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Mean People Suck
It's Passover. Or Lent. Mother was of the Jewish faith, Father is Catholic. Whatever. Which ever. Anyways, it’s an old Earth holy day. The reasons we celebrate it have been lost. The priests say that we should eat all the fat and abstain from all lard and meats but fish for the next forty days. The old prophets were fishermen, so that's why fish isn't meat by their religious standards. There was a big party yesterday, "Fat Tuesday". Luckily, I was allowed to make the most cursory appearances there. Still, that was enough to cause me grief.
It began with Old Maid Margery. She isn't exactly old, 24, but she has a mean streak that no man wants to be bothered taming. All the same, Margery has been mistress to half of the men at court, I hear. Currently she is bedding Bartelmew, my second to the eldest brother. Never mind that he is married. She gets gowns and jewels finer than the other girls. What I don’t understand is that this is a barony, a rat hole. You may finish the race with the biggest piece of cheese, but you are still a rat and the cheese is a moldy bit that true nobility would shudder at.
Granted, I have never been to court, but my Aunt Selda is a true lady. I remember being in her room as she was packing to go to court. Silks and satins of quality so fine, jewels of the highest cut, and perfumes so rich and subtle, I have an idea what it means to be an aristocrat. This place I call home is a rat hole, truly. But I digress.
Old Maid Margery. Most of the girls follow her around like a messiah. She affects the airs of nobility, with her long, polished nails and silk fans, but she is a shrew. Never have I seen before what was meant by "beauty is skin deep." It frightened me in the past to ponder what it was she was telling the younger girls in the bowers. The way she treats the maids and the men... everyone exists to serve her whims. God help me, when her whim was me! Yesterday, I learned far more than I wanted to about many things because of that bitch and her herd of puppies.
As I said, it was Fat Tuesday. Tradition calls for revelry on this day before the beginning of holy fasting. I had to go, if only for a short while. Outside of the ballroom at Aunt Selda's keep is a long hallway parallel to the room itself. This is a lesser used hall, since most people prefer to enter through the grand stairway. Trying to use this to my advantage, I was standing just outside the ballroom. This way, I can be found when summoned, or I can recite the events of the night when I am not found and accused of slipping away.
All was well most of the evening. No one asked me to dance with them, and I got away with talking to no-one at dinner while also being seen there so my father could not complain. (I fear he wants me seen so he can marry me off.) What order did things happen... oh yes. Entrances, entertainment, dinner, after dinner entertainment, dancing... I was hiding from the dancing part. The socializing part I can handle, but the mind games women play when they are choosing dance partners bewilders me. I suppose I have had enough of "Hi, you wanna dance? Oh, I'm all out of open dance slots on my dance card, tehehehehe!" Grr. Women get off on the death of hope, I swear. I have given up hope of getting a girl and I avoid opportunities for women to sharpen their claws on me. But apparently I'm not good enough at dodging yet...
So, here I was hiding (yes, hiding) in the doorway of that hallway, people-watching when I felt someone watching me in return. As I scanned the crowd, I caught the gaze of Margery affixed on me. "Affixed," yes, that's a good word. I felt pinned in place, like the insect she treats everyone as. Then I saw her gaggle of geese all turn to look at me as well. It was eerie, like a badly directed play, how they all seemed to set their sights on me at once. It was an ice shower that chilled my spine, freezing me into inaction. Margery's wicked grin broke the stun spell they set on me and I think i literally jumped back into the hall. I was scared and the fae was shaking around my feet. Then my heart leaped into my throat as a wave of ill-intent swept towards me. I had seen enough of this coming from my brothers. I ran. I hold no illusions of women being the "gentler sex."
I remember stopping outside of double doors. The main hall met at a T-junction with the guest wing. On the other side of the doors laid a parlor for houseguests to parley, the doors before me on one end and the entrance to the guest-wing itself on the other. I suppose I had been running back to my room, but I had ran out of breath. My heart, I know. I think there is something wrong with my heart. When I am stressed, my heart beats really fast and I can't seem to get enough breath. I have to calm myself or I get light-headed. (And no, I'm not going to tell Dad that I may be even less of the perfect male-child that he wanted.) Of course, this was the perfect timing for my imperfection to pop up again.
As I was leaning forward against the wall, face pressed against my arms, I heard a sshusssh of fabric behind me. Before I could react, a hand slid up my belly. My automatic reaction was to hit the hand away and put my back to the wall, a habit learned by having big brothers. It was Margery, of course, rubbing her hand and chiding me, "tut, tut, tut." More sshusshing satin skirts and then they had me surround.
