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TM # 200: Now How Did That Happen?
When Ray’s grandfather died, he cried.
His Pop had sneered at him over a brandy glass and told him to grow up, that everybody dies sooner or later, and that men don’t show their emotions if they want to stay men.
Ray couldn’t understand it.
Grandpop Vecchio had just keeled over dead, one minute he was there, the next he was gone, and Ray’s Pop didn’t seem to give a damn.
“Better him than me, the interfering old bastard had it coming.”
How could someone deserve death?
“Least I got the house.”
Ray had heard stories about his grandfather but he didn’t believe them. Tales of how he’d whip off his belt and beat his son seven shades of blue if he didn’t say his pleases and thank yous. How he’d come home drunk and the next morning, Grandma Vecchio would have somehow fallen down the stairs again in the middle of the night and have an almighty bruise right across her cheek. Stories of drunken brawls with neighbours, nights spent locked up in a cell, how hard his Pop had had it when he was growing up.
Ray wondered if it was a sin to not believe a word your father says.
No-one could be that mean.
Ray was five when his grandfather died.
He was seven before he learned that people could.
***
Ray was twenty-eight when his own Pop died. He knew it was a sin not to cry.
But at least he got the house.
ooc: I apologise for how crap this is, but Ray needed a prompt response for the month by TOMORROW and since I have an essay in for tomorrow afternoon, I had to bang something out in five minutes. So yes. It's crap. I don't like having to post it. But I had to do something >.< Sorry!
His Pop had sneered at him over a brandy glass and told him to grow up, that everybody dies sooner or later, and that men don’t show their emotions if they want to stay men.
Ray couldn’t understand it.
Grandpop Vecchio had just keeled over dead, one minute he was there, the next he was gone, and Ray’s Pop didn’t seem to give a damn.
“Better him than me, the interfering old bastard had it coming.”
How could someone deserve death?
“Least I got the house.”
Ray had heard stories about his grandfather but he didn’t believe them. Tales of how he’d whip off his belt and beat his son seven shades of blue if he didn’t say his pleases and thank yous. How he’d come home drunk and the next morning, Grandma Vecchio would have somehow fallen down the stairs again in the middle of the night and have an almighty bruise right across her cheek. Stories of drunken brawls with neighbours, nights spent locked up in a cell, how hard his Pop had had it when he was growing up.
Ray wondered if it was a sin to not believe a word your father says.
No-one could be that mean.
Ray was five when his grandfather died.
He was seven before he learned that people could.
***
Ray was twenty-eight when his own Pop died. He knew it was a sin not to cry.
But at least he got the house.
ooc: I apologise for how crap this is, but Ray needed a prompt response for the month by TOMORROW and since I have an essay in for tomorrow afternoon, I had to bang something out in five minutes. So yes. It's crap. I don't like having to post it. But I had to do something >.< Sorry!
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Oh.
I've just realised that their Big Fight might not be over Beattie after all... Or, even Evan....
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Uh huh! Oh.
Minnesota, anyone? Oh God, Ray's just informed me he has two fists and one is defintely reserved for Brayden if he gets the chance and is wound up enough.. BOOF! BOOF!
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Heh. I have these soap opera style scenes playing in my head now!
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Me too! S'll be goooooood!
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Heh, yes. All the time. There are little tiny men living inside out heads.
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Phew.