La Vie En Rose (VI)
Eames is twelve.
As a child, Eames is mischievous, rollicking, and ill-mannered. He lives with both of his parents in a large house in London. He goes to a boarding school less than a mile away.
He’s light skinned and brown-haired with dark, wide eyes. Innocent eyes, eyes of a child. He’s only twelve, so he still has remnants of baby fat, slightly chubby cheeks that his grandmother likes to pinch.
(“I hate when she does that, Amelia,” he admits to his nanny as she helps him change for Thanksgiving dinner. “It pisses me off.)
(“Language, Mr. Eames,” Amelia admonishes. “I doubt that your grandmother would want to touch you if she knew you had such a vulgar mouth.”)
(“That’s a great idea! Thank you Millie!”)
Thanksgiving that year is quite a treat (in the most sarcastic manner possible). Oh, it starts out just fine. Eames watches his mother places the still half-frozen turkey in the oven. (They were going to have a goose, originally, because they’re old-fashioned in some senses, but that plan was thrown out the window when the goose was.)
(“Eames! Child! What are you doing?”)
(“Fredrick Millington said that geese can’t fly, and I wanted to prove him wrong.”)
As a child, Eames becomes friends (acquaintances) with Fredrick Millington, a boy two years older who lives with his brother, Timothy.
Eames is pretty sure Tim does something that’s illegal, but he’s ten. He doesn’t know and doesn’t care.
Eames’s father teaches him how to shoot.
(Later, when Eames is a teenager, Timothy teaches Fredrick and Eames how to shoot up.)
As a child, Eames witnesses his first fire. He’s walking home from school when he hears he sees the smoke. He’s curious, so he goes to investigate, and he comes across a small girl staring at a one-story house that’s engulfed in flames.
(“Thas my howse,” the girl points out. Her left front tooth is missing. “Thas mine.”)
(“Bloody hell!” he hears an older woman scream. “Claudia! Get away from there!”)
The girl is snatched up and Eames is left alone.
As a child, Eames watches as the smoke darkens and the flames lick the sky, and, happy with the taste, return to the roof and brag to the other golden sparks until they’re all growing and reaching higher and further out, attempting to sense what their leader tasted. He ignores the firemen-just shadows-trying to stifle their freedom, and sees a few embers jump at them in revolt. They’re too far away, though, and they flicker softly as they hit the wet ground before dying off with a silent sizzle. Angered, the rest of the flames want to let them know they haven’t forgotten, and lash out towards the shadows, until, one by one by one, they are defeated. Sorrow mixed in with a cold, wet spray slows the survivors until, finally, a small pile of embers, trying to hold on, are extinguished into the dirt.
Eames is mesmerized.
(“Where were you?” his father asks when he arrives home later than usual. “You smell like smoke.”)
(“There was a fire,” Eames tells him.)
(“Where?” his mother inquires.)
(“By the school. It was huge and really bright and hot and there were fire people there who hooked up big hoses to put it out and it was really hot and I think I got some in my eye,” he blabbers on happily. “It was so cool!”)
Amelia assists Eames in changing into clean clothes and his parents determine it’s time to get Eames a hobby.
They sign him up for an art class.
(He skips and hangs out with Freddy, instead.)
Freddy steals cigarettes from his brother one evening when Eames comes over. He shows Eames how to use the lighter, and hands him a cigarette.
(Eames flicks the lid open and closed, watching as the bright orange flame appears and disappears.)
(“Light mine,” Freddy requests. “Tim says that you can’t be popular unless you can smoke in a really cool way.” He sucks on the end of the fag and attempts to blow the smoke out of his nose. He snorts and a coughing fit erupts. “Bloody fuck, that burns.”)
(Eames says nothing, still fascinated by the flame hidden inside the Zippo lighter. His cigarette still dangling from his fingers, unlit.)
The boys quickly escape the area when they hear the telltale sirens of a police car. Freddy inhales one more time, coughs, and crushes the offending item with his foot. Eames pockets the lighter and forgets about it until that evening when he’s changing into his pajamas. He buries it underneath his socks in the back of a drawer, but not before flicking it open and closed one more time.
(He briefly considers giving it back to Freddy, but quickly forgets about that idea when he wakes up the next day.)
(Later in life, Eames will tell people the first time he stole anything was when he was seventeen (a bottle of liqueur and two packs of cigarettes), but he knows that the Zippo lighter is the real truth.)
As a child, Eames sets his first fire.
(He doesn’t mean to. It’s an accident, honestly. Please forgive him. He meant no harm.)
(But the beauty is so breathtaking.)
He’s watching Amelia cook breakfast (griddle cakes and bacon), when he decides to be honest.
(Somewhat.)
