The other children looked around in interest, some of them perplexed and some of them eager to see the newcomer. When no one raised their hand, the teacher repeated herself. “Charles Christopher?” She didn’t seem to want to be here, but managed to keep the annoyance out of her voice that no one had responded yet. He knew her, everyone did. When her dark eyes focus on him, he knows she must know his father too. Her expression softens a bit when she sees his nervous eyes, the way his hands wring under his desk. “You have to raise your hand.”
More eyes are on him now, and there’s a collective silence like the children are waiting for him to confirm what they already know. Then the whispers would start, he knew they would. Who was he? Which Jean Grey was his mom? The good one? The bad one?
He wants to curl in on himself but even at this tender age, he’s broad at the shoulders and much bigger than the others in the room. His softness doesn’t seem to match his appearance, or his lineage.
“Arlo...” he says quietly, hand raising just above his desk for her to be able to see it. “Can you call me Arlo?”
Arlo used to wonder when his father’s edges became sharp, when he lost the parts of himself that were soft and vulnerable. Was it after his parents died? Was it at war? Was it the Professor’s fault? Was it Sinister’s? Did it happen when he was old, or did it happen to him when he was young and scared like Arlo had been that day? But he learned it didn’t matter, nothing could possibly make him understand Alex Summers or any of the decisions he’d made leading up to this point.
“Funny, you want things to be different for me and yet you’re still making decisions for me the way you say everyone made for you!” he yells back in his father’s face before turning away to shove another handful of clothes into his duffel. “And don’t say you’re trying to protect me when obviously whatever you’re doing didn’t work for Hope!”
It was cruel and Arlo knew it, he sort of expected a fist to the face for it but as always his mother was there to step between them. She was so petite, beautiful beyond words, and yet her presence was still powerful and commanding. She has one hand on Alex’s chest while she looks up at Arlo, her voice level. “Stop it, okay? You need to think, you don’t mean-”
“That goes for you too!” he says roughly, throwing his bag down on the bed. She seems stunned, and instead of deterring him it makes him more bold. “You think I don’t know, Mom?” She opens her mouth but he talks over her before she gets the chance. “You think I didn’t hear the whispers growing up about you and Uncle Scott and how you basically whored yourself out to Sinister thinking you could solve everyone’s problems?” Her hurt is palpable but he can’t stop, not even when he feels the seething from his father standing behind her. “You don’t even talk about her, and you won’t even say her name and I know why. I know it’s because you feel guilty and you should.” And suddenly, she didn’t look so powerful anymore.
Josh sighed, staring glassy-eyed at the front door. He knew he’d have to go in eventually, no matter how long he put it off. And he had put it off. Deciding to take the long way home, he walked the full twenty blocks instead of taking the subway. He made desperate small talk with the guy manning his favorite Halal cart on 10th Avenue until he was finally told to go home, kid.
But home was the exact place he was trying to avoid.
He had messed up. He messed up bad.
He’s not sure what he was thinking when he ditched school to go to the cinema with his friends. They had all made it sound like such an innocent thing to do. Come on, they goaded, it’s just one time. What’s going to happen?
Josh swallowed. Hard.
He figured he could go up the fire escape and get in through his window, which would certainly buy him some time. Time for what...? He’s not exactly sure, but it’s his best and only option. Hurrying down the six flights of stairs, he went around back and scaled the fire escape. Josh pried open his window as quietly as he could manage and slipped in, tossing his backpack onto the bed. It took him all of two seconds to notice his door was wide open, and that his father was standing in the hall. So much for time.
“Come here, boy.”
He did as he was told, mechanically. His mother took one look at the two of them and put down a basket of newly folded laundry, retreating to her bedroom. This set off immediate sirens in his head. This is how it always was. She knew what was about to happen, but hated to watch. It was easier for her to convince herself that none of it was going on behind a closed door. Josh couldn’t even bring himself to hate her for it.
He found he’d backed himself up against the thin wall. His father wasted no time in raising a hand at him, and he winced well before it made contact with his skin. But he didn’t make a sound. He knew better than to beg or plead, knew better than to say he’ll never do it again, that he’ll be good this time. He tried all of that before and it only made him angrier. Crying made it even worse. So he sunk deep into himself and just waited for the whole awful thing to be done with, which, this time, ended right after that initial hit. A minor miracle.