"Gerald, do you make it a habit of hitting women?"
I'm sure I protested. For some reason, it made her take on an even more frightening air.
"I smiled at you and you ran away. That wasn't very nice." She made the words seem playful, but her eyes were cold.
"You scared me!" I gasped. I'm ashamed to admit that I sounded child-like, whispering those words breathlessly. Her eyes crinkled up in laugh-lines and glimmered like ice.
"Oh? So sorry. I wanted to... talk to you." She reached up and caressed my cheek, her hand cool on my flushed skin. Automatically, I smacked the hand away.
Her glare as she stared at the reddening mark on her hand, back to me, terrified me. "You hit me again. Gentlemen don't hit women, surely you were taught that." I stammered out an apology. In hindsight, I think I had the right to make the exception for the situation, but at the time I couldn't logic much of anything.
She stared at me the for the longest moment before her expression softened. My knees were trembling. "Gerald, you run from me when I smiled and hit me when I barely touched you. You must not like me."
Naturally, I said it wasn't so.
"Don't lie to soothe my ego." (and I tremble in response)"Do you think I am beautiful?" (nodding)"Isn't my voice sweet?" (nodding) "Don't I smell wonderful?" (nodding, ignoring that I prefer sweet scents on a woman to musk.)"Then why do you shy from my touch?" she asked, again touching my face. And I flinched, raising my hands to stop her. To my credit, instead of hitting, my hands went to pull her wrists away from me.
She frowned. "Girls, he needs help with this hitting reflex." And gigglers moved in to pin my hands to the wall, waist-high. In passing, i wondering who else this little game had been played on that they knew what she meant. Fingertips trailing down my throat made me forget that thought, and I flinched again, forward as if to escape, nearly into Margery's arms. Her grin made me retreat to the wall again.
"Gerald, tut, tut, tut, what are you making a scene about." And her hand returned to my face again. This time I nearly managed to tolerate it, only turning my face away from her. Her fingers slowly caressed my cheek and throat before sliding back up to trace my ear. I found myself trembling in a different fashion, confused, as her hand smoothed my hair and tugged out the ribbon.
[dinner! To Be Continued]
...Hard to hold your head up when everyone is beating you down...
Invites so soon?
Amazing. It's only March and my family has already received invites for the Summer Solstice party at Aunt Selda's house. I love my Auntie dearly, but do i really need to be there? I never dance with anyone. Even the most unpopular girls won't ruin their chances by being seen dancing with me. I know i'll have to go anyways. Aunt Selda would make a mournfully embarassing scene if i didnt. I know i owe her for all she has done for me. My brothers aren't allowed to wander onto her property and i have made the hike to her house everyday for years. Most of my books she gave me. My xandu was bought by her and cared for in her stables.
All the same, the thought of going to such a big party makes me sick to my stomach.
And getting the invitations so early in the year gives me more time to develop ulcers over it. I'm like a grass-cat. i like people when i want to be around people. Otherwise, let me roam.
girls!
I hate girls. Why do they have to follow me around? First my brothers pick on me, then all their friends follow suit. Now the girls have taken an interest in me. At first i thought maybe they were just talking nasty about me, but i'm not so sure. They look at me funny. The fae around them throbs funny too. I dont get it. As soon as they notice that i know they are intent on me, the fae changes and they get mean again. Weird.
Hi, my name is...
Hello,
my name is Gerald Monreau and my life stinks.
Ha, Preacher Paul told us to take up journaling to show our
children one day. First, there is the assumption that I will
ever have kids. Second, like any kid believes that his parents
were young once anyways.
All the same, he gave me this silly little notebook with Earth
horses on the front of it. I suppose I might as well put it to
use.
Hmm, some history on me. I’m sixteen years old. I have eight
big brothers that all suck and a dad who thinks that they are
the best things since Casca’s sacrifice. I was born on March
15, 272 A.S. Ooh! The Ides of March! If I here one more
sarcastic remark about my birthday, I think I will go off the
deep end. I don’t find it the least funny to have these lugs
looming over me saying, “Beware! Beware!” It’s not
ironic that I am not the least bit as scary as the Ides of
March is supposed to be. Well, maybe it is ironic that I am
cursed… with being surrounded by idiots!