He pulls out the Zippo and shows it to the nanny.
(“Eames, child, where did you get that?”)
(“Found it.”)
(“You ought to put that away right now,” she scolds. “If that gets anywhere near this grease, we’ll have a very big problem on our hands.”)
Eames pockets the lighter, frowning.
As a child, Eames is left home alone for less than an hour while Amelia goes to get groceries, and his parents are at work.
An hour. Less than.
A lot can happen.
(A lot does happen.)
He throws a couple of pieces of bacon (so much fat, the best part) onto a hot pan, and watches as they sizzle and the grease pops and the aroma wafts. He takes out his (not his, liar) lighter and flicks it open.
The flame burns just as bright as before. He touches his forefinger to it, and pulls it back quickly when the pain becomes too much. He sucks the appendage into his mouth and curses slightly. (“Bollocks.”)
As a child, Eames is an experimenter. He has theories and ideas and dreams and he tests them out and, after everything is said and done, considers the consequences and reaps the benefits.
He points the open flame into the pan and shoves the lighter back into his pocket.
The fire appears quickly, flames exploding into the air. Eames turns on the sink and pulls the faucet hose towards the burner to put it out. He’s had his fun.
(Later, he’ll know how stupid, idiotic, fucking senseless that idea is, but for now he’s twelve and sated and doesn’t know any better.)
(The fire spreads quickly.)
Flames catch onto curtains and the hardwood flooring and singe the edge of his jacket, and it’s so hot, too hot, he can’t breathe, and it’s perfect, better than he ever imagined.
(“Eames!”)
He turns and stares at Amelia with wide-eyes (not so childlike, not so innocent anymore).
He says nothing, but cocks his head to the side and ogles the sight before him.
(Flames, fire, bright, hot, so pretty and unreal and dangerous and magnificent.)
She pulls him outside and they watch as the fire destroys the home Eames had grown up in.
(Someone else calls for help, because Amelia is trying to get in touch with his parents and Eames…Eames is still mesmerized.)
(“Is tha’ yur howse?” a small voice pipes up beside him.)
(He looks down and sees the little girl from before. She’s missing both of her front teeth now. He nods. “Yes.”)
His tongue darts out to wet his cracked lips, and he unconsciously rubs his sore finger against his pocket where the lighter resides.
His lips curve upwards.
As a child, Eames is both a witness and a participant.
Part 7
As a child, Eames is mischievous, rollicking, and ill-mannered. He lives with both of his parents in a large house in London. He goes to a boarding school less than a mile away.
He’s light skinned and brown-haired with dark, wide eyes. Innocent eyes, eyes of a child. He’s only twelve, so he still has remnants of baby fat, slightly chubby cheeks that his grandmother likes to pinch.
(“I hate when she does that, Amelia,” he admits to his nanny as she helps him change for Thanksgiving dinner. “It pisses me off.)
(“Language, Mr. Eames,” Amelia admonishes. “I doubt that your grandmother would want to touch you if she knew you had such a vulgar mouth.”)
(“That’s a great idea! Thank you Millie!”)
Thanksgiving that year is quite a treat (in the most sarcastic manner possible). Oh, it starts out just fine. Eames watches his mother places the still half-frozen turkey in the oven. (They were going to have a goose, originally, because they’re old-fashioned in some senses, but that plan was thrown out the window when the goose was.)
(“Eames! Child! What are you doing?”)
(“Fredrick Millington said that geese can’t fly, and I wanted to prove him wrong.”)
As a child, Eames becomes friends (acquaintances) with Fredrick Millington, a boy two years older who lives with his brother, Timothy.
Eames is pretty sure Tim does something that’s illegal, but he’s ten. He doesn’t know and doesn’t care.
Eames’s father teaches him how to shoot.
(Later, when Eames is a teenager, Timothy teaches Fredrick and Eames how to shoot up.)
As a child, Eames witnesses his first fire. He’s walking home from school when he hears he sees the smoke. He’s curious, so he goes to investigate, and he comes across a small girl staring at a one-story house that’s engulfed in flames.
(“Thas my howse,” the girl points out. Her left front tooth is missing. “Thas mine.”)
(“Bloody hell!” he hears an older woman scream. “Claudia! Get away from there!”)
The girl is snatched up and Eames is left alone.
As a child, Eames watches as the smoke darkens and the flames lick the sky, and, happy with the taste, return to the roof and brag to the other golden sparks until they’re all growing and reaching higher and further out, attempting to sense what their leader tasted. He ignores the firemen-just shadows-trying to stifle their freedom, and sees a few embers jump at them in revolt. They’re too far away, though, and they flicker softly as they hit the wet ground before dying off with a silent sizzle. Angered, the rest of the flames want to let them know they haven’t forgotten, and lash out towards the shadows, until, one by one by one, they are defeated. Sorrow mixed in with a cold, wet spray slows the survivors until, finally, a small pile of embers, trying to hold on, are extinguished into the dirt.