“Go clean yourself up.” His father ordered, taking a step back. “And grab me a beer from the fridge, would ya? Games about to start.”
Over just like that. Josh dragged himself to the bathroom and turned on the tap, splashing his face with cold water. There was some blood from where his ring had caught Josh’s cheek. But the most obvious damage was a stinging red blotch on his face, like one big expressionist splat of color. By all means, it was a rather mild beating. Last weeks was far worse. He was still in pain from all the heavy-footed kicks, a nasty purple and green bruise had bloomed and spread over most of his left side.
Numbly he went to the living room. His father had already taken his spot in that old recliner in front of the tiny television set. He retrieved a Budweiser from the fridge and handed it to him. Not sure what else to do, he sat on the hopelessly faded rug a few feet from his father’s chair and drew his knees up to his chest. They watched the game in silence.
Then all of a sudden, during a commercial break, his father spoke to him. “You know I have to do those things, son.” He said, years of smoking evident in his gruff voice. “I have to do those things because I want what’s best for you.”
Such a fierce wave of sick passed through Josh that he feared he might actually vomit all over the rug. The words played over in his mind. I have to do those things. I have to do those things. I have to do those things. He nodded robotically as hot tears began to burn his eyes, and he kept his gaze glued to the screen so his father wouldn’t see them fall.
That was the closest to I love you Josh had ever gotten from his father. And somehow it hurt far more than any kick or punch.
Poppy ogled at the blur of red and orange outside the car window. Her family’s Ford Taurus ploughed down an Oregon highway at a steady pace, tires crunching over caramel-colored leaves. A James Taylor track played softly on the radio, one of her dad’s Old Man songs. Something about rain and fire.
“Do you know what happened to Anne Boleyn, Mouse?” Her dad asked.
“Come on, David,” said her mother, earrings jiggling back and forth as she turned to shoot her husband a reproachful gaze, “Don’t you think that’s a little, I don’t know, grim for a seven-year old?”
“She got her head cut off!” Poppy chirped from the back seat.
“That’s right, Mouse,” said David, proudly. “She was decapitated.”
“Really, honey?”
He gave his wife an innocent it’s-just-good-fun smile. Heather had to sigh, but it was somewhat good-natured, supposing this is what she gets for falling in love with a history nut. She thought back on the long debate they’d had over what to call their first born daughter, and how he’d been insistent on Artemisia after some Greek queen (or was it an obscure Baroque era painter? Heather could hardly recall.) She had fortunately and swiftly talked him out of that one. She guessed at the end of the day she might as well let him ramble on about history trivia, if he wanted. Marriage was compromise.
“Why did she have to die again?” Poppy asked, breathing hotly onto the glass and drawing little pictures in the steam with her fingers. Flowers and hearts, mostly.
“No one can seem to agree on that. Some say her husband... Do you remember who her husband was?”
Poppy knotted up her brow as she tried to recall the answer. “Oh!” She exclaimed. “Henry the V. I. I. I.”
This got a chuckle out of both parents. David continued, “The eighth. But, yes, some say her husband made up things about her that were untrue, just so he could get rid of her.”
Poppy went saucer-eyed. “Why would he do that?” A husband and wife were supposed to love each other, she thought. The concept of a couple being anything less than, well, in love, was entirely foreign to her.
“Well, some say he wasn’t a very nice man.”
Heather twisted around to face their daughter, now invested and ready to put her two cents in. “It was tough being a girl back then. Even a queen didn’t have much power without a man behind the throne.”
Poppy pooched out her lips. “That’s stupid.”
“Don’t say stupid.”
“I’m never going to get married,” Poppy declared suddenly, folding her arms tight across her chest. Her face had taken on that hard expression of stubbornness that made her look like a spitting image of her mother.
“It’s not like that now, Mouse. You don’t have to worry.”
“See? I told you this isn’t appropriate talk for a seven-year old...”
“No, I mean it,” She says, doubling down. “No man is ever going to decca-pate me.”
“Decapitate.”
“David. Seriously.”
“I’m just going to be queen all by myself. Then I’ll have the real power and I won’t even need a king. And I can keep my head,” Poppy adds, very logically. “That’s important to me.”