A funny thing is that I am truly cursed. Or blessed, I’m not
sure which. You choose whether it’s a good thing or a bad
thing to see what others can’t see... like earthquakes right
before they happen. They all look at me funny when I get under
a doorway, then they look scared as the earthquake hits. How
did I know, they wonder? I saw, I tell them. I don’t
understand why they just open their eyes and see! The whole
world must be blind.
Or stupid.
I don’t understand why my whole family is obsessed with
warmongering. I see the reason of it, since humans are prone
to strife. We need struggle to feel alive. But my father and
brothers seem to look for fights in everything. If I were a
foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier, I’d give them all
a fight. I have grown up on enough military strategy to run
armies in my sleep. Did I mention how much I love my family?
They suck. They suck rotten eggs!
My brothers were all born one right after the other. Then my
folks didn’t seem to be having anymore. I was a surprise,
showing up after seven years. My mom (who had to be a saint to
be in this house with all these asses) was heavy with me. Back
in those days, women had these gowns that dragged at the hem.
Mom was going down the stairs one day, about eight months
pregnant, and tripped…
I think I was born an orphan. She was the only person in this
be-damned family who I like to consider blood. Perhaps I would
have been better off if I hadn’t been cut from her dead
body. I swear that all the men in this family think I killed
her. She was a fashion victim! And I mean that in the most
literal of terms.
Obviously, I was born premature. I don’t think I have caught
up growing yet. At sixteen, I am all of 5’6. That isn’t
too short, I suppose, but its average for women and a little
shy of average for men. All my brothers tower above six foot.
I weight 125 pounds. Yeah, that’s me, a bundle of twigs. At
least that’s what my brothers call me all the time…
“Little faggot.” I barely have hair on my belly or
anywhere, really. I guess that makes me a late bloomer. Well,
I wish I would bloom already!
On to happier topics, if I can think of one.
I like to read. Books don’t talk back or judge you. They are
always there when you need them. Unless your stupid brothers
took them. God, I love my brothers. I like to sit in the
solar window and watch them beat on each other with swords as
I read. It’s easy to do both. Read until you hear a big
clang and then look up to see who got brained this time. Maybe
that’s why my brothers are so stupid... they knocked the
sense out of each other long ago.
I guess they aren’t too stupid. Everyone in this house has
to be bi-lingual. My dad’s grandfather’s grandfather was
the grandson of a French-Canadian. It’s a grand tradition
the Monreau’s to teach their children to speak French in the
cradle. A tradition? No, I think its vanity, which is the key
aspect of my family. As a result, I speak English but
dream in French. It’s annoying. And I have an accent I am
told. It’s almost 300 years after the sacrifice! Who needs
to retain any language but what everyone speaks? Tradition. To
know where you came from. I came from my mother’s womb! And
she was Scotch. Why don’t I speak with a Scottish accent
instead? Hehe, I could try that… and get beaten up for
it. Oh well, it would have been amusing for the first two
minutes. “Oof lads! I can’nae take much more o’
this!"
Yeah, those brutes gang up on me and beat me. Bored on a
Saturday night, what a boy to do? Where is the little faggot
at… *sigh * Adam, my oldest brother and the busy heir who
could never be bothered with wasting time abusing me once told
them, “Where is the sportsmanship of all of you beating up
on him at once?” And then my would-be savior walked off,
leaving the monsters to holding me as the others took turns
hitting me. Demons, all of them. Why else would they get
pleasure out of hurting someone half their size and age? They
have been hitting and kicking me for as long as I can
remember. And my poor Silver, what sense was there in tearing
up my toy pony?
I remember being knee high to everyone, maybe two or three,
and I had a brown stuffed pony named Silver (yes, he was
brown.) I would tuck him under my arm and skip around the
room, pretending to be riding, calling, “Hi, ho Silver,
away!” whatever that meant. Danyel and Frankie came in and
pulled him away from me. They tossed him back and forth over
my head and when I started screaming, Frankie told me he would
give me something to cry about. And then he handed Silver back
headless. My dad was mad at me, at *me *, for making such a
big noise over a toy. I was three!
Yes, I am still scarred by the event. To make me stop whining,
Adam sewed Silver’s head back on rather clumsily with red
thread, and I hid Silver in the back of my closet. He isn’t
there anymore. The maid was going to throw it out a few years
ago, so I moved him down to my secret spot. I can’t say
where that is in case someone ever gets a hold of my journal.
You know how it is now, in this household.
Dinner bell. I have to go before Dad sends my brothers to come
look for me.
This was amusing, I’ll have to write some more.
