up the remains of the radio. "We'll talk about it later." He still wasn't sure any of this was a good idea, but it sure as shit beat doing nothing.
"Okay," Ignacio said. "Later. You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah, I'm great. I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Okay, man. Tomorrow."
Sandy hung up the phone and winced as he bent to pick up the shard of plastic. The radio might have been salvageable if it had only been kicked into the wall. But the asshole had made a point of stomping on it right before he left the room, after he got bored with trying wring Sandy's neck.
Sandy supposed it was funny in kind of a sick way that Ignacio was so enthusiastic about this plan.
Sitting alone in his dark room, he had started to feel a little enthusiastic himself. Just not about the same part. He pitched the piece of broken radio into the waste basket by his desk. He was thinking ahead to the part he hadn't discussed with Ignacio, the part that would follow-the part where he'd be leaving, gone. He had a list in his head already of better places to be, places he could go when he finally got up the nerve to sever ties and just leave. Maybe this was the best right out right now and he could say with a clearer conscious, sorry, Mom, I did the best I could. He was sick of waiting.
He rose to his feet, crossed the room to the bookshelf, which was mostly occupied by shoe boxes. Shoe boxes stuffed with copied tapes, in rough alphabetical order. He pulled out the A-B box. The street light outside was bright enough for him to see, to find the small stack of Polaroids wedged between two tape boxes. He'd originally tacked to them to the wall, but Duane had made a snide remark about Anna so Sandy had took them down. The last thing he needed was that asshole saying racist shit about his girlfriend. Duane didn't deserve to look at her anyway.
Sandy took the photos over to his desk and flipped on the smaller lamp. His favorite one was of the two of them together; Anna was wearing his leather jacket and they'd tipped their heads together before it was taken. In the low light, their hair seemed to run together so it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Sandy slid the photo back into the stack.
He had to ask Anna if she would run too.
I realllly had no fun writing that first scene (HENCE THE CUT AWAY). The second was a bit more manageable :P
story: second chances ; parent generation. wordcount: 1180. rating: pg13. (implied physical abuse)
Sandy felt like maybe he entered a Zen-like trance when Duane tried to start with him. Breathe in and out and just let it go. Sandy has enough of this less-than-ideal living situation.
notes: So Sandy is Rayn's father, who we've seen as a teenager in a couple of pieces. I believe he's 19 in this one and it's set after both those pieces. I actually wrote three versions of this piece with varying degrees of detail but this is the one I like best @_@
That asshole couldn't have been home more than ten minutes, and already he was pounding on Sandy's door.
Sandy hadn't thought to shove a chair up under the doorknob until now, and now was too late. The lock had been broken for weeks now-broken beyond repair, much worse than its predecessors. It wouldn't be an easy fix this time. Sandy figured it was just a matter of time before he needed a new fucking door.
And of course, nothing to do at that point but let him come in.
"You want to turn your goddamn music down?" Duane demanded. His oversized frame filled the doorway. Sandy fantasized that one day he might just get stuck. "I could hear it all the way outside."
Sandy glanced at his radio cassette player, playing his Talking Heads 77 tape at what he was sure was a reasonable register.
It wasn't even worth it though. It was never worth it. Sandy's mother wasn't even home, and Duane was clearly drunk. Wordlessly, Sandy reached over to turn down the volume knob.
Of course, this was not satisfactory. Duane was, as always, a big, hulking animal, looking to assert his dominance. Looking to pick a fight. Sandy could stall him, but his chances of actually avoiding one were gone when he forgot to barricade the door.
Duane was looking at the stereo as if it was admitting a foul stench.
"Any volume's too much for this. What is this crap anyway?"
Sandy felt like maybe he entered a Zen-like trance when Duane tried to start with him. Breathe in and out and just let it go, let all Duane's bullshit roll off his back like water. He reached for the radio-cassette again. "I'll turn it off."
"You'll turn it off," Duane said in a snively voice, what Sandy was sure was the asshole's best impression of what he just said. Before Sandy could reach for the stereo, Duane planted one of his steel-toed boots square on top of it, pinning it to the hardwood floor. "It makes me sick to look at you."