Memory...is the diary that we all carry with us. - Oscar Wilde
TASK 002 - Memory
Write a self-para about a memory from your character’s childhood. This self-para can be either of the event itself or your character reflecting on the memory. Please make the self-para at least 2-3 paragraphs long and remember to tag with #institask and/or #institask002.
This task expires in a week on 10/15/2017. Please perform it with at least one of your characters but it isn’t mandatory for every single character.
Jean’s new bedroom has blue walls, like the pale color of robin eggs. Her bed could easily fit a dozen of her, and its canopy is delicate golden, spun gossamer. She felt like a princess when she laid on her back, staring at the twinkling stars woven around the frame and hanging from the rafters. It had taken Hank a few days to set it all up, Charles had told her quietly one day while she watched the large man read a newspaper hanging upside down. She can feel the stubble of his jaw on her lips even now, if she tries to recall it. Her little feet leaving the ground, hovering above it just enough to reach his face. A gracious kiss and not a word attached to it as she ran out of his office.
He sits with her now, a book open in one hand looking comically small in his palm. He’s so lost in his reading that she wonders if he can hear the hush of voices filling the floor below them. They were arguing, that much she could tell from her perch on the end of her bed. She looks to Hank, seated on the chaise lounge by her bay window, and wonders if he was there to keep her company or to keep her calm. Drawing her knees to her chest, she plays with her painted toes idly. They sparkle beneath the yellow lighting of her stars, and she tries bending her toes this way and that to refract the light and keep herself busy.
But the voices raising wards off any chance of that, and even Hank looks up from his book warily. “She is our daughter,” a male voice carries up the stairs, raising in volume with each word. “You have no right to her, this was a temporary agreement.” She can’t hear the Professor’s response, just the tone of his voice. She knew that tone, it had one of finality. Her heart is sinking, and she can feel Hank’s eyes on her like she’s bound to explode.
“Hank,” she says softly, when he hums in response she continues, “Do you like having me here?” There’s a moment of silence, and her eyes are so trained on the door that she doesn’t notice him coming up behind her. The bed dips a bit, and she goes sliding back against his chest. His hand easily covers the top of her head as he angles it up so that she’s looking at him. Kind, that was the only word she had to describe him. He was kind.
“Jeannie, I love having you here,” he says, giving her head one more pat before he closes his book and stands. “And so does the Professor, okay? I’m sure he’s doing everything in his power to make sure we stay together.” He taps his opposite palm with the book as if struggling to come up with his next words. He doesn’t have to, she can hear him loud and clear. But if her parents decided to take her, it was out of their control.
Her golden eyes slide from him and to the door again, something brewing beneath them. “Everything in his power,” Jean repeats, one foot already off the bed. He doesn’t seem to catch her meaning, still tapping his book against his hand and struggling to find the words to put her mind at ease. She’d found her solution already, he needn’t fret any longer. “Thank you.” Slipping from the bed entirely, she walks out into the hallway and ignores him calling her name.
She’s not sure if she walks the rest of the way, or lets herself glide along the floor in a daze. It was the only way. There’s something wrong with her Elaine, and we both know it. Wrong, she’s wrong. It was the only way she could be safe. It was the only way they couldn’t change their minds again. It’s for the best Jeannie, you don’t belong with us. It was the only way.
“Jean,” Elaine says in surprise as her daughter appears in the doorway. John looks over sharply, putting a hand on his wife’s shoulder. The air in the room is tense, everyone’s eyes on the redheaded child whose eyes glowed far brighter than they should. “Jean, what are you doing?” Her mother’s voice edged with fear, something Jean was more than used to. John takes a step towards her, and then stops entirely like he’s a video on pause.
Jean feels a warmth beneath her skin, a clearness in her head as she focuses in on her parents’ minds. “Forget,” she says, almost in a voice unlike her own. “Forget me. Forget this house. Forget.” Her parents seem to stare into nothingness, their eyes glazing over. “I don’t know where I am,” Jean says as her parents do, controlling their speech as she erases their memories. “Where am I? Who are you? I don’t know where I am.” A thud, and then another like an echo, and they’re both laying motionless on the ground. She finds Charles’ eyes then, a triumphant smile on her lips. “That was kinda fun.”