Eames is mesmerized.
(“Where were you?” his father asks when he arrives home later than usual. “You smell like smoke.”)
(“There was a fire,” Eames tells him.)
(“Where?” his mother inquires.)
(“By the school. It was huge and really bright and hot and there were fire people there who hooked up big hoses to put it out and it was really hot and I think I got some in my eye,” he blabbers on happily. “It was so cool!”)
Amelia assists Eames in changing into clean clothes and his parents determine it’s time to get Eames a hobby.
They sign him up for an art class.
(He skips and hangs out with Freddy, instead.)
Freddy steals cigarettes from his brother one evening when Eames comes over. He shows Eames how to use the lighter, and hands him a cigarette.
(Eames flicks the lid open and closed, watching as the bright orange flame appears and disappears.)
(“Light mine,” Freddy requests. “Tim says that you can’t be popular unless you can smoke in a really cool way.” He sucks on the end of the fag and attempts to blow the smoke out of his nose. He snorts and a coughing fit erupts. “Bloody fuck, that burns.”)
(Eames says nothing, still fascinated by the flame hidden inside the Zippo lighter. His cigarette still dangling from his fingers, unlit.)
The boys quickly escape the area when they hear the telltale sirens of a police car. Freddy inhales one more time, coughs, and crushes the offending item with his foot. Eames pockets the lighter and forgets about it until that evening when he’s changing into his pajamas. He buries it underneath his socks in the back of a drawer, but not before flicking it open and closed one more time.
(He briefly considers giving it back to Freddy, but quickly forgets about that idea when he wakes up the next day.)
(Later in life, Eames will tell people the first time he stole anything was when he was seventeen (a bottle of liqueur and two packs of cigarettes), but he knows that the Zippo lighter is the real truth.)
As a child, Eames sets his first fire.
(He doesn’t mean to. It’s an accident, honestly. Please forgive him. He meant no harm.)
(But the beauty is so breathtaking.)
He’s watching Amelia cook breakfast (griddle cakes and bacon), when he decides to be honest.
(Somewhat.)
He pulls out the Zippo and shows it to the nanny.
(“Eames, child, where did you get that?”)
(“Found it.”)
(“You ought to put that away right now,” she scolds. “If that gets anywhere near this grease, we’ll have a very big problem on our hands.”)
Eames pockets the lighter, frowning.
As a child, Eames is left home alone for less than an hour while Amelia goes to get groceries, and his parents are at work.
An hour. Less than.
A lot can happen.
(A lot does happen.)
He throws a couple of pieces of bacon (so much fat, the best part) onto a hot pan, and watches as they sizzle and the grease pops and the aroma wafts. He takes out his (not his, liar) lighter and flicks it open.
The flame burns just as bright as before. He touches his forefinger to it, and pulls it back quickly when the pain becomes too much. He sucks the appendage into his mouth and curses slightly. (“Bollocks.”)
As a child, Eames is an experimenter. He has theories and ideas and dreams and he tests them out and, after everything is said and done, considers the consequences and reaps the benefits.
He points the open flame into the pan and shoves the lighter back into his pocket.
The fire appears quickly, flames exploding into the air. Eames turns on the sink and pulls the faucet hose towards the burner to put it out. He’s had his fun.
(Later, he’ll know how stupid, idiotic, fucking senseless that idea is, but for now he’s twelve and sated and doesn’t know any better.)
(The fire spreads quickly.)
Flames catch onto curtains and the hardwood flooring and singe the edge of his jacket, and it’s so hot, too hot, he can’t breathe, and it’s perfect, better than he ever imagined.
(“Eames!”)
He turns and stares at Amelia with wide-eyes (not so childlike, not so innocent anymore).
He says nothing, but cocks his head to the side and ogles the sight before him.
(Flames, fire, bright, hot, so pretty and unreal and dangerous and magnificent.)
She pulls him outside and they watch as the fire destroys the home Eames had grown up in.
(Someone else calls for help, because Amelia is trying to get in touch with his parents and Eames…Eames is still mesmerized.)
(“Is tha’ yur howse?” a small voice pipes up beside him.)
(He looks down and sees the little girl from before. She’s missing both of her front teeth now. He nods. “Yes.”)
His tongue darts out to wet his cracked lips, and he unconsciously rubs his sore finger against his pocket where the lighter resides.
His lips curve upwards.
As a child, Eames is both a witness and a participant.
Part 7