Sandy supposed the feeling was mutual. Duane was just a bully; it was easier to think of him as that than his goddamn step father. He was all the assholes in high school Sandy had managed to avoid rolled into one. Who happened to be shacking up with his mother.
Sandy sighed. "Get your fucking foot off my radio, Duane."
"Oh, are you gonna be a tough guy now?" Sneering, Duane leaned heavily on the boombox. Sandy thought he could maybe hear the plastic creaking, threatening to give way. "You gonna stand up to me?"
It wouldn't be worth it, Sandy tried to convince himself. He did not look at Duane. He tried the Zen breathing approach again, clenching his fists against his bedspread.
Duane didn't like being ignored; he drew back his foot and slammed it into the radio. The tape stopped short as the cord pulled out of the wall and whipped around like a tail; the radio collided with the the wall to the sole tune of breaking plastic. That made Sandy look.
Without thinking, he jumped to his feet.
That was the excuse Duane was looking for.
He waited until he was sure the asshole had left the house to make the call. Even in his room with the door now barricaded shut, he took the extra precaution of turning off the lights and dragging himself and the phone over to the chair by the window. From there, he could see whoever was coming up the steps of the duplex.
He dialed Ignacio's number and listened to the phone ring until his cousin picked up.
"I was thinking," Sandy said into the receiver, "about...what we were talked about. About Duane."
"Seriously?" Ignacio asked. Then, perhaps self-conscious of his enthusiasm, he added more somberly: "What happened?"
"Nothing." Sandy caught himself touching his throat and dropped his hand back to his side. "It's just...you're right. It's been almost four years. I can't do this anymore. I still think your plan is shit, but-"
"We'll work out the details! We'll get my brother, and this friend of mine, Bryan-"
"I don't want your friends involved. Let's keep it in the family."
"But Bryan would be perfect! He's this huge, Irish dude, really intimidating, you know?"
Sandy found something sharp with his foot. A piece of broken plastic. He'd missed it when he'd cleaned up the remains of the radio. "We'll talk about it later." He still wasn't sure any of this was a good idea, but it sure as shit beat doing nothing.
"Okay," Ignacio said. "Later. You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah, I'm great. I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Okay, man. Tomorrow."
Sandy hung up the phone and winced as he bent to pick up the shard of plastic. The radio might have been salvageable if it had only been kicked into the wall. But the asshole had made a point of stomping on it right before he left the room, after he got bored with trying wring Sandy's neck.
Sandy supposed it was funny in kind of a sick way that Ignacio was so enthusiastic about this plan.
Sitting alone in his dark room, he had started to feel a little enthusiastic himself. Just not about the same part. He pitched the piece of broken radio into the waste basket by his desk. He was thinking ahead to the part he hadn't discussed with Ignacio, the part that would follow-the part where he'd be leaving, gone. He had a list in his head already of better places to be, places he could go when he finally got up the nerve to sever ties and just leave. Maybe this was the best right out right now and he could say with a clearer conscious, sorry, Mom, I did the best I could. He was sick of waiting.
He rose to his feet, crossed the room to the bookshelf, which was mostly occupied by shoe boxes. Shoe boxes stuffed with copied tapes, in rough alphabetical order. He pulled out the A-B box. The street light outside was bright enough for him to see, to find the small stack of Polaroids wedged between two tape boxes. He'd originally tacked to them to the wall, but Duane had made a snide remark about Anna so Sandy had took them down. The last thing he needed was that asshole saying racist shit about his girlfriend. Duane didn't deserve to look at her anyway.
Sandy took the photos over to his desk and flipped on the smaller lamp. His favorite one was of the two of them together; Anna was wearing his leather jacket and they'd tipped their heads together before it was taken. In the low light, their hair seemed to run together so it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Sandy slid the photo back into the stack.
He had to ask Anna if she would run too.
I realllly had no fun writing that first scene (HENCE THE CUT AWAY). The second was a bit more manageable :P